Leave Me Breathless

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  So I stand and stare down the street, now in my own daze, my head instantly pounding with the effort it’s taking to figure out what the fuck just happened. Did she really just sack me off like that? “I’m in a bit of a rush?” I say to myself, getting frowned at by Father Fitzroy when he dips past me to take a newspaper from the stand.

  “Sorry, son?” he asks, folding it and slipping it under his arm.

  “Nothing.” I talk my muscles back to life, walking over to the truck and throwing the bottle of wine on the passenger seat. She doesn’t seriously think I’m going to smile my way back to my cabin, no questions asked? Oh no. She can forget that.

  I slam the door of my truck with brute force and stalk down the street to her door. I’m about to hammer on it, my fist raised and ready, but something pulls me back, my hand lowering, my breathing starting to level out. Awareness trickles into my system, and I stand back, battling against my instinct to bulldoze in and demand answers. She was spooked. Something had frightened her. I close my eyes for a few seconds and talk reason into myself. Handle her gently. For some reason, I’ve told myself that frequently recently. What the fuck is going on with her?

  I knock on the door with an element of control that I’m really not feeling. And wait. Probably not for long, but it feels like eons. So I knock again, ensuring it’s calm and controlled. And wait again, counting to twenty to distract myself from charging down the door. Nothing. I get up close to the glass, looking inside. No Hannah. Taking a few steps back on the pavement, I look up at the windows to her apartment. All the curtains are drawn. I frown, looking around me, as if to check it’s daylight. The sun’s not even close to going down. Why the blackout on her apartment? My bones tingle. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a very long time. Apprehension.

  I approach the door again, shielding my face as I look through the glass for any signs of life. I find no sign, but I do find something on the floor. Broken glass. The chills that come over me are unstoppable, and I pull my phone out, dialing her. The whole time it rings, I’m itching to burst through the door, and when it finally goes to an automated voice mail, I curse, stuff my phone back in my pocket, and pull out my wallet. I get a credit card from inside and get up close, sliding it down to the point where the door meets the frame by the lock. I hear the catch flip, but when I push into the wood, the door doesn’t shift. Bolts.

  I stand back, breathing in, starting to shake. It’s not anger that has me this way. It’s fear. I move in, shoving my body against the door on a grunt as I hold the handle, not wanting to create too much noise. I hear the sound of metal hitting the floor on the other side and push my way in, my eyes immediately falling to the broken glass. I gently close the door behind me and stand still for a moment, listening.

  Silence.

  Agonizing silence.

  My years in the job warn me not to call out. Instead, I walk on quiet feet through her store to the back kitchen, ever watchful, ever alert. I make it to the kitchenette, looking toward the door to the stairs of her apartment. I take the handle. Turn it as softly as I can. Pull it open a fraction, tensing when the wood creaks. And when the gap is big enough for me to peek through, I freeze.

  Because I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.

  I inhale, taking one calm step back, and slowly follow the length of the arm to the body of the person holding it. “Put the gun down, Hannah,” I say coolly, watching her closely, her whole form quaking. “It’s me. Ryan. Put the gun down.”

  It’s a staring deadlock for a few, nerve-racking seconds. Me calm. Her completely spooked. I say nothing more, just stand there, motionless, waiting for consciousness to break through her barrier of terror. Her shakes get worse, and her grip on the gun tightens. It’s me, Hannah. It’s me.

  She whimpers, her arm drops, and she staggers back, falling to the stairs behind her.

  Jesus.

  I move in, gently taking the gun from her limp hand. Naturally, I release the magazine and check if it’s loaded. I don’t know why my heart sinks when I see the bullets. Maybe because it tells me she’s prepared to use deadly force. She’s afraid for her life. The question is: Who is she afraid of and prepared to kill? But it’s a question for later. For now, I have a terrified woman to take care of.

  Slipping the magazine in my pocket and the gun in the waistband of my jeans, I move in, taking her hand gently, letting her feel me for a few moments, her fingers weaving through mine as she watches. When I’m sure she’s comfortable, her shakes calming, I crouch before her, taking the other hand. She looks up at me. And in this moment, the only thing I can think to do that doesn’t involve demanding answers is make her feel as at ease as possible. So I drop to my knees and walk forward on them, getting as close as I can and slipping my hand into her hair at her temple. She leans into it, closing her eyes and breathing deeply but now steady.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” I say softly, applying a light force to her head and encouraging her toward me. When our lips touch, I taste her fear. It’s potent.

  My kiss is soft, and meant to be. It’s something familiar to her. Something comforting. No tongues. Just lips. Just the feel of me close to bring her around. I only peel my mouth from hers when her body softens. It takes a lot longer than I’d like.

  “Come.” I help her up and turn her, holding her waist as she climbs the stairs in front of me. I take her to the couch and sit her down, then head for the kitchen on the other side of the room, putting the kettle on, though Lord knows I could do with something stronger. I navigate around the small kitchen, constantly looking across to Hannah as I make us tea. She seems vacant, her body heavy, like there’s too much on her mind to deal with. I have to lighten the load. Take the weight off her shoulders. Seeing her like this physically hurts me.

  I go to her with the mugs of tea, settling on the other end of the couch, not wanting to invade her space too much. Handle with care. “Here.” I hold out a cup, and she looks at it for a few seconds, seeming confused, before lifting her gaze to mine. She smiles meekly and wraps both hands around the mug, but she doesn’t drink any, just rests it in her hands on her knee.

  Then, quiet.

  I really don’t want to be the one to lead this conversation; I want her to willingly open up. So I wait, resting back, silently willing her to reach deep and find the strength she needs. Long moments pass, and with each second, I slowly lose any hope I had of her confiding in me. She’s not going to talk. Does she really think she can nearly shoot my head off and we sweep it under the carpet like it never happened?

  No.

  “Hannah, we need to talk about this.” I lean forward and place my mug on the table, moving to the edge of the couch and turning in to her, my elbows on my knees, my hands clasped.

  She looks at me out the corner of her eye, avoiding facing me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers on a swallow, finally taking a sip of her tea.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying so hard not to show my frustration. She’s shutting down. I can’t let that happen. “You’re sorry for what?”

  She shrugs a little. It’s the most insulting thing ever.

  “Hannah, why do you have a gun?” I feel its cool metal resting against my back. What the fuck do I do with it? Throw it? Reload it? Put it under her fucking pillow? Jesus Christ, where did she even get it?

  “I’m a single female. It’s just for my own peace of mind.” She pushes herself up and wanders to the kitchen, tipping the contents of her mug down the sink.

  She’s putting too much space between us. Distancing herself. I want to go to her, to shake her secrets out of her, but I force myself to remain where I am. I ignore the single part of her pathetic statement. She most definitely is not single. Not now. “Right,” I say slowly, my frustration growing. Does she take me for a fool? I breathe in some patience before I lose my head. I’ve lost her in this moment. She’s not going to talk, and I know her well enough to realize that the more I push, the more withdrawn she’ll become. And that might mean I lose her
forever. I can’t risk that. I need to think outside the box, figure out what the fuck is going on. And I need to keep her close while I do it.

  Resigning myself to my defeat this evening, I stand up from the couch and join her by the sink. She’s staring down at the plug, but she looks to her side when she hears me. I haven’t touched her, but I know she feels me. “Hannah,” I say, and she peeks up at me, all doe-eyed. Her look alone tells me a million things I want to hear. She doesn’t want to piss me off. She doesn’t want to keep me in the dark. She wants to trust me. But something is stopping her.

  I pick her up and sit her on the counter, putting myself between her thighs and taking one arm at a time, placing them around my shoulders, wanting her to feel me. To feel my strength. Resting my fingertip under her chin so she can’t dip her head and hide, I put my face as close to hers as I can. “You are not single,” I whisper, and she instantly goes soft, her chin wobbling a little. “Can we at least be clear on that little detail?”

  Her nod is jerky, and a tiny broken sob escapes before she hauls me into her and hugs me with a force that defies her petite frame. This hug tells me a million things, too. It tells me of her relief. It tells me of her comfort in my hold. It tells me she needs me.

  I sigh and cuddle her like she needs to be cuddled—firmly, to lay emphasis on how safe she is. And I settle my face into her neck, getting a hit of my favorite smell. Raspberries and Hannah. I ignore the lingering stench of fear on her and vengeance on me.

  With her wrapped around me, I slide her from the counter and walk her to her bedroom, physically having to pry her limbs from around me to free myself. “Get changed,” I tell her, resting her on her bed and going to the chair. I scoop up a T-shirt and pass it to her to change into. “I need to call Alex.”

  “Where is she?” she asks.

  “With her mother.” I don’t go into details. Hannah doesn’t need to know about my dinner arrangements with Darcy. I make my way to the door, planning how I’m going to explain myself to my daughter.

  “Where are you going?” Hannah blurts, and I stop, looking back.

  I have to think on my feet. Why wouldn’t I just make the call here? “That glass needs clearing up. And I need to repair your door.” She settles immediately, and I ignore the pang of guilt for lying, telling myself that I have no other option. “Where did the glass come from?” I ask.

  “A jar. I knocked it when I passed the shelf.”

  I nod, pulling my phone from my pocket as I head back downstairs. She knocked it off in her haste. In her panic.

  Alex answers quickly. “Where are you?” she asks impatiently. “Mum’s acting weird. I need reinforcements.”

  I find a broom propped up in the corner of the store and start sweeping the glass into a pile. “Weird how?”

  “In every way! She’s not asked me to change out of my Cons and cap. She’s not even told me to wash my hands before entering the kitchen. She keeps playing with my hair, but she hasn’t tried to tie it up all neat. And don’t get me started on the girl talk.”

  I laugh lightly, grateful for the alleviation of stress for a while, courtesy of my Cabbage. “Girl talk?” Should I have asked?

  “Boys. Love. That kind of thing.”

  Definitely shouldn’t have asked. “Where’s your mother?” She’s talking far too openly and loudly for Darcy to be in the vicinity.

  “Gone to change into some slobby clothes.”

  Yikes. This is serious. “Does she have slobby clothes?”

  “No! She has silk robes. When will you be here?”

  “That’s the thing,” I say, guilt consuming me already. “I’m with Hannah. She’s not feeling very well.”

  “Oh, what’s up with her?”

  I set the broom aside and go to the door, collecting up the broken bolt and inspecting it. I’ll need my tools to sort this. “Just a bug, I think. Nothing serious. But would you mind if I stay and take care of her?” I find my shoulders rising, nervous for her reaction as I make sure the latch is secure on the door.

  “You’ll probably catch it, if you haven’t already with all that snogging you two have been doing.” She pitters off to a whisper toward the end, which means Darcy is back in her slobby clothes.

  “Ta-dah!” I hear her sing in the background. “Perfect, don’t you think?”

  “Fabulous, Mum.” I can hear the exasperation in Alex’s voice. “Dad, seriously, I’m confused,” she hisses down the line. “What am I supposed to do with her?”

  “Embrace it, Cabbage. She’s making an effort.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t say fine.”

  “Super!” she yells, making me wince. “What am I going to tell her?”

  Good point. I need to find a way to break my relationship with Hannah to Darcy. I wouldn’t have thought she’d care before I learned how concerned Alex is. “Tell her someone drove into my truck.” It’s not a lie. “Say I had to take it back to the cabin.”

  “She’s going to be devastated. You should see these burgers. They’re like magical or something.”

  “They can’t be better than mine.”

  She snorts. “Never. Say hi to Hannah for me.” She hangs up and I go in search of a dustpan, wondering, like Alex, what the hell has gotten into Darcy. She’s a mystery.

  I stop in the kitchen and look up at the ceiling. Not as big a mystery as what’s upstairs, though. I rest back on the counter and spin my phone in my hand, thinking about…

  Don’t think, Ryan. Do it.

  I dial Lucinda and quickly go to the door that leads up to Hannah’s apartment, checking that the coast is clear before gently closing it.

  “Tell me you’re coming back to London,” Lucinda blurts in greeting. “Tell me you hate Hampton. Tell me I can put you on the next job.”

  “Hampton is great.”

  “Fuck Hampton,” she spits. “So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need a favor.” I cut to the chase. I know Lucinda will appreciate it. She’s not a woman to mince her words; I learned that many years ago.

  “And what do I get in return?”

  Case in point.

  “Fucking hell, Lucinda, what’s a man got to do?”

  “Well,” she purrs. “Since you’ve asked…”

  I recoil. “It was rhetorical.”

  She cackles wickedly. “What do you want?”

  “I need you to look into someone for me.”

  “Name?”

  “Hannah Bright.”

  “Reason?”

  My head drops heavily. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. “Please, Luce.”

  She’s silent for a second, and I imagine her at her desk, a glass of wine set to the side, already typing in Hannah’s name on the keyboard. “What else can you give me?”

  I quickly check past the door to her apartment again before I speak. “Early-thirties, blond, mother dead, owns an art store in Hampton.”

  I hear the tapping. “Cute. I’ll see what I can turn up.”

  “Thanks.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge my gratitude, just hangs up. It’s probably a good thing, because a second later Hannah appears. I slip my phone back into my pocket and smile. “Okay?”

  “I thought you’d gotten lost.”

  I claim her and steer her back up the stairs. “I’ll need to fix the bolt tomorrow when I have my tools.”

  “Is the door secure?” she asks, looking back over her shoulder.

  “Perfectly,” I say, if only to settle her. Anyone who knows what they’re doing would break in easily. I did, even with the bolts. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

  I take us to her room and pull back the sheets, motioning with a nod of my head for her to get in as I take the gun from the back of my jeans and smack the magazine back into place. She watches me closely as I open the top drawer of her nightstand and put it inside. What the fuck am I doing? I honestly have no clue. Take it? Leave it? She has it for a reason, and until I find out what that reason is
, I’m just gonna have to go with my gut. My gut says the gun stays.

  I unbutton the fly of my jeans as I watch her crawl in and plump her pillow before resting back and watching me strip down. I love the sudden loss of bleakness in her eyes. Now they’re shimmering. Much better. I slip in and roll onto my side, seizing her and arranging her back to my front, wrapping myself completely around her.

  She’s safe. And it’s my mission to keep her that way.

  Chapter Nineteen

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  Their guests, Curtis and Hayley, were smiling brightly as Katrina made it up onto the deck. The nighttime air was heavy, a faint breeze teasing her loose hair as she made her way to the table. Jarrad stood, ever the gentleman, and pulled out his wife’s chair, kissing her cheek when she offered it in her usual way.

  “You look stunning, darling.” His eyes shone with pride as she lowered to the chair and he took in her choice of dress—a black satin Versace piece with sleeves just past her elbows. Perfect. “Still chilly?” he asked.

  “A little,” Katrina confirmed, prompting Jarrad to hold out his hand. A moment later, his wife’s shawl was in his grasp, courtesy of their onboard butler. Flapping it out, he lay it across her shoulders.

  “Thank you.” Katrina took the glass of water at her place and downed it all. “Apologies for keeping you waiting.”

  Hayley reached across the table and patted Katrina’s hand, her bright-red hair falling over her shoulder. Katrina had liked her from the moment they were introduced seven years ago at a charity gala. It was Katrina’s third date with Jarrad. The first two were at the gallery she worked at, where Jarrad, tall and distinguished, had wandered in one day to buy a piece of art. He walked out with Katrina’s number, and though he was a little older than her, she was bowled over by his apparent love of art. She smiled at the memory of how Jarrad had swooped her off her feet with endless romantic gestures and extravagant gifts. How on their fourth date, he whisked her off to Paris because he knew she’d love to see the Banksy exhibition that was on for one weekend only. How he showered her with all the things she loved, and how he seemed to embrace her quirkiness. He was so easy to fall in love with.