Lies We Keep (Pieces of Me Book 1)

by Danielle Rose

  Maybe I could go alone.

  Was that idea stupid, careless? After all, I had promised to work harder at taking this threat more seriously.

  I turned in my seat, staring at my front door. I tried to recall the last time I received a letter from him. It’d been a couple weeks since he last made contact.

  Maybe he’d given up.

  Maybe I was finally free.

  I stumbled onto the street, hiking the strap of my purse up onto my shoulder. Six hours had passed, and I still hadn’t heard back from Tara about Blakely’s background checks. I was sure that was normal, but even so, I was getting anxious. We had the checks rushed, but what did that mean? How long would it take to get a rushed check back?

  The heels of my sandals clunked against the concrete as I juggled the shopping bags in my hands. I may have gone a little overboard, but I couldn’t pass up a good sale. As I walked back toward my apartment, I window-shopped, taking mental notes of stores I’d return to once I had a lighter load.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this alive. I felt free, invisible… safe.

  Maybe it was just a nightmare.

  Maybe it was just a joke.

  But maybe it was over…

  I hadn’t been paying attention, and I’d nearly run into another shopper. When my eyes locked with his, I stopped short.

  “Blakely,” I said, surprised. His sapphire eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

  “Miss Tate.” His tone was stern as he glanced around, concern etching his eyes. “Are you shopping alone?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is that wise? You’re hiring a bodyguard.”

  Suddenly, I felt ridiculous, because he was right. How could I have been this naïve? The heroines from my novels would have never acted as reckless—and they certainly wouldn’t have needed a man to chastise such behavior.

  “You’re just worried about job security.” I laughed, finding myself, once again, trying to play it cool around him. Who had I become? A high schooler?

  I hadn’t noticed his less-than-formal attire. Wearing only jeans and a t-shirt, James Blakely was just as drop dead gorgeous as he had been this morning. The scruff on his chin, not quite as noticeable when he was wearing a suit, and the mess of his hair only added to his casual style. A sheer layer of sweat dampened his skin. Biting my lip, I imagined him working out—all sweaty, breathing heavily, looking completely fuckable. And I thought he was sexy in a suit…

  “Everything about you concerns me,” he said, and I felt the words hit my core. I shifted uncomfortably.

  Was this going to work? How could I live with him? I could barely keep myself controlled in a meeting or on a street corner.

  “Let me help you with your bags,” he said, offering his hands. “Where are you parked?”

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. I’m walking.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Walking?”

  I nodded.

  The seconds ticked by as he stared at me. In the time it took for him to speak, I could have written the next bestseller. Just as I was contemplating the title, he smiled. “I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

  I returned his smile. “You mean if you get the job, right?”

  “Yeah, if I get the job,” he said sarcastically.

  “You don’t seem worried,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’re waiting on my background checks. I already know what those will tell you.”

  My body was only inches away from his. To onlookers, we likely looked like two people in love, about to kiss, but in reality, a storm of emotions passed through me.

  What I wouldn’t give to drop my bags, wrap my arms around his neck, and press my lips against his…

  “I’d like to walk you home,” he said, his eyes dropping to my lips.

  His words said everything, yet nothing. Empty promises. A dangerous vow to what he would and wouldn’t do.

  I wasn’t sure what I appreciated more: his control or his temperament.

  “If you were my bodyguard, what would you think if I told you I let some strange man walk me home?” I was teasing him, and I was sure he liked it.

  He smiled.

  “Like you said, we’re still waiting on those checks,” I added.

  His eyes said everything his mouth wouldn’t.

  My breath caught, and I was sure he heard it. The gasp, the wonder, the promise, it resonated deep within me—and made my panties wet. I dragged my teeth against the skin of my bottom lip and relished in watching his sapphire-blue eyes turn dark as they lingered on that spot.

  His jaw clenched as he lowered his head toward mine. I angled upward, and our lips brushed. The familiar scent of his musk surrounded me, teasing my senses. My knees grew weak, and I was sure, at any moment, I’d topple to the ground. I leaned into him. My breasts rubbed against his shirt, and my nipples peaked at the electric static that coursed between us. A low rumble worked its way up his chest in response, and I felt myself smile inside. He reached around, placing a hand at the small of my back. My camisole had ridden up, and his thumb teased the skin there, rubbing softly. My eyes fluttered shut as I waited for him to make the next move.

  Only he didn’t.

  I opened my eyes, and in that instant, the world changed, flipping on its head. He pulled away, clearing his throat. He stepped back several paces and ran a hand through his hair.

  “I should call you a taxi,” he said as he turned.

  What the fuck was that?

  Angry, bitter, rejected, and horny, I took the child’s way out.

  “I don’t want a damn taxi,” I said as I stomped down the street toward my apartment.

  I heard him groan just before I felt him grab my arm and pull me to a stop.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

  I yanked my arm free and continued walking down the street. I was making a scene, but I didn’t care. That was the beauty of living in Manhattan. No one cared about you. I was in a swarm of people, yet only Blakely saw me. That’s what I loved about this city.

  I was invisible.

  I hadn’t noticed he was following me until I came to an abrupt stop when someone cut in front of me. Blakely walked into me, his hands falling to my arms as he tried to balance us both.

  I could get used to these meetings.

  Every inch of his frame was pressed up against mine. Every rigid muscle of him pressed firmly against the soft curves of my body. My hands fell to my sides, the bags dropping into piles on the ground, as the curve of my ass rubbed against his hardening length. His head dropped, and I could feel his nose press into my hair. He inhaled deeply, taking in my scent.

  He wanted me. Here. Now.

  The effect he had on me was no different than the effect I had on him.

  I smiled and pushed away, turning to face him.

  His eyes betrayed the carnal need ravishing him, but when he blinked, it was gone.

  Seducing him was easy. Breaking through his self-control would be the fight of my life.

  But I promised myself I’d have him.

  Naked. Sweaty. Hard. Moaning. Beneath me.

  I’d have him.

  He bent over, grabbed my bags, and carried them in silence to my apartment. When we reached the top floor, we filed in, and I told him to drop them on the kitchen counter.

  Any news yet? I texted Tara.

  “Want a tour?” I asked Blakely as I tucked my phone in my pocket.

  “Sure,” he said.

  I turned on my heel. “Well, this is pretty much it. Living room, dining area, and office.” I pointed to each space. “That door in the corner leads to the rooftop deck.”

  “You’re the only one with access to that?” he asked, walking into the living room.

  “Yep. It’s all mine.”

  He nodded, his eyes scanning the space like he was taking mental notes.

  I suddenly felt a wave of self-consciousness erupt within
me, and I followed his gaze. I saw my apartment every day, but now, I looked at the room as if I were seeing it for the first time, envisioning what he must be seeing. The room was tidy, but this wasn’t unusual. I had more than enough ‘neat’ to accompany my ‘freak’ in the personality department. Plus, my modern minimalist style didn’t allow for clutter. Even so, I wondered why I cared. I doubted he had strong feelings toward decor. Sure, he probably didn’t want to live with a slob, because who did? But there was something more here.

  I cared about his opinion. What was he thinking now? He stared at one of the over-sized paintings that decorated my walls, tilting his head as he took in the splashes of color.

  “It’s mine,” I said softly.

  Looking back at me, he arched a brow. “You paint?”

  I shrugged. “Not professionally.” I hesitated before quietly adding, “Obviously.”

  “I think it’s great.” He smiled.

  I felt my cheeks heat as I thanked him and looked at the painting. It was a modern piece I’d painted after the accident. To the untrained eye, I’m sure it looked like just a slop of paint on canvas, but to me, it was so much more. Each delicate stroke had a purpose. I mixed dark colors—blues, purples, greens, and grays—and added metallic hues where I saw fit. It was chaos, a perfect representation of the person inside, of the woman I became after that day. It wasn’t until months later that I saw the light hidden within it. There were small splashes of bright metallic blue that looked almost white at their centers. It was as if the brightness was trying to shine through.

  Few had seen my artwork. Most focused solely on my written words. And I was okay with that.

  Because I was learning that too much attention brought despair.

  Was that why I’d felt so… vulnerable? This wasn’t the first time others had invaded my personal space, but never in all my years of being the center of attention did the thought elicit my skin to flush, my stomach to tremble, and my heart to skip a beat.

  I thought that was only for the romance novels I penned late at night.

  “The bedrooms are through there?” he asked, signaling toward the lone hallway by the front door.

  I nodded, turned back, and continued the tour. “Kitchen. Island. Bar stools.” I walked down the hallway and stopped midway, opening a door. “Laundry.”

  I closed the door and continued walking until we reached the end alcove.

  I turned to my left. “The one and only bathroom and”—I turned back toward my right—“the two bedrooms. Mine’s on the right. Yours is on the left.”

  I glanced up at him and found him watching me intently. I arched an eyebrow and walked into his room. He followed closely behind me.

  “That’s why I was shopping. The room feels… empty. I picked up bedsheets, two bedside lamps, and a rug for here,” I said, pointing to the space between the bed and the dresser.

  He looked around, nodding.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It’s nice. Big.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, the apartment is a pretty decent size for being a shared brownstone.”

  “How many people live in this building?”

  “Well, there are three levels. I know only one person lives on the second floor. She’s older. Never even leaves. And a family of four lives on the first floor. I don’t know them, though.”

  His eyes met mine. “Why not?”

  “They’re new.”

  “How long have they lived here?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. A month?”

  He nodded. “I’ll look into it.”

  “You do that, Mr. Bodyguard.”

  He smiled and walked around the room, taking in what would be his new home if his background checks cleared, and Lord knows I was praying for that since the moment we met.

  “Is it what you were expecting?” I asked, feeling slightly self-conscious.

  He faced me. “Nothing about you has been what I was expecting.”

  Tell me about it.

  “Hungry?” I asked, changing the subject.

  His eyes darkened, and a mischievous smile crossed his lips as he said, “Very.”

  Two could play at that game.

  I stepped forward, eliminating the space between us. I placed my palms against his chest, his heart sputtering quickly beneath them, and I stood on my tiptoes. His eyes widened. I was sure my boldness surprised us both.

  If he wanted to play games, then so would I. I liked to tease; he’d figure that out the hard way.

  My cheek rested against the stubble of his jaw, and my lips grazed his neck. I listened as he inhaled quickly and held the breath. Ever so lightly, I blew on his earlobe and bit my lip as he tried to suppress the low rumble that escaped him as he moaned.

  “Me too,” I whispered. I quickly pulled back and bounced away. I left him standing in the bedroom as I grabbed my bag and flung it over my shoulder.

  My cell phone buzzed.

  He’s been cleared.

  I couldn’t help the wide, cheeky smile that formed on my face as I read Tara’s text message.

  Blakely sauntered back into the living room, wearing his signature cool-and-collected look. But inside, I was sure there was a raging storm threatening to drown him.

  “Let me guess. Background check’s been cleared,” he said.

  I typed a message back to Tara, telling her to get his paperwork in order and that I would have him stop there soon.

  “It did,” I said as I finished typing my message.

  He smiled, and I leaned against the counter.

  “I’m offering you the job, Mr. Blakely. Do you want it?”

  There was no mistaking my tone. He knew exactly what I was asking.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple taunting me. He didn’t speak. Instead, he watched me, and in my mind, I created a million different scenarios, a million different answers to my question.

  Truth was, he wanted me. I could see it in those few times he let down his guard.

  But he also knew that I wanted him, and I wasn’t shy about it. I no longer questioned if he could handle a girl like me. Instead, I wondered if he could handle the added benefits I was offering.

  After all, inter-office romances were usually forbidden.

  My words hung heavily in the air between us as I waited for him to respond. As each second ticked by, I was beginning to think I had overreached. I was used to being aggressive. I was a woman who went for what she wanted, but maybe he couldn’t handle a woman like me. For fear of slut-shaming, many women acted like delicate creatures who didn’t speak out of turn.

  But that wasn’t me.

  I knew what I wanted, and I went for it. If that made people consider me a whore, so be it.

  I could sleep in the bed I’d made.

  The real question is: would Blakely be joining me?

  A better question would be: would I want a man who couldn’t handle a woman like me?

  Hell no.

  He exhaled slowly. “Yes, I want it.” He spoke just above a whisper, so quietly I thought I might have hallucinated his admission. But the darkness in his eyes betrayed his need.

  And I knew I had him right where I wanted him.

  I smiled, brushing against him as I passed.

  “Let’s get an early dinner.”

  But what I really meant was, let’s get home early tonight.

  I slurped my Mei Fun noodles, swiveling the next bite onto my chopsticks. I had opted for a tiny Chinese restaurant down the street from my apartment. It took exactly thirteen minutes to walk there. Twenty-six minutes plus eating time was all that stood between Blakely and me alone in my apartment.

  I felt the excitement from my cheeks to my core.

  I had chosen a table near the windows, but Blakely quickly moved us to a back-corner booth, positioned right beside the restaurant’s only back exit. A collage of photographs that depicted the streets of New York through its many decades of change lined the wall behind Blakely. I watched him scoo
p a bite of fried rice and Kung Pao chicken into his mouth as he scanned the room. His eyes never left the area behind me. I had no idea what was there, but I had an amazing imagination. It had to be something interesting. After all, he hadn’t spoken or looked at me since we’d ordered our food.

  I imagined Big Foot was putting on a show. Or maybe that shark tornado that was terrorizing the east coast. Hell, it could be the devil incarnate was right behind me, playing a game of chess with a long-haired man who eerily resembled—

  “How’s the food?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Not a Chinese fan?”

  “I like Chinese.”

  What the hell was going on? Sure, our relationship had changed drastically in just a matter of minutes, but this was a little ridiculous.

  I liked to be teased, but I didn’t like games that played with my emotions. Blakely’s mixed signals were giving me whiplash.

  I exhaled dramatically. “What’s so interesting?”

  He glanced at me. “Nothing.”

  I held his gaze, daring him to be the first to back away. He blinked and scanned the room.

  Son of a bitch.

  James Blakely was going to be a difficult conquest, but I hadn’t yet thrown in the towel.

  I slurped the last bit of soda from my cup and tossed my napkin on my plate, sinking back into the plastic lining of my seat. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned, scanning the room.

  I shrugged. “Seems like your typical restaurant.”

  I turned around and locked eyes with Blakely.

  “Miss Tate—”

  “Jezebel,” I corrected.

  “I’m here to do an important job, and I’d like to focus all of my energy on keeping you safe.”

  I swallowed. He was right. Keeping me safe was his job, and it was ten times harder to do in public—and without backup.

  I nodded my submission, my eyes dropping to his wide, lean chest. The restaurant’s air-conditioning was in full force, and the vent just above Blakely’s seat had his nipples peaked.

  I groaned. Damn him. I could’ve sworn he was doing that intentionally.

  “Should we hire a team?” I asked, letting my eyes trail the length of his toned arms. The stark contrast between his tanned skin and the white cotton of his shirt was oddly erotic.