The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  Glass.

  And still nothing to suggest a child has ever stepped foot in the place.

  I close the door and rest my back against it, my mind whirling. I should just ask him. But do I want confirmation, because then it’s real? Yet I know I can’t ignore it. It’s about time I took my head out of my ass and face what’s in front of me.

  But what is in front of me? Who is James?

  I head downstairs, seeing him still moving around the kitchen. He’s bare-chested. His hair is beautifully mussed, his face stunningly rough with stubble. He doesn’t notice me, and I stop at the bottom, feasting on the mere sight of him, watching him cutting some fruit before sliding it off the chopping board into a blender. The lid is placed on, his hand over the top, and then the whole space is filled with the whirling sound of spinning blades.

  He’s making breakfast. Something so simple and yet so satisfying to see. I lower my backside to the step and get comfortable, every ache and sore on my body forgotten. And I just watch him. Transfixed. Mesmerized.

  Falling.

  But am I falling in love with him, or am I falling in love with this feeling?

  I swallow and shake my head clear, just as the noise cuts. “Okay over there?” he asks, pulling the lid off and tossing it in the sink.

  “Sore,” I admit, reaching for the handrail to pull myself up. I wince when my thighs howl their objection. Jesus Christ, I feel like I need a sports massage. I straighten, feeling like every bone cracks to get me upright, and James’s expression is nothing short of utter satisfaction. How is he not feeling it?

  “Here,” he says, nodding to one of the stools opposite him. “Have some of this.”

  I make my way over gingerly and ease myself onto the hard wooden seat of the stool. “What is it?”

  He pours the contents of the blender into two glasses, pushing one toward me. “The first step to your recovery,” he says quietly.

  “Really?”

  “Or was the first step to your recovery our first kiss?”

  I shoot my eyes up to find his, startled. “What?”

  His smile is faint as he reaches over and places a fingertip on the bottom of my glass, helping it to my mouth. “Drink, Beau.”

  “What’s in it?” I ask quietly, accepting and taking a sip of the concoction. I get blueberries. Banana. “Is that broccoli?” I ask, swallowing and holding the glass in front of me, assessing the green slop.

  “It’s loaded with protein to repair your muscles.” He downs half in one fell swoop. “I added some mango too.”

  I still, watching him finish the other half. “Why would you add mango?”

  “Because you like it,” he says, straight faced. “Drink. You need it.”

  Need. How can a man I hardly know be so sure of what I need? But he does. And it isn’t only this drink. I slowly work my way through the glass as James watches me, and when I’m done, he takes it, sets it down, and leans over the counter. “I thought I wasn’t going to see you again after you left Biscayne Bay.”

  “You weren’t,” I admit. No playing games, no lies.

  He nods mildly. “So what happened to bring you to my door again?”

  “Do you have a kid?” I blurt out of nowhere, and he recoils, blinking. “Actually, don’t tell me.”

  “Why?” he asks, pushing his palms into the counter and straightening.

  Oh God. He has. He has a kid. “Forget I said anything.”

  “No,” he says. “Would it be a problem if I did?”

  I nibble brutally on my lip, damning myself to hell and back. Yes, it would be a problem, and I hate myself for that. I look away. “I don’t think I’m the kind of woman a man should consider introducing to their child.”

  “Why?”

  Why? Isn’t it obvious? On the outside to most people, I’m relatively together. Relatively content. But on the inside, past the mask, I’m a mess. Bitter. Twisted. And James knows it. No parent should inflict such darkness on their child. More than that, and, again, God save my soul, I don’t want to share him. I don’t want to have anything infiltrate this glass box and remind me that I’m living in the clouds. That real life is happening, and it needs to be dealt with.

  “Why, Beau?” James pushes, and I peek at him, feeling stupid, guilty, deplorable.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.” He isn’t going to let this go.

  I sigh and relent. “My dad abandoned me.”

  “Oh, so you have daddy issues,” he says, and I laugh, truly amused by his perfectly timed candor. I have way more than daddy issues, but . . . if it makes him happy.

  “He’s not a very admirable man. Well, to me. Everyone else thinks he’s God’s gift.”

  “Why?”

  I roll my eyes. “Why do you have to push everything?” I ask, exasperated. “You ask, I tell, and the next thing I know I’m having twenty questions thrown at me.”

  “Oh, of course, I forgot. We just fuck, right?” He curves an eyebrow, taking the blender to the sink and rinsing it. I narrow my eyes on his back. His beautifully damaged back. I’m not sure at what point it went from ugly to beautiful, but it has. What does that mean? “I don’t have a kid, Beau,” he says to the faucet.

  I blink, moving back on my stool. “You don’t?”

  “No. What made you think that?”

  “Your other name. The fact you’ve said repeatedly I’m getting more than I bargained for.”

  He sets the rinsed jug on the side and comes back to the island, resuming his position, leaning in toward me. He reaches for my arm and runs a light thumb over my wrist. “Way more than you bargained for.”

  I look at the broken skin. “And your other name?”

  “So you want to know?”

  I look up at him, my eyes annoyed slits. His are dancing, thrilled by my turnabout. “No, I don’t,” I grate. Damn it, I do. “Will it change things?” I ask. “If I know your other name, will it change things?”

  His smile falters, but he quickly corrects it. But not quick enough. What was that? “It won’t change a thing. Not for me.”

  “But it could for me?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  Frustration flares, powerful and unstoppable. I growl to myself and pull my arm free, getting up and walking away before I show him how desperate I am to know. To know everything. I do want to know because he’s dangling the carrot unapologetically. Fuck him. And I don’t want to know because it might change things for me. Fuck me. I’m in an impossible situation. I can’t do this anymore. The release . . . God, the release is good. But the ever-present tension? That I don’t love.

  I scoop up my purse and yank my cell out, checking the screen. Nothing. Not from anyone and, more worryingly, nothing from Nath. “Fuck,” I breathe. What happened to him last night? Why hasn’t he messaged me to tell me what’s going on?

  James shakes his head, as if disappointed in me, unbending his body to his full height. “Sit the fuck down, Beau.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Something seems to pop in him, and he throws his arm out aggressively. “I said, sit the fuck down on the motherfucking chair,” he bellows, and I recoil, taken aback by his explosive rage. Taken aback, yes, but more than that, he’s just revealed something vital. He’s worried about sharing this too. He’s stressed out, though he’s done a stellar job of concealing it. Until now. And it all begs the fucking question: why is he so adamant about me knowing? “Sit down now!”

  “What’s your other fucking name?” I yell, slamming my purse and cell to the floor, truly hating myself for needing to know. “Tell me.”

  His jaw spasms, his arm trusting toward the stool. “Sit.”

  “No.” I need to be on my feet in case I’m leaving.

  Nostrils flaring, James paces toward me with conviction, seizing me and carrying me back to the island. I’m dumped on the stool with little care. “Don’t fucking move.” His finger waves in my face, and I smack it away. Who the fuck does he thin
k he’s talking to? I snort and immediately remove myself. And I’m instantly seized again.

  “Get the hell off me,” I yell, shoving my elbow back. I hear the crack before I hear his grunt of pain.

  “Fuck,” he hisses, releasing me, and I quickly turn and find blood pouring like a waterfall from his nose. He takes his hand to his face, and it seeps between his fingers, still spilling relentlessly. His eyes are pooling, watering terribly, as he blinks repeatedly, startled. Oh God.

  He steps back, looking down at his hand. “Are you going to calm the fuck down?” he asks tightly.

  Me? “I’m calm,” I grate, hating the guilt that finds me. “You?”

  He closes his eyes, collecting himself. “I’m calm.” Going to the sink, he runs the faucet and starts splashing at his face, and I approach behind, seeing the water stained red, the bleeding constant.

  I collect a dish towel and flip off the water, taking his arm and leading him to a stool. He sits without instruction, and I move into him, taking the cloth and holding it to his nose. He watches me as I dab and pat. “I think I broke it,” I murmur, my guilt multiplying. “I’m sorry.”

  He replaces my hand with his on the towel, keeping it in place, and pulls me onto his lap. “I’m sorry for losing my temper,” he whispers, letting his forehead fall onto my shoulder. Soft James.

  I lift my arm so I can get it around his shoulders, threading the fingers of my other hand with his on my hip. “What’s your other name, James?” I ask. This ends now. No more games. No more ignorance on my part. I need to deal with this and then deal with Nath. Deal with everything.

  “Let’s get a shower first,” he replies, lifting his head, leaving behind smears of blood. “Then we’ll talk.”

  My stomach cartwheels as he negotiates us up from the stool and takes my hand. Talk. We’re going to talk, with words rather than our bodies. I swallow hard as he walks us to the stairs, but just as he takes the first step, the elevator dings. We stop and turn, and Goldie steps out. The usually cool ice maiden looks less than her usual cool self as she exits the elevator with haste, but when she spies us by the stairs, she jars to a halt, and the cool, impassive mask falls into place.

  “A word,” she says, her eyes flicking to me. I frown, trying to assess her. She’s unreadable.

  I’m forced to rip my inquisitive eyes away when James puts himself before me, blocking my view of Goldie. I look up at him and wince at the sight of his blood-smeared face. “Go,” he says, dropping a light kiss onto my forehead. “I’ll join you when I’m done.”

  I start backing up the steps, and Goldie comes into view again beyond James. She’s still and quiet by the elevator, her hands joined before her. Both of them watch me as I ascend, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. They want to make sure I’m out of earshot.

  I turn at the top and round the corner, coming to a stop, listening carefully. I hear nothing, and given the openness of James’s apartment, that means they’re whispering.

  Plagued by curiosity, I force myself into James’s bedroom and go to the bathroom, turning on the shower and pulling off the T-shirt. I step under the spray. Whispering. Whispering means someone doesn’t want to be heard. As a cop, I never believed whispers. Whispers mean distrust, so therefore I shouldn’t trust James and Goldie. And yet, I am the interloper. I have no idea how long they’ve worked together, or what they actually do. Do I even have the right to know?

  I growl to myself and take some shower gel, furiously swiping my hands across my wet skin, washing away the blood and heavy scent of sex embedded into every pore. I shampoo my hair, rinse, and by the time I’m squeaky clean, James still isn’t here.

  I shut off the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and pluck a toothbrush from the holder. I scrub my teeth, comb through my wet tresses with my fingers, and rub the towel all over to dry myself.

  Still no James.

  I enter the bedroom, set to go find him, but stutter to a stop when I see him standing in the middle of the room, his hair wet, all blood gone from his face. He’s dressed too. And he’s showered.

  But not with me.

  He looks up as he threads his belt through the loops of his jeans, the same belt he tied me up with yesterday. I give him questioning eyes. He looks away. “I have to be somewhere,” he says, going back into his dressing room and appearing moments later pulling on a jacket. “We’ll talk when I’m back.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask. He seems tense. I don’t like it.

  His smile of reassurance is feigned terribly, and I’m not sure if my ability to read his persona so well is a good thing. He comes to me, snakes an arm around my waist, tugs me close. “Everything is fine.” A small kiss on my lips. “Will you be here when I get back?”

  “How long will you be?” I ask. I need to find Nath. But I also need to talk to James.

  “I’ll be an hour, tops. Okay?” He looks at me with imploring eyes.

  “Okay,” I breathe. I’ll call Ollie just as soon as James leaves. See if he’s found out anything about Nath. I can easily say I won’t leave because . . . where will I go?

  He presses his lips to my forehead and holds them there, breathing through his kiss. He must feel my frown because he pulls away, rubbing his thumb across my brow, smoothing out the lines. “Back soon,” he says, turning and walking out.

  And I’m alone.

  Alone with only my mind, which is about ready to detonate with the questions filling it. I look down at my towel-wrapped body. Then around the bedroom. What am I going to do, other than kick my heels, waiting for James to talk? What will he tell me?

  I shake my head and formulate a plan to keep myself busy until he gets back. I’ll call Ollie. Then I’ll go to James’s office and distract myself with some painting, given I’ve still not finished what I was here to do in the first place.

  Hurrying down the stairs, I find my cell on the floor and call Ollie. It rings twice before he answers. “Did you find anything?” I ask, pacing at the foot of the windows.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Nothing at all?” I ask, stilling by the window.

  “Beau, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  My lips press together. “I’m just worried.”

  “I think sometimes you forget I lived with you and know you inside out.”

  He used to know me. Ollie doesn’t know me anymore. I hardly know myself. I pull my phone down and check the time. It’s only eight o’clock. It already feels like I’ve been up all day, and I barely got any sleep last night. I start pacing again, and my muscles pull, as if to remind me why I didn’t get any sleep last night. “I’ll keep trying him.”

  “Listen, Beau, he’s probably just crashed into bed and slept through. You know what it’s like after a tough call out.”

  I close my eyes and try to allow Ollie’s reasonable explanation for Nath’s absence settle. He could be right, of course, and I would have accepted that, had I not got Nath’s odd call. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Fancy a coffee later?”

  My eyes flip open. “A coffee?” I parrot like an idiot.

  “Yeah, you know, that brown stuff people drink over chitchat.”

  “Chitchat?” I murmur, and Ollie sighs loudly.

  “I want to see you, Beau.”

  Oh God. I can’t tell him how much that isn’t true. He won’t listen.

  “I heard your dad’s been in touch,” he goes on.

  “Oh.” Ollie knows of the contempt I feel toward the man who played a part in bringing me into this world. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure,” he mutters. “Sure, you’re fine.”

  I should never have cried on him. I should never have contacted him about Nath. I should have called someone else. I feel like I’ve given him false hope, and I take no pleasure in dashing that. Although, I kind of did already outside the store. I thought he got the message. “I’m seeing someone.” I startle at the sound of my words, immediately wishing I could grab them
from the air and stuff them back in my big fat mouth. I kick myself around James’s apartment, cringing.

  “I know,” he eventually says.

  “What?”

  “Lawrence called me.”

  My mouth falls open, my brain unable to compute this. Why on earth would Lawrence do that? What was he hoping to achieve? And, more worryingly, what else did he tell my ex? “He had no right to do that.”

  “He’s worried about you.”

  That statement tells me all I need to know. Lawrence has shared more than he should, which should have been nothing at all. “It’s none of his business, and it’s definitely none of yours.” I quickly hang up before I say anything else, something I might regret. “Damn you, Lawrence,” I mutter, hammering out a text message to my uncle, telling him how pissed off I am with him. I hit send and toss my cell on the couch, before marching to the kitchen and finding a glass. I fill it with water and drink it all, slamming it down and breathing through my rage. I literally feel like the world is against me.

  Paint.

  I rush up to James’s dressing room and rummage through his drawers to find something I can throw on, something that he won’t mind getting soiled. I spot a clothes hamper in the corner and riffle through, dragging out a T-shirt and some shorts. I pull the T-shirt on and bend to get the shorts on.

  Something catches my eye.

  I still and slowly lower to my knees, peeking under the snuggle chair in the center of the room. It’s shiny, partly concealed by a shadow. “What the hell?” I murmur. I can’t be seeing right.

  I instinctively look behind me to check I’m alone, before covering my hand with the shorts and carefully pulling it out from beneath the chair. A 9mm. A shell casing.

  My mind explodes, and I drop it like it’s a grenade, panic grabbing me. I quickly shove it back where I found it, getting up and facing the room, glancing around. I breathe deeply, in and out, trying to untangle my head, looking at the ceiling, the walls, searching for cameras. They’re hidden. How does a shell casing get into a room this small? Who fired the gun and at whom? Why—