The clock chimed once, signaling Henry’s bedtime. He finished his drink and rose. Straightening his favorite beige cardigan and securing his glasses on his nose, he ambled down the hallway and paused outside his bedroom. Something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the light from his bedside lamp, beaming through the open door. He always turned the lights out and preferred his bedroom door closed. More likely, however, it was the human-size lump in his bed.
He eased into the room in silence thanks to his bare feet, until the old wooden floor creaked.
The girl from the party, still sporting a worn leather jacket and black combat boots, jumped up, poised for a fight. Her hands clenched into fists, and she positioned her legs into a martial arts stance, one foot forward, the other slightly back.
She mumbled something in French about bathroom windows and bloody socks. The warrior image faded as her body swayed backward. Her face turned white where it wasn’t painted black, and her eyes opened wide and flashed him a vivid blue-green glare. Scanning the room for another exit, she crossed to the opposite door, but it only opened to his bath.
He needed to settle her down. “Easy does it, Sunshine. You’re liable to break something.”
Ignoring him, she opened a window, but she was too high up for an easy escape. Why was she panicking? He wasn’t going to harm her.
Henry remained in front of the doorway. “You’re safe here. Please calm yourself.”
He leaned against the doorjamb to assure her he meant no harm. Why would this young woman remain in his house after the party? She swayed and then leaned on the wall. Her eyes seemed disoriented. Did she even know where she was?
She’d been unable to stand straight when he’d spoken to her earlier in the evening as well. Perhaps she was drunk. It happened with free bars.
When he stepped toward her to help, she wobbled to a table containing a seventeenth-century Rouen vase, acquired by his grandfather. She paused, and Henry’s heart paused as well. Her hand reached over it and grabbed a tacky Venetian glass statue his cousin had sent him from Italy. The statue flew through the air toward his head. He ducked, and it smashed on the wall. Pieces scattered across the floor and his oldest Aubusson rug.
This was ridiculous. She’d end up smashing his room to bits.
“Her aim is almost as good as yours.” Simon approached from behind.
“Not quite. I never miss.” Henry kept his focus on the girl in case she decided to break something valuable.
“Your skills are rusty.” His half brother loved to mock Henry’s transition from Royal Navy sniper to boring academic. “Need backup?”
Henry shook his head. “Miss, please stop. You’ve already caused quite enough damage. I’ll have to call the police.”
That would be unpleasant. Young female university student in a professor’s house after hours. He’d be retiring before he had truly begun his new career.
She squeezed her eyes closed for a second and bit her lip. Henry remembered the torment she’d endured from a few of his students in the study. Poor kid. He lifted his hands in a show of forgiveness.
She hesitated, then took a step back and glanced at her hand, wrapped in a bloodstained cloth, before tucking it behind her.
“I’m sorry, please don’t call the police,” she said with a soft American accent.
A grungy brown backpack sat on the bed. The girl picked it up and retreated into a corner. Her eyes darted side to side and landed on Henry and the open door. She staggered into a lamp, but saved it before it fell over.
Henry stepped toward her and onto several jagged pieces of his cousin’s gift. Shards of glass dug into his heel.
“Bugger.” He’d be ripped to shreds by the time he made it to her. “We need to get her out of my bedroom and into a safe location.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Simon stepped through the glass in his shoes and pointed toward the corner.
Their feisty visitor had collapsed.
Chapter Three
Although Henry had left his uninvited guest at the hospital with the utmost trust in the facility, a gut feeling had wrapped itself around him and prodded his conscience throughout the night. His instincts rarely lied. Up at 7:00 a.m., he headed to the hospital, more than a little apprehensive.
The voice of an American woman echoed down the long blue hallways. Henry trotted toward the sound. He balanced more on the ball of his left foot to avoid reopening the minor cuts on his heel from the night before. A slight commotion came from the corner room. A constable stood in the doorway, holding the familiar backpack while facing off with a petite woman attired in a patient gown. Several nurses and a woman in a plum suit gathered nearby as well.
“Unless you’re here to arrest me, you must release my pack.” Her face, makeup free and more inviting than the night before, pointed up at the tall officer, who was holding her bag behind him. She never touched him, but she appeared quite threatening despite being dressed in nothing but a loosely tied hospital robe.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions before you leave.” The officer spoke in a composed, reassuring voice.
The woman, clearly agitated, eyed the pack. “I answered every question I was asked by the doctors and the nurses and the very pushy woman bringing me a tray of gruel and tea.” For a woman terrified of something or someone the night before, she had a surprising amount of grit in the face of the authorities.
The officer’s voice continued to remain unruffled despite the woman’s open hostility. “We understand. It’s scary to press charges against the person who abused you, but in most cases, it’s the right thing to do. If you won’t do it for yourself, then perhaps you’ll help the next woman crossing that individual’s path.”
Abused? She did act scared when she’d first awoken. She’d been desperate enough to throw one of his possessions at his head. Her story just became a whole lot more interesting to Henry.
She shook her head and stepped back again. “I’m not pressing charges, because I wasn’t abused. I fell down the stairs, smashed my ribs, and broke a window when I tried to catch myself. Is clumsiness a crime?”
Definitely abused.
Her painted hair and grunge clothes contrasted with her articulate speech. The woman was a complete mystery. Those types of injuries, combined with a defensive female, more often than not indicated someone had beaten the hell out of her. He sucked in his breath long enough to simmer his rage. Abuse would never become commonplace and mundane to him. His father had broken the spirit of his mother, and Henry vowed long ago to protect any woman he could from living the same miserable existence.
The woman in the suit, possibly the social aid worker, reached out and held her uninjured hand. “Please, we want to help you.” Her voice lowered, perhaps in an attempt to keep the conversation private. It was too late. The entire wing of the building had been privy to their discussion.
The girl’s mouth lifted into a slight smile, transforming her pretty face into something indefinable, yet incredibly appealing. “I appreciate your assistance, but it’s unnecessary. I’ll be fine. What I really need is a bathroom and my bag for supplies. Monthly girl issues.” She held out her hand, expecting to receive the backpack.
Although the officer didn’t look too keen on giving it back, he handed it to her. She thanked him, backed into her bathroom, and shut the door.
When the door lock clicked, the crowd dispersed, except for one nurse, the police officer, and the woman in the suit. They stood together whispering back and forth. Henry couldn’t make out the details of their discussion.
He approached the group cautiously. “Excuse me. I’m Henry Chilton, the professor who brought the young woman in last night.”
The woman in the suit glared at Henry. Did she suspect he’d beaten her? Terrific. The cop just waved and turned back to talk to the others. Obviously to him, Henry wasn’t a suspect.
A pretty young nurse led Henry away from the group. “I’m Clara Dawes, Ms. West’s nurse. I’m afraid we can’t e
xplain her medical condition, privacy and all that.”
“No problem. I was just checking up on her. From her appearance, she looks angry, but otherwise, quite vigorous in health.”
“Is she a student of yours?”
He had no idea. Probably not, as he’d never seen her in any of his classes. He would have remembered the hair, at least. “She was a guest at a dinner party I held last night at my house.”
The nurse leaned toward him and spoke softly enough to keep her words from traveling. “On the surface, she’s very healthy. Her main injuries are the cuts on her hand, but she has enough scars and old bruises to make us concerned. If only she’d tell us who did this to her, we could help.” She stood so close to him, the floral scent of roses displaced the antiseptic scent of the hospital. “I’ll tell her you stopped by. Would you like me to call you if we learn anything new?”
“No, thank you. I’ll come back later to check up on her.” He left.
If he returned in an hour or so, she might be more relaxed, and he could determine if she needed his assistance. He hopped into his car and started for home, but slowed at the sight of the brown backpack displayed like a homing beacon on her back. No hospital discharged patients in under ten minutes. She must have escaped through the window.
She trotted down the road wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with her leather jacket tied to her pack. Without the jacket over her shoulders, she’d shrunk two sizes. Without the layers of black makeup, she appeared softer, less hostile toward the world.
He pulled alongside her. “Need a ride?”
“No, thanks.” She moved to the other side of the sidewalk, and her hand tightened on her bag.
“I’m Henry. Henry Chilton. I brought you to the hospital.”
She stopped moving, but remained at a safe distance from the car. “Was I in your house last night?”
Henry smiled. “Yes. I’m a professor of anthropology. The dinner was for my students.”
The pack slid down her arms. She positioned it next to her leg. Her hand remained at her side, hidden in white gauze bandages. “I’m sorry for breaking the statue. I wasn’t myself last night.”
“Perfectly understandable. I’m just glad you didn’t throw the Rouen vase. It’s been in my family for generations.”
“I would never harm such a beautiful piece.” She shut her eyes and then shuddered. “Thanks again, for your help.”
She started down the road again. He followed in his car. If she wouldn’t allow the police or hospital to assist her, maybe she’d allow him to help.
“Are you a student here?” he yelled out his window, trying not to sound like a stalker.
“No.” She increased her pace.
Thank God she wasn’t a student. But had she passed the age of majority? He could protect her if he could remove her from Oxford.
“Can I inquire your age?”
“Looking to get lucky? Because you won’t with me.”
“Actually, I wish to help you. Where are you staying?”
“I’m not sure yet. It depends how far out of town I get.”
Perfect, but would she trust him?
Pulling up a little ahead of her, he stopped. He reached into his pocket and produced a card for the Ripon Women’s Group. He paused before handing it to her. She’d either believe he was in her life as a lucky coincidence, or she’d think he was a con artist taking advantage of her situation. Coincidence or not, she needed him. “This is a place for women who need a safe haven.”
A few seconds passed before she reached through the window and took the card. A small acorn tattoo marked the inside of her wrist. Her rebel appearance didn’t match her personality. Instead of fighting with the boys at the party or the hospital staff, she tried to remove herself from the situation. She acted cautious and intelligent. And here she was running away from something again.
“I help run a battered women’s group in my hometown. We protect families who need a temporary place to stay. No cost, just a promise to give back someday when you find someone else in need.”
She hesitated, as any woman in her situation should do, and glanced behind her. A police officer exited the hospital, the same one who had taken her backpack. Her body shrank down behind Henry’s car, and then she opened the door.
“I could use a place to sleep for a day or two. I’m Gabe.” She tossed the bag to the floor of the front seat, jumping in after it. Her avoidance of the police marked her as a fugitive from something.
“Nice to meet you, Gabe. How’s your hand?”
She glanced at the clean white bandage and shrugged. “I’ll survive. Thanks for taking me to the hospital.”
“It seemed the prudent thing to do after you passed out.”
“Not everyone is prudent or kind.”
He drove away, and Gabe shifted in her seat as though she’d need to duck out of sight any second. “By the way, I’m twenty-four,” she whispered to him. Her calm expression and stable demeanor, despite being chased by demons, told him she spoke the truth.
Eventually, she crouched down low and rested her head on the armrest of the door. Henry kept his hands on the steering wheel. What he really wanted to do was to brush her hair back to see more of her face. Her features intrigued him. A perfect little nose, high cheekbones, and the most kissable lips. He refocused his attention on the road. She needs your help, bloody idiot. She needed him hitting on her like she needed another punch in the ribs. He’d take her home and keep her protected until he could get her up to Ripon. She’d be safer there, away from her abuser and Henry’s traitorous thoughts.
A few blocks later, she lifted her head a few centimeters and peered over the dashboard.
“Are you hiding from the police or someone else?” he asked.
“I just need a place to crash for a night.” Her voice harbored hesitation. She didn’t trust him yet, but she would.
“I understand. I won’t give your location away to anyone.”
The contorted way she tilted her neck to remain hidden appeared painful.
“If you truly want to hide, get down on the floor. Or lean on me, I’ll try to cover up that hair of yours.” Henry opened his arm.
After a slight hesitation and a glance at the floor of his car, she slid closer to him. He brushed her hair back from her face, covering as much of the exposed pink strands with his hand as he could. A jolt of electricity went through him the moment he touched her hair. Her sea-siren eyes widened and met his. Her muscles tensed, and then she relaxed into his arms. They both looked away at the same time.
Probably the incoming rain.
…
Alex’s constant feeling of detachment and isolation lifted off her shoulders when Henry wrapped his arm around her. Hidden under his conservative button-down shirt and navy wool sweater was a strength she hadn’t expected.
She didn’t need a man’s protection, but for one small moment it was nice to feel like she wasn’t alone. Most of the men in her life failed miserably in their protector roles. She needed to be her own superhero to survive. If she ever allowed another man into her life, he’d have to be the sidekick.
Arriving back at his house, Henry led Alex inside from the garage. His gait favored his right side. She hadn’t noticed it at the dinner party.
“You’re limping.”
He continued to walk into the kitchen. “I stepped on some glass last night. My fault. I should have been wearing slippers.”
No. My fault.
She’d thrown the statue. Smashed it on the wall. And now he was injured. She paused. Could he be lying about helping her? Her track record for placing her faith in the wrong people was fairly perfect, although Matt had helped her for nothing more than a few swept floors. She’d been very lucky he’d assisted her when she first arrived in England. She’d have to send him word that she’d found a temporary place to stay. The memory of the arguing and the gunshot made her uneasy. Was he okay? Pascal could be cruel without a splinter of remorse for anyone or anythi
ng.
Henry turned around and reached his hand out to lure her in. Or maybe he was just being nice. “I recommend you stay inside for your own safety. You’ll have your own room here with a lock on the door until we leave for Ripon tomorrow. I won’t have to return to Oxford until after spring recess.”
His kitchen had a large island in the middle with an assortment of copper-bottom and stainless pots and pans hanging from hooks in the ceiling. A huge gas range with an ornate copper hood embossed with a grapevine pattern stood majestically as the focal point of the room.
“Do you remember Simon, my assistant, from last night? Simon, this is Gabe.”
Simon took a sip from a large coffee mug and looked at her. She didn’t remember ever seeing him before, and he was definitely the kind of man a person didn’t forget. Where Henry could turn from adorable to intimidating in a heartbeat, Simon, a beefy pinup with a hard-edged face, seemed stuck in intimidation mode even while wearing a killer smile and a blue apron that read “Chefs do it in the kitchen. I’ll do it anywhere.”
Simon said hello and then turned away to drop bread in the toaster, fry eggs, and, if her nose was accurate, make cinnamon rolls. Hard to be intimidated by a guy who made baked goods. Even a guy the size of Pascal. The memory of him arriving at the pub fizzled some of her optimism until Simon walked to the table. When he poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her, she thanked God she’d jumped into Henry’s car. Black coffee fueled her in ways water, juice, or wine never would.
She rested the mug against her chin so she could take in the aroma before her first sip. “Sorry about ruining your evening.”
Simon smiled again as though he found the entire incident amusing. “Henry never invited such spirited ladies into his bed in the past. A nice change for him.”
“You’re overstepping your position.” Henry raised his eyebrows toward Simon, but he couldn’t suppress his own smile.
Untrue Colors (Entangled Select Suspense) Page 2
