Improper English

by Katie MacAlister

  “No.”

  “Alix, please!”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You must!”

  “Like hell I must! I won’t sit here and be coerced in my own flat! I can’t believe my mother is paying good money so you can bully me about!”

  A mulish expression settled on her perfect face. I snarled an oath, but she just raised one platinum eyebrow at me. She must have had some sort of secret mindray powers that I’d never suspected, because I suddenly found myself with the phone in my hand.

  I took a deep breath and peeked at Isabella out of the corner of my eye. She raised her eyebrows even higher. I turned my back on her. Maybe if I made a little Juliet cap out of tinfoil I could withstand her powers, but until then…“If this is Detective Inspector Blackheart, I don’t wish to speak with you. If this is anyone else, I will happily talk to you tomorrow. Thank you for calling. Live long and prosper.”

  Before I could hang up, his voice caressed my ear, sending waves of pleasure rippling through my body, the same body that warred with my mind, one wanting nothing more than to fling itself in his arms, the other proclaiming I never wanted to see him again. “Alix? Wait, don’t ring off. Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered the phone? Isabella says you’re upset—”

  I snorted. That was the understatement of the year.

  “—and in hiding. If this is because I’m on a case and can’t be home, I’m sorry, but you know how important this raid is. We ran into a hostage situation, and it’s taking longer than I anticipated to arrest the suspect. Alix? Are you there?”

  An unsure, hesitant note in his voice plucked at my heartstrings, but I tried to ignore it. I wanted to tell him to go do something anatomically impossible to himself. I wanted to tell him I didn’t want to see him again. I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me. I wanted to, but Isabella’s words kept rattling around my head. Selfish. Vain. Unreasonable. Was there validity to her accusations, or was she just being overly defensive of Alex? In my muddled mental state I didn’t know for certain, and suddenly I was too tired to care.

  “I’m here. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. I hope your raid goes OK.”

  “Sweetheart—”

  My eyes closed in pain at that word. Once it had meant something.

  “—I have to go now. If I ring you up in the morning, will you answer?”

  I considered my bare toes. They had no answers for me. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Relief was evident in his voice. “Get some rest. Things will look better in the morning.”

  I murmured something noncommittal. It was my experience that things always looked worse in the stark light of morning, but I had noticed that Alex had a tendency to a hideously cheerful morning mood no matter how early it was.

  “Alix?” His voice dropped until it was a whisper of velvet against my ear. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. “You know that I…Christ, I have to go! Take care of yourself. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I nodded at the phone and hung it up, rubbing my ear, still feeling the brush of his voice against my skin, leaving the entire right side of my body bathed in warmth. Isabella corked the half-empty bottle of wine and took it out to the kitchen.

  “Good night,” she said as she passed me, pausing to tip her head to the side in that adorably cute manner that would be affected on anyone else, then pressed a kiss to my cheek.

  “Truly good things are worth working for,” she said with a tiny smile. I blinked back a bit of moisture, swallowed, and nodded. “Sleep well.”

  “Fat chance of that happening,” I muttered as the door closed behind her. I flipped off the overhead lights and curled up in bed. I wouldn’t sleep, that I knew. I was too emotionally strung out. Whenever I’m extremely fatigued, I don’t sleep, and at that moment I felt as if my nerves had been used on a cheese grater. I wasn’t just tired, I was exhausted. I pulled out a book and prepared to read my way through the night.

  Seven hours later I dragged myself out of bed, blinking the sleep out of my eyes. I doubt if I had managed to read even a complete sentence of my book before slipping off to nighty-night land. I was a little surprised by that, but decided while I took a shower that it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I get my life back on track. I had some serious decisions making to do, and it was best done soon, before I lost my nerve.

  Two pots of Starbuck’s Espresso Blend later, I figured my brain was strong enough to tackle the horrible tangle I’d made of my life. I looked down at the list I had written.

  Scrap Ravening Raptures. Burn to exorcise evil spirit that lives within it.

  Cancel death contract on Agent Tully (hit man=great expense).

  Destroy paper voodoo dolls of Alex. Vacuum up all evidences of paper emasculations.

  Purchase three pounds of orange truffles. For medicinal purposes.

  Write new book. Medieval? Need something catchy and clever. Blind heroine? Blind hero? Blind horse?

  Answer phone when Alex calls. Be polite. Be sure not to address him as Detective Inspector Poopy-Pants. Even though he deserves it.

  Appreciation of such a comprehensive list was interrupted by knocking on my door.

  “I’m fine, Isabella, just fine,” I called as I gave the list one last admiring glance and went over to the door. “Honestly, the way you’re worrying, you’d think I was going to jump off a bridge or someth—”

  It wasn’t Isabella at the door.

  “From the various calls I fielded yesterday from Isabella, Ray, and Bert, you sounded as if you were ready to jump,” Alex said. His eyes glittered darkly, almost black with fatigue, the skin beneath them bruised and shadowed. Dark brown whiskers caressed his jaw and cheeks, making him look tired, careworn, and utterly sexy. I fought a little skirmish with my body to keep from pouncing on him.

  “Detective Inspector Black,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice the little quaver in my voice.

  “Miss Freemar,” he replied, not even a hint of a smile quirking his lovely lips. I held his gaze for a few seconds, then stepped back and waved him into the flat.

  “You look like hell.” I closed the door, crossed my arms, and leaned against it.

  He made a courtly little bow. “Thank you, I feel like hell. Is that coffee I smell?”

  “It is.”

  He waited.

  I heaved an exaggerated sigh and indicated the table. “Sit. You want cream in it?”

  “Please.”

  I brushed past him into the tiny kitchen, fighting with myself every step of the way. He looked so wounded! So needy! So little boy lost! I wanted nothing more than to peel those layers of sorrow and exhaustion from him and ply his manly body with every part of my womanly body, but I couldn’t. There was item number seven on my list to consider.

  7. Tell Alex it was good while it lasted, but now it’s over. Buy superglue. Patch together remains of heart and get on with life. Again.

  The ladderback chair creaked as Alex slumped back. I plugged in my coffee grinder and started grinding up a fresh batch of espresso bean coffee, trying not to be obvious in my quick glances at him. There were deep lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there the day before. Guilt rippled through me at the sight of them. Even if yesterday’s betrayal meant the destruction of our relationship, I couldn’t make myself believe he’d been on a day’s frolic out in the countryside; his air of subdued despair belied that. It made me want to comfort him all the more, to wrap my arms around him, to press his adorable head to my chest and kiss his troubles away.…I shook the image from my mind. What was I doing? I wanted to comfort him? He was the man who’d rejected me most cruelly when I needed him!

  Alex leaned forward and moved my list aside. He pulled a tiny bit of blue paper out of a pile, holding it carefully in his hand. “You’ve been cutting out paper dolls?”

  I glanced at what he held in his hand and blushed. “Maybe.”

  He looked at the blue object. “This looks like a…erm…”

&nb
sp; I poured boiling water into the French press and fixed the plunger. “It is.”

  “Why are you cutting out minuscule blue paper penises?”

  I shrugged. “It just seemed like the thing to do.”

  Alex didn’t say anything to that. He poked in the pile of paper again, then lifted up one of the paper Alex voodoo dolls.

  “This one has my name on it.”

  I busied myself pouring cream into a black and white cow-shaped creamer. “Does it? How very interesting.”

  “Someone has drawn a great hairy wart on the chin of this paper Alex. And heavy glasses. And it would appear there are horns sprouting from his head.”

  I pursed my lips and whistled a little innocent whistle.

  “If the angle at which the legs have been severed and taped back on is any indication, I would also say it has suffered compound fractures.” He looked closer at the doll. “It has also been, for lack of a better word, castrated.”

  “What do you know about that?” I asked, placing the coffee, cream, and a mug on the table.

  He leveled a look at me that was impossible to read, and accepted the mug of coffee.

  “So,” I said conversationally as I refreshed my cup. “How’s tricks?”

  He put his mug down. “What did you ask?”

  “Tricks. How are they?”

  “Tricks? How are my tricks—is that what you’re asking?”

  I nodded. If he weren’t so tired, if I weren’t so heart sore, I would have found the look of disbelief that crossed his face comical. As it was, I hardened my heart and remembered my many grievances, but even that didn’t do me much good.

  “Alix, I’ve been up twenty-eight hours straight. I have spent the night crouching in a patch of blackberry bushes in case my suspect released the woman—his wife of fourteen years—whom he was holding hostage, only to have him kill himself five hours ago by drinking a common household cleaner. I spent the next three hours explaining to my superior at the Yard what went wrong with what should have been a simple raid. In addition to which, I have seen the results of a case I’ve been working on for the last four months end not in an arrest of a child pornographer, but in a messy, unnecessary death that will generate at least a five-meter-high stack of paperwork. During the past twenty-four hours I have fielded innumerable calls from individuals residing in this house who were concerned that you and I had some sort of falling out, leaving you in a desperate state of mind. I have been worried out of my head because you were reported to be home and yet refused to answer my numerous calls to you. I am tired. I am covered in scratches. I itch. I suspect several insects have taken refuge on various locations of my body. How are tricks? Tricks are bloody awful, thank you for asking!”

  I bristled at his tone. “Don’t you take that tone of voice with me! I asked a civil question, I expect a civil answer. If you’re so frigging unhappy with me, you can just take your bugs and leave!”

  He rubbed a hand over his weary eyes. “Christ, Alix, I don’t want to argue with you.”

  But I wanted to argue with him. Anger was the only thing that was going to keep me from throwing myself on him, becoming a doormat with an invitation to walk all over me stamped on my forehead.

  “Fine.” I said. “Don’t argue with me, then. Drink your coffee and go to bed.”

  A wistful look passed over his face, but he set his jaw and shook his head. “You said you needed to talk to me. Here I am. I assume this is regarding what Daniel said about your story?”

  Oh, the inner struggle! Part of me wanted to pour it all out to him, to sob out how Daniel’s evaluation had destroyed my creative spirit, to cry over the pain of my agent divorcing me; but another part of me, the survivor part, said no. I had thought Alex was different from the other men in my past, but he had proven he wasn’t, and I knew from hard experience that if I gave in now, I would be lost for good. He would never respect me, never treat me like I mattered to him. There was no future with Alex, I knew that now, but I could still end things with dignity.

  “No, that doesn’t matter anymore.” I pointed to where my manuscript was currently residing in the wastebasket before I hauled it down to the trash bin. “I’ve scrapped that story. I’m going to write a new one, a medieval this time, about a knight and his blind horse. It’s going to be very poignant. I see Rupert Everett in the role.”

  “As the blind horse?”

  I thinned my lips at him, but he was too busy frowning at the wastebasket to appreciate my gimlet-eyed glare.

  “Why are you throwing away your story? Daniel said it needed work, but it had promise.”

  “He said it needed a complete rewrite. Forget about it, Alex, it’s trash. I’m starting over, starting fresh with a bigger and better story. I may only have a month to get it written before my time runs out on the flat, but I can write a book in a month. And if I have to punch up a bit of it once I return home, that’s no problem.” I hoped he noticed my reference to returning home at the end of the month. I wanted it clear to him that our relationship was over, and that we had no future together other than perhaps the occasional tumble into bed. Anything else, anything of a more permanent nature, anything involving emotions and feelings outside of the genital region, were off. Impossible. Wasn’t going to happen. Not again, anyway.

  He ignored my hint and clamped down like a terrier on a bone to the subject of my failure. “Daniel said he offered to help you restructure your story. Why are you giving up on it so easily?”

  I gritted my teeth and rose. “Have you had breakfast?”

  He shook his head and took another sip of coffee, his lovely bruised eyes watching me closely. I went into the kitchen and pulled out a bag of almond croissants I had purchased earlier.

  “Knock yourself out,” I said as I placed the croissants before him, then turned my back on him to water my cute little spiky plant.

  “Alix—”

  I whirled around. “God! You’re just as bad as Isabella! Nag, nag, nag—is that all you people do around here? Find visiting Americans and nag them to death?”

  He looked startled by my outburst. “I was just going to ask if I could have more coffee.”

  Oh. Coffee. He wanted more coffee. Poor man, he looked so tired, so wounded-hero…I gave myself a mental shake and fetched the French press for him.

  He thanked me. I mumbled a response. We stared at each other, Alex peering at me over the rim of his mug, me standing next to the window with my arms crossed over my boobs in what I knew was a “hands off” body stance. The silence was profound and pregnant with unspoken queries.

  “All right, all right, I’ll answer your bloody questions! I can’t stand this constant badgering! What do they do, give you detectives a class in administering the third degree?” I stomped over to the table, ignoring the surprised look on his handsome, tired face, and sat down. “I’m starting a new story because the first one would take too much work to finish. Even”—I raised my hand to forestall his objection—“with Daniel’s help, it would still mean I have to rewrite the story, and I don’t want to do that. I’m sick to death of Rowena and Raoul. So instead I’m going to start a new story, a better one, one that won’t be so much trouble to write. I’m going to plot it all out in advance, so I know exactly where it’s going and who’s going to do what and say what and just how the blind horse is going to regain his sight at the end of the book.”

  Alex set down his mug and leaned back in the chair, the thumb of one hand rubbing along his whiskery jawline. “Let me make sure I understand this—you’re going to give up on the project you’ve put so much time and work into in order to start a new story, just because you’re tired of the first one?”

  I nodded, pleased he understood the importance of cutting your losses and starting over. Lord knows that had been one of the first life lessons I had learned. “You got it in one. Ravening Raptures isn’t worth the trouble it would take to fix it.”

  He stilled. “And what about us?”

  I froze as well, my
eyes caught in his dark emerald gaze.

  His words were as quiet as they were soft. “Is our relationship worth the trouble to fix it?”

  Yes! Yes, it is! a voice shrieked in my head. The joy of being with him was worth any amount of trouble, any sacrifice! I loved the man; wasn’t love all about martyring yourself for the happiness of your loved one? To hell with my ego. To hell with my broken soul, my crushed feelings, the pain and suffering he had dealt me, would continue to give me because I wasn’t first in his heart as he was in mine. All that mattered was that he was happy, right? I took a deep breath.

  “No, it’s not worth the trouble.”

  The voice inside my head keeled over in a dead faint. I knew just how she felt. I would have given good money to be able to faint just then. I would have given my soul—shattered as it was—not to have seen the flicker of pain in Alex’s eyes. The pain I had caused. I swallowed hard and plunged onward. It would be a cleaner cut to get the worst over with quickly.

  “I’m sorry Alex, there’s just no nice way to say this.” I knew the words, knew them well, but I had never been the one to say them. Odd how with each word spoken, a bit of me died inside. “What we had was nice, but…” I shrugged. “Well, these things happen.”

  He wasn’t breathing. He didn’t move. He was a statue, sculpted from some incredibly lifelike substance, fashioned in the image of the better parts of several Greek gods. Beautiful to look at, but without the breath of life.

  “What things?”

  I swear his lips didn’t even move. I had the worst urge to hold a mirror to his mouth to see if he was breathing, but figured that I’d better stay out of grabbing range just in case he was alive and was going to take it harder than I anticipated he would.

  “Oh, you know…” I shrugged again. “Just things. Us. Our relationship. Our future, or rather, the lack thereof. Things.”

  His shoulders slumped in defeat, and I bled a little more inside at the sight of his head bowing with anguish. How could I do this to him? How could I willingly hurt the man whose existence lit up my life? How could I? Survival, the little voice in my head whispered. It’s him or you.