The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2

by Malpas, Jodi Ellen

  I hear a thud and dart my eyes to the door. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was James’s big body hitting the floor after passing out from stress. I laugh nervously. And stop in a heartbeat when I realize that could be a very real possibility.

  I rush to the door and unlock it, swinging it open. He’s not there.

  Another thud.

  “James?” I take small, tentative steps to the top of the stairs, and when I make it there, it’s me who nearly passes out. “Jesus,” I gasp, grabbing at the rail to hold myself up.

  James looks up at me, his eyes filled with a wildness I’ve never seen before. Not in any man. Not in any criminal or crazy bastard I’ve dealt with while in uniform. His naked body is covered in blood, the knife in his hand glistening, the towel that was covering him nearby on the floor.

  “Stay exactly where you are,” he says quietly, going to his phone and staring at the screen for an eternity. I lower to the top step, not challenging him, not daring. There are times when you simply trust in the skill of your partner. And, strangely, I know to completely trust James now. My gaze drops to the body at his feet. To the gun in the man’s limp, dead hand. I’ve lost the power of speech. I can’t ask who it is or what the hell is happening. I’m numb. Shocked.

  James’s phone rings and he’s quick to answer, splitting his attention between the open elevator doors and me. “One in the stairwell. One dead on my apartment floor.” He paces to the elevator and steps inside, smacking a few buttons and looking up before stepping out. The doors close. “The elevator’s coming down.” He goes back to the man, crouching down by his body and patting at his pockets. He pulls out a cell and hits a few buttons before setting it aside and rising to his full height. He casts his eyes my way. The wildness has subsided. But it doesn’t ease me, because in its place is worry.

  “What’s going on?” It feels like a crazy thing to ask. I know what’s going on. An ambush. A murder. But why? And who?

  James says nothing, just raises his finger to his lips in a silent sign to quieten me. Then he mouths, “It’s okay.”

  Okay? Am I not staring at a dead body at his feet? Am I imagining the blood covering him?

  I startle when the elevator dings, jumping out of my skin, and James flies around, his naked body poised and ready as the doors slide open. Goldie appears, and he relaxes. I don’t know why. She looks fucking murderous, and above her eyebrow, a nasty gash. “Otto took care of the stairwell,” she grates, reaching up and wiping the blood with the cuff of her suit jacket. “The building is clear.”

  At those words, James drops the knife and collects the towel, covering himself before pulling up one corner and wiping his hands. “Find out who it is,” he orders shortly, looking at the corpse like he wants to kill him all over again. Goldie approaches and pulls out her phone, taking a picture of the man’s face and tapping out a message.

  Within a few seconds, she looks at James and shakes her head, and he curses, turning and stalking toward the stairs. I slowly rise as he climbs the steps, his eyes drilling into me. “Do you have a passport?” he asks, and while I’m scared, concerned, and many other emotions that I’m trying to contain, I know it wouldn’t be wise right now to question him.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In my nightstand at home,” I answer as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom.

  He closes the door behind us and goes to the shower, flipping it on. And I just stand like an idiot, my mind twisting painfully. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for questions or talking. So I’m expected to see what I saw, hear what I heard, and say nothing? He pulls his towel from his waist and tosses it in the tub before going to the sink and washing his hands thoroughly. Then he braces them on the edge of the vanity unit, leaning in, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. I don’t wonder what he’s thinking. Vengeance is thick in the air. His naked body looks lethal, every muscle pulsing, like he’s preparing for another attack.

  This now, the man before me, the man with murder etched on every inch of his skin.

  He’s The Enigma.

  “Was it positive?” His eyes turn to me, and I frown, momentarily lost. Then it hits me like a sledgehammer square in the face, and my gaze falls onto the test still on the back of the toilet. My blood turns to ice. My heart starts racing. “Why are you panicking?” James asks, turning at the sink to face me.

  “Why?” I motion to his blood-drenched torso. His beautiful torso that’s now as ruined as his back. Although it can be washed away, there is nothing that could clean my mind. “I’m an ex-cop, and I’m potentially pregnant by a murderer.”

  He smiles a little, and it’s wholly inapt. “Potentially?” His ass rests on the vanity, his palms wedged on the edge.

  I look at the back of the toilet again, to the white stick that could ruin us. And I laugh on the inside. We’re both ruined already. But that little stick and the potential lines on it could tip us. And there’s another thing. Us? For God’s sake, I barely know the man. I look at James. His eyebrows are high. Waiting. “I didn’t see the result,” I answer, fiddling with my towel, refastening it. “I was distracted by my boyfriend murdering someone.”

  “Boyfriend?” he asks over a laugh, and I feel my cheeks heating. It’s fucking ridiculous.

  “What the hell do you want me to call you?” I ask, as indignant as could be. “Lover? Better half? Murderer?” I am completely and utterly exasperated by the whole situation. I walk over to the tub and rest my ass on the edge, ignoring the blood-soaked towel behind me. I feel lightheaded all of a sudden. And hot. My skin is clammy, and it has nothing to do with the steaming shower running.

  “So we still don’t know?’ he asks, looking over to the toilet. I follow his gaze and narrow my eyes on the white stick.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to look?”

  “You do it,” I murmur, back to being plain terrified, the bludgeoning of a man downstairs long forgotten. My boyfriend’s true identity forgotten. This somehow feels more serious. Why doesn’t James seem as worried as I am? He’s standing there stark naked, his solid arms braced and splendid, all casual, appearing as impassive as I know he can be.

  “Fine.” He pushes himself off the unit and takes his sweet time wandering over to the toilet. I don’t think he’s nervous or stalling. I feel like he’s simply drawing out my torture and enjoying it. I scowl at him as he stares at me, blindly reaching for the stick. Then he looks down, and I hold my breath. His face is blank. I can’t read it at all. God damn, what is it?

  But I can’t ask; I’m too scared of the answer. My lungs are screeching for some oxygen, my heart begging for some respite. “Negative,” he says quietly, and all the air leaves me loudly, my entire being deflating.

  “Oh thank God,” I breathe, reaching for my chest and massaging the lingering pain away. I look to the ceiling, and I smile, so fucking happy. I will not let that happen again. No fucking way. How could I have been so careless? James drops the stick in the trash can by the toilet. “I’m sorry for putting you through that.”

  He nods, stepping into the shower stall, letting the hot flow wash away the blood all over his hands and chest. He doesn’t ask me to join him, doesn’t talk, but his eyes hardly stray from me the whole time he cleans himself.

  My ass starts to numb on the edge of the tub, and I stand, moving across to the toilet and lowering to the seat. “Did The Bear send that man?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He reaches for a towel and steps out, drying.

  “How did they know where to find you?”

  “I fucked up.”

  “Am I in danger?” It’s a crazy thing to ask when I’m sleeping with one of the country’s most wanted men. Utterly crazy, and yet look at all this crazy going on.

  “You’re the safest woman in this world, Beau Hayley.” He secures the towel around his waist. “Nothing can harm you.”

  “You can,” I whisper.

  His movements falter, and he glances up a
t me. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t correct me, and that terrifies me more than any truths he could share.

  I wake to the sound of my cell ringing. The feel of it vibrating registers, and I pat around my body until I lay my hands on it. I hold it up and squint at the screen until Dexter’s name forms. My hand plummets back to the mattress with my phone. I can’t talk to him now. Not only because I’m still half asleep.

  I roll onto my side and find the space next to me is empty. The room is dusky. The morning sky in the distance is red. Red at night, sailor’s delight.

  But it’s morning.

  I grab my sling off the nightstand and edge to the side as I get it on, before following my feet to the stairs. The first thing I see are the bags by the door. Travel bags. And any signs of murder have vanished. No dead guy. No blood.

  I see James below on the couch in his boxers, sitting forward, a candle burning on the table before him. He’s watching the flame intently. Studying it. Mesmerized by it. He takes his hand and glides it through the air above the glass, back and forth slowly, over and again. Heat. Burn.

  His scarred body.

  He eventually stops directly above the flame and holds it there, his torso tensing. He’s hurting.

  I don’t call out, don’t disturb him. I’m rapt, watching him withstand the heat. Then suddenly he pulls away and looks down at the center of his palm. “When you’ve been burned alive,” he whispers, looking up at me, “nothing can hurt as much.” He rests back and gives me a look that suggests I should go to him. So I do.

  The moment I’m close enough, he takes my hand and pulls me onto his lap, positioning me just so, my back to his front. My eyes root to the flickering flame as he takes my arm. “Nothing will ever hurt you like this hurt you.” He draws faint lines up and down the scar tissue. “Not physically or mentally.”

  “I’m in a mindfuck that hurts quite bad right now.”

  “Your mindfuck has nothing on this,” he says, holding up my deformed arm in front of us before sliding his palm down to my hand and lacing our fingers. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I reply on a whisper. “And because I love you.”

  “And because you love me.” He brings our entwined hands to his mouth and kisses them. “And I’m hurting now more than I thought possible again, because I love you too.”

  I swallow, the flame swaying rhythmically. I keep asking myself how I can love James. It’s a mental battle I’m having every minute. Sensibility is yelling at me to break away before my love kills me. Logic is demanding I stay before something else kills me. Don’t break the bond. “How can you love me?” I ask, and the moment the question is out there, he stills beneath me. Even his heart beating into my back slows.

  “Turn around,” he orders, helping me to shift on his lap until I’m facing him. I spend some needed time taking in every inch of his face. From his mussed-up hair to his rough stubble. From his soulful eyes, to his beautifully shaped lips. From his defined jaw to his perfectly crooked nose. Every inch of this man is breathtaking. Every part of him sends my senses into meltdown. His rough, gravelly voice. The words he says. The feel of his touch on my skin. His scent. Manly but soft. His tongue in my mouth. The taste of him.

  Flattening my palm, he places it on his shoulder. “I can love you because you’re as merciless as I am.” He moves my fingers across the bumpy flesh of his shoulder, and my eyes fall there, seeing my scars blend with his. “I can love you because you’re crippled by hatred and a sense of injustice.” My eyes bolt back to his, and I lose myself in their blazing depths. “Your love for me walks hand in hand with your hate for the world.” Bringing my hand to his lips, he presses a kiss in the center of my palm. “They are equals. Passion fueled. Your love and your hate are what makes you, Beau, and mine is what makes me.” His hands land on my hips, and my traitorous lip wobbles. Love and hate. I couldn’t stop loving this man if I tried, no matter who he is. And I couldn’t stop hating the world if my life depended on it. But I can do both. Love and hate. “I will treasure your love, and I’ll nurture your hate. Because without your hate, you’re not the woman I love.”

  “That’s so fucked up,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

  “That’s so us,” he replies, taking my nape and holding me firmly. “We understand each other. Feel each other’s pain. See each other’s struggles. I’ve searched for one reason not to love you, and yet all I can find are a million reason to love you.”

  I’m not sure if a weight has been lifted or lowered onto my shoulders. I feel heavy but light. Hopeful but full of dread. “That’s quite swoony for an assassin,” I say, and he smiles a little.

  “It’s not swoony. It’s the truth.” His eyes lower to my exposed chest, and he leans forward, peppering kisses over each boob before finishing on my tummy. “We should eat.” Cupping my ass, he stands effortlessly and takes me to the kitchen area, placing me on the counter by the sink.

  “Shouldn’t we be leaving?” I ask, glancing around, now noticing all of the windows are no longer clear. No one can see in. Protection.

  “He thinks the job’s done,” he says, going to a cupboard.

  “Well, it’s not,” I say, motioning to his beast of a body, like he could have missed the fact that he’s still breathing. Thank God. “Surely when he doesn’t get word from those men, he’ll know you’re still here.”

  “He has got word from his men,” James says, and I withdraw. Did one of them get—

  It clicks. He’s used the cell he found on the body to check in. “We have some breathing space,” he says.

  I don’t like the sound of that. Breathing space. He’s plotting something. I hear my cell in the distance as James reaches into the fridge, peering back at me.

  “I should get that.” I slip down. “It’ll be Dexter. They’re worried.”

  I get a small, accepting nod, but I can see his concern. “Will they try to talk you out of this?”

  “You mean me and you?” I ask, and he nods, lowering some milk to the counter. “You’re a killer, James.” It sounds as crazy as it is. And yet here I am, in love with a killer. I can sugarcoat it all I like. Plead justice. Claim every life ended was warranted. That every man James has killed deserved to die. None of those things change the fact that James is a cold-blooded murderer.

  “They don’t know what I do,” he says, leaning against the counter, casual and cool.

  “Then they clearly just get a bad vibe from you.”

  He pouts, and it’s quite adorable. “Go answer your phone,” he orders, continuing to make whatever it is he’s making.

  I do as I’m bid and find my cell nestled in the sheets, but I falter answering when I see it’s Nath calling again, not Dexter. I don’t want to argue with him. I’m not interested in hearing what he has to say. There’s nothing to be gained from answering, so I don’t. He tries again immediately. And again. Then the messages start landing, one after the other, all urgent words begging me to take his call. Something about my mother. He’s done this before. Lured me in with false promises of information. But what if . . .

  My heart constricts in my chest, and I answer, lowering to the bed as I do.

  “Beau,” Nath blurts urgently. “You have to leave.”

  “You said you had information on my mother,” I whisper lowly, my tone loaded with warning. “Don’t tell me you’ve lied again, just so you can tell me to leave James.”

  “Beau, you have to listen to me.”

  “I don’t have to listen to anyone,” I seethe, slamming my fist down on the bed with my phone so hard, it jolts my other arm. I hiss as a wicked pain shoots up my limb. How could he?

  I head to the bathroom to splash my burning face, but another message halts my tracks. I look down at the screen as it pings, one message after the other.

  You’re in danger.

  He’s not who you think he is.

  I don’t know who the fuck he is, but he’s not James Kelly.

  He w
as involved in your mom’s death.

  My inhale is so sharp, so abrupt, it has me reaching into thin air to grab something for support. My thoughts chase in circles, my mind trying to process what I’m reading. I look up at the glass, seeing through to the top of the stairs. Transparent.

  Another ding from my phone pulls my attention back there.

  Watch this. I’m sorry, Beau. GET OUT.

  The shakes come on strong, unstoppable and relentless, making my thumb uncoordinated and clumsy as it hits the play icon of the video attachment. A computer comes into view, and on the screen, footage of a place I recognize. I lower to the bed, seeing the comings and goings of the store parking lot. My eyes drop to the bottom corner. To the time and date. “Oh my God.” That date, that time, they’re etched in my memory. And then I see us. Me and Mom. She pulls into the parking lot and zips into a space, and the car sits there for a while. I remember the conversation. I remember pulling on my boots. I remember her face when her cell rang.

  I watch as I get out and shut the door, wandering through the automatic doors of the store, and the whole time I’m in there getting our wine, I stare at her car, looking, searching, waiting, watching.

  Ten minutes later, I emerge from the store.

  My heart starts to pound.

  I wander across the parking lot.

  My throat clogs.

  I approach Mom’s car.

  I hold my breath, unable to look away from the carnage about to happen. Then the screen changes. Another angle of the store.

  And a man.

  There’s no mistaking his frame. His build. His height. And if that wasn’t enough for me, his face. I inhale, checking the digits in the corner. Same day. Same time.

  “No,” I whisper, as James moves out of the shot. I only see a spark. Not the full explosion. Not me being flung skyward and landing in a broken, burned heap. I drop my phone. Numb. Dazed. I look around James’s bedroom. See a black T-shirt hanging over the chair. I get up and walk on surprisingly steady legs to fetch it, pulling it over my head and down my body.