The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  “Why?”

  “You’ll get a ticket there, Beau. I can put it in the parking garage.”

  “There’s a parking garage?” I ask, handing him my keys.

  “Underground.” He slides into Dolly and starts her engine. Her new, non-banging engine.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, watching as he yanks and pulls at the stick shift.

  “Otto.”

  “Thanks, Otto.” I look up the face of the building to the very top. The glass box that’s perched atop is hardly visible.

  Otto chugs off in Dolly, and I enter the lobby to find Goldie by the open elevator. “Waiting for me?” I ask as I approach her.

  She says nothing, holding the doors open, and the moment I’m inside the elevator, she keys in a code and sends me to the glass apartment. My cell chimes, and I look down to see a text from Ollie. Sounds about right that he’s just gotten home from a callout.

  It was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger. x

  A stranger is exactly what I am. I’m not the Beau he met. In fact, I’m sure he would hate the woman I’ve become. I don’t reply, not wanting to fuel any lingering feelings he might have. Might? I shouldn’t have accepted his offer of coffee. It was cruel and selfish, but in that moment, I was a robot, and I was happy to be stripped of all control. To not think. To have the long-lost feeling of a man’s arms around me. And now I’ll pay for it.

  More guilt.

  When the doors of the elevator open, I scan the space, bracing myself for another day suffocating in James Kelly’s presence. I head up the stairs, pass the bedrooms, and enter his office. He’s already at his desk, every screen on the wall alive, a coffee in his hand. He gives me his eyes for a few moments before returning his gaze to the TVs. No hello. Nothing. I’m good with that.

  I get my ladder out and set it up, climbing to the top and pulling off an encasement on another spotlight. I look across at him when I feel my skin being licked by the flames of his stare. He’s lost interest in the TV.

  I descend the steps. Move the ladder. Climb back to the top. Remove another encasement.

  I glance at him again. He’s still watching.

  On an inhale, I descend, shift the ladder, climb back to the top, and remove another spotlight, my teeth now grating. Don’t bite. We’re adults playing a childish game of who can stand this tension for the longest. He’s won. I admit it. He won days ago. “Stop it,” I breathe.

  “Stop what?”

  “Looking.” I take the steps back down and lean on the ladder, facing him. “Stop looking at me.”

  “Why, does it make you uncomfortable?”

  My eyes narrow. “No, it just pisses me off.”

  He smirks. “I’m just wondering why you’re going up and down that ladder like a yoyo”—he motions to the steps I’m leaning on— “when we both know you have a faster way to remove those spotlights.”

  I scowl at him.

  His face remains impassive. Thoughtful. Accusing. It shouldn’t be attractive. And yet here I am, attracted.

  “Got any other tricks up your sleeve, Beau Hayley?”

  “I was a champion gymnast until I was eighteen.” It’s the truth. I won’t tell him that I also aced karate, judo, and kickboxing.

  “Interesting,” he muses.

  “Why? Why is it interesting, James?” I’m done. He’s exhausted me, worn me down. I feel like I need a big argument with him to clear the air.

  He stands slowly and rounds his glass desk, coming toward me. I’d back away, but my body locks up. I’d breathe, but my lungs have shrunk. And then he’s close, his dress shirt pushed into my chest, breathing down on me. I look up. I inhale. God, he smells so good. Spicy. Creamy. Manly. “Why is it interesting?” I ask, my words quiet but firm.

  He gives me a few moments of the warmth of his chest before he breaks away, retreating. “Did you have a nice evening last night?” His question comes out of the blue, and I’m as confused as fuck by it. Why does he care?

  “Yes. Did you?”

  “Yes, it was enlightening.” He wanders out of the room. “I’ll be in the steam room.”

  “Is that glass too?” I call, my muscles relaxing with the growing distance.

  He looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

  Of course it’s glass.

  He pulls the door closed, and I eventually find the will to breathe. Enlightening? What the fuck, James Kelly? I turn on the spot, taking in every inch of his office. Enlightening. He needs to share some of that enlightenment with me.

  By six o’clock, I’ve finished cutting in around all the spotlights on the ceiling and my neck is stiff. I spend the next half hour dividing my time between rubbing some life into my nape and tidying up.

  He’s in the kitchen on his phone when I make it downstairs, a T-shirt draped around his neck and a pair of jeans gracing his long legs. He spots me and pulls the T-shirt off his shoulders. “Thanks.” He hangs up and starts to cover his chest.

  I blink my vision clear of the magnetic sight and make my way to the elevator. “Have a good evening, James,” I say.

  “A drink?”

  He’s asked every time. “Anyone would think you don’t want me to leave.”

  “I don’t.”

  I stop a few feet away from the doors, looking back. He’s holding up a new beer. I eye it. And him.

  “Have the drink, Beau,” he says quietly. “It’s got to beat roaming the supermarket until it closes.”

  I recoil, shocked, but he doesn’t react to my stunned state. “What?” I whisper. How does he know that?

  “Drink.” He places it on the island, and my eyes jump from the bottle to James a few times, my mind vehemently denying my feet from taking me to the beer. To James. To the danger.

  “I think I should leave,” I say, regarding him closely.

  “I think you should stay,” he counters, resting back against the counter. It’s a staring stand-off, and I swallow down my nerves, my reckless side at war with my sensible side.

  Recklessness wins.

  I wander over, taking the beer, and rest on the stool when he indicates one. So, now what? We’re going to sit here and chat? Pretend I’ve not spent the past few days burning in his company? Pretend he’s not throwing statements at me that are twisting my mind and spiking this insane curiosity.

  “Lara Croft,” I murmur. “Roaming the supermarket.”

  “What about it?”

  “How . . .” I pause for thought, knowing I can’t spike interest in him. “Why did you say those things?”

  “Lara Croft?” he asks.

  I nod. “And the supermarket. How did you know I was in the supermarket last night?”

  “Because I saw you there,” he replies, simple as that.

  “And you didn’t stop to say hello?”

  “Why would I do that? You struggle to speak to me at the best of times.”

  My jaw rolls. “And the Lara Croft thing?”

  “Do you have something against her?”

  Jesus, my head could explode. “Never mind.” I sigh, drinking some beer. “What do you do, James?” I ask again.

  His eyebrows arch. “I’m assuming you mean business-wise.”

  “What else could I mean?” I shouldn’t have said that.

  “You tell me.”

  I look at him tiredly. Is this what’s going to happen? A duel of words. Trying to decipher hidden meanings? “Yes, in business.”

  “It’s totally boring.” He takes the stool next to me, a little too close for comfort, and I inch back a fraction, just to ensure our knees don’t brush. He looks at the flesh of my thighs through the rips of my jeans. “I’m in the cleansing business,” he adds quietly.

  “Cleansing?”

  “The world.”

  Like the environment? Carbon footprints, that kind of thing? “Oh,” I say quietly, taken aback as I swig more beer. I guess that humanizes him. He wants to save the world. Admirable. How about saving me?

/>   I flinch at the wayward direction of my thoughts, and James doesn’t miss it. “I also work the stock market.”

  I nod mildly, remembering the many screens in his office loaded with news channels.

  “What do you do, Beau?” he asks.

  “You know what I do. I’m doing it in your glass box.”

  “Oh, you mean driving me to distraction?”

  I withdraw. Me? “I paint. Nothing more.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Yes, why? Why all the fucking questions? “I enjoy it.”

  “And you’ve always aspired to do this?”

  “Is this a therapy session?”

  “I don’t know. Do you need therapy?”

  “That’s debatable,” I murmur, my mouth on autopilot.

  James’s curious eyes fall to my hand still holding the beer at my lips, and he follows it slowly until I rest the bottle on the counter. His head tilts, thoughtful, and he tentatively reaches for the sleeve of my shirt and pushes it back. I’m powerless to stop him, caught in a trance, studying him closely. Every inch of his face is unreadable. Straight. Emotionless. My scar tingles as he traces a light fingertip over the edge, and I inhale, seeing the ugliness that riddles my arm is exposed.

  Exposed.

  Jerking to life, I retract my arm, pulling the sleeve back down to my wrist as best I can while still holding my beer. “I won’t ask about yours if you don’t ask about mine.”

  “I don’t mind if you ask about mine,” he says softly.

  Something tells me he’s being honest; he wouldn’t mind. And I can’t deny I’m dead curious about the beast of a scar marring his back. Too curious. But even if I asked, he didn’t say he would tell me. This is getting too deep. Too uncomfortable. I’m no longer appreciating the distraction, more resenting it. Because we’re getting personal. There’s too much talking. For the last two years, I’ve kept to my very small circle of “people.” I don’t strike up conversations with strangers. I keep to myself and limit interaction because I don’t want anyone asking questions I can’t answer. I don’t want to be known. To be seen. Invisible is safer. No one wants their lives dimmed by my shade.

  I can’t bear the interest splattered all over his face. I knew this was a bad idea, not just the beer, but the job. I’ve not gained anything from taking on this project, only a ton of questions I shouldn’t be asking and many I don’t want to answer. I swallow, placing my beer down, and make to move. To leave. To escape.

  But he stops me, seizing my arm firmly but gently. “Sit down, Beau,” he whispers hoarsely, and I freeze, my skin heating. His touch. His voice. The way he’s looking at me. I slowly lower to the stool, mesmerized by him. He unhurriedly shifts his hold and pushes up my sleeve again, so lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world. His gaze travels back and forth, from my arm to my eyes, watching how I’m responding, clearly taking pleasure from my useless form.

  Then he dips, eyes on me, and places his lips on the edge of the scar tissue. I convulse. “What are you doing?” I ask, hardly able to breathe. I reclaim my arm, and he definitely scowls. “What the fuck is going on here, James? Why the games?”

  “I don’t play games, Beau.”

  “This is a game,” I assure him. “And I haven’t got a fucking clue what the rules are.”

  “You’re absorbed.”

  “There’s a lot to be absorbed by.”

  “I agree.” His hand lands on my knee, and my stomach cartwheels. “An awful lot. And I don’t know what the rules are either.”

  “Then why do you seem to be playing this game better than I am?” Experience? Success?

  “You’re wrong.” He releases my knee and gets up, walking casually to the fridge and getting a bottle of water. I stare at his back, and all I can see are the scars beneath his T-shirt. Thick, uneven, damaged skin. “You’re playing the game far better than I ever could.”

  So there is a game. “How?”

  “Because I’m snookered,” he says quietly, and I frown at his back. “You want to be invisible,” he goes on. “Forgettable. Blend into the background.” He turns and tips the bottle to his lips, while I stare at him with my mouth slightly agape. “Problem is, Beau Hayley,” he whispers, coming closer. Closer. Closer. “I. See. You.”

  My spine straightens, and despite knowing he can’t possibly really see me, I’m wary. “You don’t know me.”

  “Don’t I?” he replies, his head tilting. “Your jokes on the phone were a poor attempt to mask your misery. Your fake carefree attitude is a poor attempt to mask your hurt.”

  I scoff, getting up and walking toward the elevator, which feels like fucking miles away. Is this why he wanted me to stay for a drink? So he can point out my shortcomings? Pretend to know me? “Fuck you, James Kelly,” I say under my breath.

  “Your anger now is a poor attempt to mask your craving.”

  Outraged, I swing around. I don’t know when this job went from being a job to a personal annihilation. “Craving for what?”

  “Many things.”

  “Like?” I yell, getting worked up, something that hasn’t happened in a long, long time. I don’t allow it. Can’t allow it.

  “Like revenge.” He starts a leisurely pace toward me, and I lose my breath. “Like escape. Like darkness.” He arrives before me, his fierce, almost angry face close to mine. “Like me.”

  “I don’t crave you,” I breathe, avoiding that he’s probably hit the nail on the head with each one of his other assessments. Revenge. That one word hits me hardest of all.

  His arm rises slowly, and he rests the tip of his thumb on my nipple, brushing the hardening nub into full erection through my shirt, making my chest concave. “Say it again. Tell me you don’t crave me.”

  I can’t talk. Can’t see straight.

  He works his touch up to my throat and strokes me softly. “You’re as clear as the glass you’re surrounded by, Beau Hayley.”

  “And what do you see?” I gasp, trying so hard not to lean into his touch.

  He smiles. It’s almost a sick smile. “I see the woman you were. The woman you’re trying to forget existed. The one with power. Unbridled strength.” He releases me and steps back. “But I want you to find her. Show me who she is. Show me what she can do, how strong she is.”

  It’s not the first time I’ve lost my breath in the presence of this man. It won’t be the last either. But it is the first time I think I understand him. He really has seen right through me. I have no room in my clustered mind to analyze how right now. No room to ask the questions I should be asking. There are too many sparks flying, and the prospect of more is too much to resist. This is a whole new world, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not getting a sick thrill from it. It’s different. Overwhelming. Diverting.

  “Let’s get the inevitable over with, shall we?” James’s face seems to darken. He’s serious. “Show. Me. Who. She. Is.”

  I step back.

  I see him brace himself. I should smile on the inside. He has no idea, but he asked for it.

  Show you?

  I lock, engaging muscles I haven’t engaged for years.

  I load, filling my lungs with air and my legs with bounce.

  He stares hard, goading me, watching as I call upon the woman I used to be. The woman I need to be to take on this man. The woman with potent, limitless faith in her abilities.

  I launch into the air and spin, wrapping my legs around his neck, and take him down to the floor. I land softly. He does not. Stress leaves me and something else fills me. I don’t know what; I’ve never felt it before, but it feels electric.

  I look down my body to his head that’s trapped between my thighs. I don’t know what I expected. A smirk was not it.

  “This is going to be way more fun than I ever imagined,” he says, his voice gravelly, and it’s not because I’m limiting the supply of oxygen to his head. Fun? I have not a moment to consider it.

  He twists suddenly, and I’m spun onto my front, a knee in my back, my
arms restrained behind me. How the fuck? Disorientated, I blink, feeling warmth moving in on my ear. “Oh baby, you’re going to be fun to break.”

  I snarl, throwing my head back and colliding with his nose. He hisses, and I spin over, jumping to my feet, breathing heavily. “I’m already fucking broken, you stupid assho—oh!” I’m caught off guard when his leg swipes out, taking me clean off my feet, and I land on my back with a thud and a cough.

  James is spread all over me in a second, panting down at me. “Then we’re both safe,” he whispers, dipping to kiss the edge of my mouth. A volcano erupts inside of me. My want and craving break the scale. But I still fight him, trying to get my hands between us to push him away. I fail. So I sink my fingers into his T-shirt and yank hard, ripping it apart across his back. He growls, wrestling with me to win my hands, pinning them down over my head. He transfers my wrists into one hand, takes the other to my shirt, and yanks it, ripping every button off.

  “Do you submit?” he whispers, dragging his palm down my torso, my body bowing violently, pleasure flooding me.

  “Never.”

  “Good.” He slams his lips over mine.

  I. Am. Gone.

  I don’t know where, but I like it, need it, and I might not ever want to come back. I open up to him, mouth and thighs, and attack him with equal force, our tongues lashing dangerously, our kiss borderline psychotic. “Let go of my hands,” I pant, sinking my teeth into his lip, straining against him.

  “No.” His face plummets into my neck, his groin rubbing into me, and I cry out, the stabs of pleasure cutting me in two.

  “Scared of me?” I ask, bowing my back, pushing my breasts into his chest.

  He bites at my throat, then sucks hard, before rolling to his back fast, sending a stool flying across the kitchen. It clatters against the cupboards as I come to rest on his waist, my hands still held in one of his. He reaches up and pulls the cups of my bra down, and my boobs spring free, aching. I lick my lips as I study him, his hair in disarray, his eyes pits of fire. His jaw ticks, enhancing every sharp inch of it. He is the most beautifully dark thing I have ever seen.

  I roll my hips, rubbing into the iron rod of flesh beneath me. James hisses, swallowing hard. “I’m not scared of you, Beau.” He sits up, getting his face close to mine. “I’m scared of us.” He bites at my cheek, and my head falls back on an almighty moan as he takes my hands and places them over his shoulders. The moment my palms come to rest on his skin between the ripped material of his T-shirt, I feel the uneven flesh of his back. But I’m too drunk on lust to ask. And I can’t bring myself to stall what’s about to happen.