Carved by Ink

by Marissa Farrar

  She nodded. “I understand. Time isn’t always a healer, huh? Sometimes it only makes the pain worse.”

  They stood, staring at each other.

  “Theresa,” he started.

  “Tess,” she said, interrupting him and giving a little lop-sided shrug. “Everyone calls me Tess... or at least, they did.”

  “Tess,” he repeated. “I just wanted to say sorry for the way—”

  Rocco and Kane bowled into the bedroom, their big, tattooed, now fairly drunk selves barrelling into the middle of their conversation.

  “Hey, boss,” Rocco said. “I think we’re pretty much done.”

  Art turned to face his employee. “Yeah, all right, Rocco. You can get going.”

  Rocco laughed. “I wasn’t talking to you, Art. I was addressing the lady.”

  Tess pressed a smile between her lips. “No problem, Rocco. Thanks for your help. You, too, Kane.”

  Kane nodded. “You coming, Art?”

  Art turned back to her. “You sure we’ve done enough?”

  “Yes thanks. The apartment is looking a million times better.” She raised her voice, aiming it at the men already heading out the door. “Just remember to take the empty cans and pizza boxes with you.”

  Rocco was already halfway out the flat, and called back to her, “Will do!”

  The moment Art had shared with Theresa had thrown him. There had been some kind of connection he hadn’t felt in a long time. He looked at her, standing beside the bedroom window, the light from the streetlamp filtering through the old net curtain. She appeared small, but brave and determined as well.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked. It felt weird leaving her here alone.

  “I’m a big girl, Art,” she said. “I can look after myself.”

  He was tempted to point out that she wasn’t so big, but decided against it. It seemed they could go from everything being okay, to being at each other’s throats in nought to sixty.

  She lifted her fine, dark eyebrows at him. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

  He tried not to let her words sting as he turned and left.

  Truth was, he didn’t have a home to go to.

  He wasn’t supposed to have been staying at the flat—that hadn’t been part of the lease he’d signed, but the old lady had never visited the place, or made any attempt to rent it out separately, and the keys had been on the same bunch as the master key he’d been given for the shop. He’d poured everything into getting his business up and running, and he paid a decent salary to Rocco and Kane. The work he did pro-bono meant he was losing hours from his own salary, but he didn’t care. As long as he had what he needed—a roof over his head, food in his stomach, and to be his own boss in the shop—he didn’t want for anything more. Material possessions had never been important to him, and while others he’d been at school with had gone on to earn crazy money doing the London finance thing, he’d joined another tattoo studio as an apprentice, learning his craft. So when the flat share he’d been previously in had fallen through, he’d just stayed at the shop. He hadn’t told the rest of the guys. In their eyes, nothing had changed and they hadn’t noticed the couple of extra bags lying around. He’d lost money on the previous place, and hadn’t had enough stashed away to get himself started somewhere new. He’d told himself it was temporary and that he’d move out again as soon as somewhere else came up, but that had never happened. That had been six months ago now. When he’d received the letter saying the new owner of the property would be residing upstairs, he’d known he was going to have to move out, but he’d thought he had at least another month or so. He certainly hadn’t expected her to show up a few days later and start throwing out his stuff. Perhaps he should have just owned up to the fact he’d been living there, but his pride had prevented him.

  So now he had a new landlady, not only here, but sleeping in his bed.

  Chapter Six

  Tess lay back on the bed and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. She’d been exhausted when she’d climbed beneath the new, clean sheets, but now she was finally able to rest, her mind wouldn’t switch off and allow her to sleep. She’d thought the can of lager she’d drunk would have helped, but instead it just made her need to pee every twenty minutes.

  For some reason, she was struggling to tear her thoughts away from the big, tattooed man who ran the place downstairs. He came across as brusque and aggressive, yet he’d drawn the pictures she’d found in the sketch pad.

  The pad had been filled with sketch after sketch of the same girl. All in black and white, in pencil, her in different positions, some exposing more skin than the others. The number of hours he’d have put into all those drawings must have run into hundreds, if not thousands. The man who put that much time and detail into his drawings wasn’t the same one he presented on the outside. Passion had gone into the pictures, and love. Someone didn’t draw another person like that unless they were completely and utterly in love with what they saw.

  Who was she, the girl in the pictures? A girlfriend? From the positions and lack of clothing that had been in some of the images, Tess guessed that was probably the case. From the hurt and defensive reaction he’d had to them, she also thought the woman he’d so beautifully drawn twenty or thirty times over, was no longer in his life. What had happened to her? Had Art been the same person he was now before the breakup, or was the body art a reaction to them no longer being together? Losing someone had the power to change a person, she knew that better than anyone. Had the loss of the woman in the pictures changed Art into who he was, or had being who he was caused him the loss of the woman?

  Tess sighed and rolled onto her side, sleep still evading her. She stared towards the window, the thin curtains doing little to block out the street light from outside. As well as brightly lit, London was noisy, too. A constant stream of cars passed below the window, and the night was filled with the sound of alarms, sirens, and loud, drunk people walking home from the pubs, laughing or shouting at one another. How did anyone ever get any sleep around here? Would she ever get used to it?

  A sudden pang of homesickness hit her, stealing her breath. No, she couldn’t think about home. Home, or thoughts about home, only meant pain. She would call or email her friends tomorrow. They would be worried about her, and she’d already put them through enough worry for one lifetime. She knew if she switched on her phone, she’d be flooded with messages, and she couldn’t face that right now.

  TESS OPENED HER EYES to find bright light beyond the curtains. She didn’t think she’d ever sleep, but once oblivion had taken hold, she’d slept like the dead. She glanced at her watch, which she’d left on the bedside table, and blinked in surprise at the time. Had she forgotten to change it from the Eastern time zone? It couldn’t be gone eleven in the morning, surely? She never slept that late.

  No, she’d definitely changed it. She remembered doing so the moment the plane had landed and they’d been taxiing down the runway.

  Damn. She was due to meet with her aunt’s solicitor in less than an hour, and she didn’t even know where she was supposed to be going.

  She leapt out of bed, quickly used the bathroom to wash up, scrub her teeth, and dressed in a white shirt and grey suit pants. She knew she wasn’t going for an interview or anything, and that the property was already hers, this was just to dot some ‘i’s and cross some ‘t’s, but she still wanted to look presentable.

  Feeling harried, she rushed down the stairs and, not wanting to see anyone, took the rear exit so she didn’t have to walk through the shop.

  Scrambling around in her purse to find her phone to call ahead and let the solicitor’s office know she was running late, she slammed into a big, hard body.

  Strong hands caught her shoulders. “Whoa, there. You’re in a rush.”

  She looked up into a set of steely blue eyes and her heart did an unwelcome flip. “Yes, I’m late. I have a meeting and I don’t even know where I’m going.”

  “Show me?” Art said
, stepping closer.

  She pulled out a photocopied map which she’d been sent in the mail back in the States. He leaned in close so he could see it. She tried not to be affected by how near he was, or the scent of his spicy aftershave wafting over her. She studied his face while he studied the map. The full lips, the squared jaw. The shadow of stubble. Even his neck and shoulders looked strong, where she could see past the multitude of tattoos crawling across his skin.

  He looked up and caught her gaze and she quickly glanced away, her cheeks heating.

  “What time is your appointment?”

  “In forty-five minutes.”

  “You’ll never make it on time if you take The Tube, and it’ll take even longer if you get a taxi. You’ll just be sitting in traffic the whole way through central London.”

  “Shit.”

  “How about I give you a ride?”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ll give you a ride to your appointment.”

  “How will that get me there any faster than grabbing a cab?”

  He jerked his head to the side of the building. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

  She really didn’t have time to be messing around, but she was going to be late anyway, so what the hell. She followed his broad back around the corner to see a motorbike sitting in the alleyway. What he’d meant sank in.

  “Oh, no,” she said, lifting both hands and shaking her head. “I’m not going on that thing.”

  “I’m an excellent rider. You’ll be completely safe.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His dark eyebrows lifted. “Don’t you want to make your meeting?”

  “Well, yes,” she hesitated. “I do.”

  “Then let me give you a ride.”

  Tess sought for another way out of the situation. She didn’t want to be rude to him, or make him angry, but the thought of being on the back of that bike, with this scary-looking guy driving it, made her stomach churn with nerves. “Don’t you have any clients?”

  “I already finished with this morning’s, and my afternoon slot isn’t until two. We’re good.”

  She grasped around for another excuse. It wasn’t only that she was terrified of riding the bike—which she’d never done before in her life—she also knew it would mean getting up close and personal with Art Fletcher.

  “There’s only one helmet,” she pointed out.

  “I’ve a spare in the shop.”

  She frowned slightly. “You do? You seem to have a lot of your stuff here.”

  He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She eyed him curiously. “Right.”

  “So are you coming on my bike, or are you gonna miss your meeting?”

  Forcing herself to make the decision, she said, “Yes, okay. And thanks.”

  He jerked his chin in a nod. “No problem. Wait here a sec.”

  He vanished back inside and emerged moments later carrying the helmet he’d mentioned. He handed it to her, and she pulled it on over her head. It was heavier than expected and her neck felt strangely wobbly.

  Art climbed onto the seat first then patted the spot behind him for her to climb on. The smart suit she wore wasn’t designed for motorbike riding, but once she’d managed to get her leg over, she settled on comfortably.

  Tess hesitated, wondering if she could hold onto the seat without risking falling off. He must have sensed her indecision.

  “It’s okay. You can put your arms around my waist. I promise I don’t bite. Much.”

  She knew he was teasing, but even so, his words sent a little shiver through her. She wasn’t the type of woman who rode bikes through London, with her arms around some big, tattooed stranger. Self-consciously, she linked her hands across his stomach, trying not to think about the hard muscle that pressed against her palms.

  Art kicked the bike to life. They started moving, and her hold tightened, forgetting her self-consciousness, more focused on self-preservation. He pulled out of the alleyway and onto the main road at the front of the shop.

  She rode the bike, clinging to him for her life. His muscles moving beneath his t-shirt, the scent of him making her heady. The engine thrumming beneath her. Her heart raced, her breath catching. Art weaved the bike in and out of traffic. They skimmed perilously close to the side of a big, red double-decker bus, and barely made the lights, causing Tess to hold on tighter.

  By the time she got off, her legs were shaky and she was lightheaded and not quite herself. Art watched her as though he understood exactly how she felt, as though they’d shared a drug of some kind and now inhabited their own private world. She wasn’t sure she could sit opposite an old, stuffy man in a suit and act normal. Her hair must look like it had been plastered to her scalp after being squashed in the helmet all that time.

  “Go on,” Art encouraged her. “You’re gonna be late. I’ll be waiting right here.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to wait for me.”

  “Are you going back home after?”

  Home—the word rang in her ears.

  “Umm, yes, I guess so.”

  “Well, there’s no point in me going alone when we’re both going to the same place.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  She stood, staring at him, not wanting to step away from this intimidating and yet somehow fascinating guy on a bike.

  “Tess,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re gonna be late.” He nodded over her shoulder to the building behind her.

  “Oh, shoot. Yes, I am. Okay, thanks.”

  Flustered, just as she’d been from the moment she’d woken up, she turned and ran into the building, leaving Art waiting on his bike.

  Chapter Seven

  What the hell was he thinking?

  He’d just driven his new landlady to a meeting with a solicitor, which he assumed had something to do with the fact she was taking over the property he rented. The building was hers anyway, so why the fuck did he think he needed to help her along? She owned the shop and was now sleeping in his bed, and here he was ferrying her around the city. She should be arch enemy number one, to be avoided at all costs, not sitting on the back of his bike, with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the soft mounds of her tits pressing into his back. He’d been conscious of her body against his every single second of that ride, so much so, he’d struggled to concentrate on the road. And now here he was, hanging around, waiting for her.

  Did he want her? The thought caused his cock to stir in his jeans. Fuck. Yes, the thought of tearing off that prim-and-proper white shirt to get his hands on the curvy tits beneath was enough to get him hard. He’d never had an American woman before. A couple of Australian’s, and a blonde, crazy Canadian girl once, but never American. It wasn’t just about getting some foreign pussy, though. Something about her beguiled him, fascinated him. There was more to her than the big dark eyes and stupidly kissable mouth. Her size made a protectiveness towards her rise up inside him, even though he knew she was a fully-grown woman who not only owned property but who had travelled half way across the world alone.

  He couldn’t touch her, even if she let him. Things were already messy, and he didn’t need for it to get messier. Besides, he’d clocked the way she’d been looking at him, and the bike, as though she was worried he might do something crazy at any moment. That look had softened occasionally—like last night, when she’d found his sketch pad, or just then when she’d been in a bit of a daze after getting off the bike. He loved the way she’d looked at him in those moments, as though they’d shared a secret no one else knew.

  Within half an hour, she emerged from the building, trotting down the steps in her heeled boots, her dark hair swinging down her back. She clutched paperwork to her chest, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her. She noticed him and returned the expression, though something about it looked forced.

  His stomach turned over uneasily. It was stupid him being here, waiting for her. She was so conservativ
e. She probably looked at him and saw a total hooligan.

  Art had never had any trouble picking up women he’d wanted in the past, but he’d always got different vibes from those women than he did from Tess. They’d openly flirted, pressing themselves up against him, touching him whenever they could, on the arm or leg, or finding excuses to hug him. Getting into their knickers had been as easy as grabbing them and kissing them—they’d never needed to do any dancing around each other. But he didn’t feel he could do that with Tess. Was it that she was his landlady, and they had business between them?

  He didn’t know, but he knew he fancied her, even if fucking her was out of the question. He’d have to be content with his fantasies of what her tits looked like beneath that buttoned up white shirt, and how tight and hot her pussy would feel if he pushed his dick inside her. Art squeezed his eyes shut and glanced away, trying to dispel the images flooding his brain and causing his cock to harden further. He had to stop thinking about her that way. She was his landlady. Nothing more.

  Tess came to a stop beside the bike. “I told you that you didn’t need to wait.”

  He shrugged. “I know. You getting on, or what?”

  She pressed a smile between her lips. “I had to sign the lease contract—the one you’ve already signed.”

  He eyed her curiously. “Yeah, so?”

  “You had to write your full name beneath your signature.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “And?”

  “Your name isn’t really Art, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It’s Arthur,” she filled in with delight. “Arthur Fletcher. You have a seriously old-fashioned, British name.”

  He smirked. “Yeah, it is. But don’t go around telling everyone. You’ll ruin my street cred.”

  “It’ll be our little secret,” she said, slipping onto the bike behind him.

  He liked the idea of them having a secret.

  Chapter Eight