by Dara England
Teagan reddened at his mockery. “Wouldn’t be the first time…” she mumbled under her breath, and immediately knew she hadn’t mumbled enough. Clearly, he’d caught the remark. Only, it didn’t seem to irk him as she’d meant it to. Instead, his expression grew closed, distracted, and she knew his mind had slipped back to that other concern he had been temporarily distracted from. In a single moment, all his energy appeared to evaporate and he looked weary again. Well, whatever his troubles were, she wanted no part of them.
She quit beating around the bush. “It’s time for you to go,” she announced suddenly, bluntly.
She had expected some argument from him but he appeared too preoccupied with his thoughts even to notice her rudeness. “Yes,” he said as if to himself. “I can do nothing more here. It’s time I checked in at the office.” He rose from his seat.
The office this late in the day? The man was truly a workaholic. Teagan kept that thought to herself however, relieved simply to see the back of him as he stepped wordlessly out the door and disappeared down the hall. It was almost as if he had forgotten she was there. He hadn’t said a word about when she was to come over next, hadn’t even mentioned her pay. She knew she ought to be concerned about that but somehow he had put her into such an uncomfortable mood she couldn’t care. She would give it some time and if the money never arrived, she would go looking for it. She made the resolution reluctantly, for she was far from eager to return to Sir’s place again anytime soon.
Chapter 13
It wasn’t until evening approached that Teagan finally decided no money was coming. Either she was being cheated, or she had simply been forgotten. Whichever it was, it grew clear if she wanted the promised reward she would have to go and get it herself. And that was what she set out to do.
It was with a feeling of heavy reluctance that she entered the brass-lined double-doors of Sir’s apartment building and traveled up to the top floor. She hadn’t expected to set foot in his place again for quite some time—not until the next odd ritual, at any rate, and those seemed to be spaced several weeks apart. Not only that, but she was acutely aware that this time it was she who was breaking the rule against face-to-face communication. Should she have contacted him some other way? Sent a note?
Too late to turn back now. The time for note passing had ended the moment she set foot on the elevator. Now, she had no choice but to draw a deep breath and force a relaxed appearance she didn’t feel as the elevator dinged and its doors drew open in front of her.
The room was dim in the long shadows of evening as Teagan stepped off the elevator. The large window across the front of the living room allowed in a faint illumination that emanated more from the flashing signs and glowing lights out on the horizon than from the light of day. Already the sun had sunk to the edge of the sky and was no longer visible behind the skyscrapers.
Sir was nowhere in sight.
“Hello?” Teagan called cautiously as she advanced into the room. “Sir?”
There was no answer. Maybe he wasn’t here. Or maybe he had already gone to bed, though it was pretty early for that yet. Well, if he had, there was no way she was going to disturb him. No promised amount of money could drag her back into the red bedroom that had imprisoned her once before.
A small table lamp glowed in the center of the living area—the one light in the place. Teagan passed by the embracing lovers statue and moved into the sunken part of the room to approach the light source. Rounding the back of one of the leather couches, she stumbled onto a pathetic sight.
Sir sprawled unconscious across a long white couch, his hair tousled, his shirt open, and a scattering of paper trash littering the floor and sofa around him. Hovering over him, Teagan stooped to pick up a pair of empty beer bottles tucked into the side of the couch. Wrinkling her nose distastefully, she set the bottles on a nearby table and picked up the paper trash littering the floor. On close inspection, they appeared to be newspaper pages, crumpled and tossed aside. Apparently Sir had been taking in some news he didn’t like. Bad business reviews maybe?
She made as much noise as possible cleaning up the mess and depositing the bottles and papers into the nearest wastebasket, but it was all to no avail. Sir never stirred from his prone position, passed out cold on his back. Teagan couldn’t help smirking at his ridiculous position, though she would never have dared do it to his face. Apparently rich men weren’t so different from the others; they just drank a better brand.
Even as she took a spiteful enjoyment in seeing the normally composed Sir laid out in such an undignified position, she couldn’t help letting her eyes move over the lines of his chiseled chest and bare abdomen. He was in good shape for a guy who, presumably, spent all his days sitting at a desk in an office. Somehow that wasn’t surprising. She saw him as too much of a perfectionist to let anything go beyond his control, even the shape of his body.
His face held a peaceful expression now, something she couldn’t say she had ever witnessed before. Even when he wasn’t having one of his intense or dangerous moments, there lurked always a wary attitude around him, as if he couldn’t let down his guard even in the quieter moments of his life. If a man like Sir ever had quiet moments.
She shook her head and pulled her gaze away from his sleeping form. This wasn’t getting her any closer to her money. Briefly, she wondered what his reaction would be if she helped herself to what she’d come for. He probably had some cash lying around in his bedroom or in the desk in the den. Then too, there might be something in his study… She quickly set the idea aside, uncertain as to why it made her so uneasy. He had warned her before against ever entering his study. More than that, the fact the study door had its own part in his occasional weird ritual was enough to make her steer away from it.
No, there was nothing for it, but to see what she could do about waking the man, and if he was sober enough to know her, demand her money. One thing she wasn’t about to do was go home without it. For all she knew, that was his game. As if a man in his position couldn’t afford to pay his debts.
Nevertheless, she hesitated. She could hardly give him a rousing shake. Not without grabbing hold of those impressive, bared shoulders—something all the money in the world couldn’t make her do. Attractive they might be, but the man who came with them she wouldn’t touch with a broomstick.
In the end, she settled for loudly clapping her hands together over his face. That got his attention. In a single start, he was bolt upright and staring wildly around him. At the strange glint in his eyes, Teagan took a step back. What was that emotion she saw crossing his face? Anger? Fear?
“Easy, Sir, it’s only me,” she said, uncertain why she felt tempted to use a soothing tone. She quashed the feeling with hard words. “You were just lost to a drunken stupor and you can get right back to it again the minute I get my money.”
“Money?” He focused on her a long moment before the light dawned in his eyes and recognition set in. “Oh. You.”
The tension faded from his face and his shoulders relaxed as he took her in. His voice slurred a little, but at least his gaze was fairly clear. Yawning, he rubbed at his stubbly face. Teagan had never seen him looking so unkempt.
“How did you get in?” he asked.
“The same way I always do. The doorman doesn’t question me by now. I, on the other hand, do question you. I thought you were going to send the money to my apartment.”
“Money?” he repeated again.
Was he genuinely confused or just trying to get out of paying up? Fortunately, his memory quickly sharpened before Teagan had to jog it with harsh words.
“Oh, right,” he said, stretching. “I might have known the one thing that’d drag you through those elevator doors.”
Teagan stiffened, trying to ignore the way his movements flexed the muscles of his shoulders. It was insulting how he kept dangling money before her like a worm before a fish. And yet…it always seemed to work.
At least, on this occasion, he was too out of it to wa
ste any energy on mockery. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll get my checkbook.” The pronouncement was followed by a very wobbly attempt at climbing to his feet that nearly landed him on the floor.
Before she knew what she was doing, Teagan had ducked in to catch him. “Whoa! Slow down,” she said. “Take it easy.” As she eased him back onto the couch, she tried not to concentrate on how firm his muscled chest felt beneath her palm. The faint scent of his cologne drifted to her, mingling with the clinging beer fumes in a way that was strangely pleasant. She realized this was the first time she had ever been so close to him when there wasn’t some sort of tense confrontation underway between them. It was an unexpectedly warming experience.
He shot her a calculating look as if he knew the direction of her thoughts. Was it her imagination or was he leaning on her a little longer than necessary? And was there a faint expression of humor tugging at the corner of his mouth?
Quickly, she drew away again. “Look,” she said, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms on her jeans. She hoped he didn’t notice the action. “Suppose you just tell me where the checkbook is and I’ll bring it to you.”
He smiled. “I’m not sure you’re exactly the kind of girl I want to hand my checkbook over to. But then, under the circumstances, I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”
“No, you don’t.” She was too miffed to be awed by his good looks. “Where is it? In the study?” It was a relief to rise to her feet and put some distance between them.
“No!” His sharp tone drew her back. He quickly modified it under her frown. “I mean, no, it’s not in the study. Don’t go in there. I have—”
“Yeah, yeah, important papers. I remember,” she cut him off. “Where then?”
He directed her to a drawer in his desk in the den, and in no time, she was returning with the book and a ballpoint pen in hand. Only to find him already stretched out on the couch once more, sound asleep. Maybe she could stir him again?
Nudging doubtfully at him with one foot, she received no response. His face appeared worn, haggard beneath the yellow glow of the lamp. He looked as if he could use the sleep. She wondered how often he lay awake nights, studying newspapers and obsessing over his bank, before finally putting himself to sleep with a heavy dose of alcohol. Something unexpected stirred softly within Teagan—sympathy—and with it a faint urge to protect. Sighing, she pulled a decorative afghan from the back of the couch and carefully draped it over him. Then she sat down to wait. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 14
Teagan couldn’t identify the sound that awoke her a few hours later. As she opened her eyes and peered around at the unfamiliar surroundings, she took a moment to remember where she was. And then memory returned. Sir’s apartment. Still. The discovery jolted her into immediate alertness.
She had only meant to sit down and wait while he slept it off. Eventually, he would have to awake again, and when he did, she would get that check written out and be on her way. Unfortunately, her plan had left out one factor: her own weariness. There was something hypnotic in reclining in a comfy leather armchair, watching Sir’s peaceful face as he slept nearby. The dim lighting and the lateness of the hour combined with her own sleepiness to send her nodding off.
Now, however, a quick glance at the digital clock on the stereo told her she had dozed longer than she should have. It was past midnight already. She hadn’t imagined spending an entire night in Sir’s company—or in this lonely apartment, which still gave her the creeps.
Well, she wouldn’t do it, she decided. It was past time she got out of this place. Sir could keep his check. Maybe he’d wake in the morning, feel like being nice, and send it along. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, she wouldn’t spend the remainder of the night sleeping in his armchair, waiting for him to stir.
Slithering out of the thickly cushioned chair, she moved as quietly as possible, so as not to wake the man sleeping on the sofa. She looked around her. Where was that pen she had brought from the den? If she could find a scrap of paper, she could leave him a note, reminding him about the overdue payment. There was another piece of crumpled newspaper lying under the coffee table, one she had missed during her cleanup. That should do well enough.
She was on her hands and knees, poking her head beneath the low table, when she was startled by a soft noise. She stiffened, recognizing the sounds of Sir stirring on the couch. A quick peek over her shoulder revealed he was only shifting in his sleep. Still, Teagan felt acutely uncomfortable at the idea of his waking and finding her sneaking around. Would he be angry at her presence? Suspicious?
No, never mind the note. It was time to go. She started to crawl back out from beneath the table, but clumsily bashed her head on its edge. A loud thud resounded, and she bit her lip to keep from whimpering at the smarting pain. A rustling movement from behind warned her Sir had been disturbed by the noise. She stole a glance over her shoulder to see him tossing on the couch.
He seemed restless, but not quite wakeful. She would have looked away again, had she not noticed beneath the faint lamplight the tense expression that had settled over his sleeping features. His breathing was rapid, as if whatever he dreamed of troubled him. His body twitched agitatedly, and soft growling noises emanated from the back of his throat. What sort of nightmare haunted him, hounding him to the point where he could neither keep still nor silent?
Teagan was moved by a momentary sympathy—who didn’t know the terror of a bad dream? Approaching the couch where he slept, she stretched out a hand to give him a gentle shake. She didn’t know what she expected, maybe that he would sigh and roll over, to slip into a quieter dream.
But her hesitant effort only seemed to drag whatever unpleasantness stalked his dreams closer to the surface. His head tossed restlessly, and beads of sweat began to form on his forehead and upper lip. His face was twitching now, his fingers digging into the sofa beneath him, so that his nails scored the expensive leather. Teagan didn’t see how he failed to wake himself in his own excitement. Another minute and he’d be thrashing.
This had gone far enough. Consequences or not, she couldn’t let him continue like this. Suppose he hurt himself somehow? What if he was having some sort of seizure and was unable to wake from it? Panicked by the thought, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him in earnest. Nothing happened.
She tried calling his name. “Sir, can you hear me? It’s Teagan.” She didn’t care that her voice was unsteady. “Do you want me to get you some help? Do you need an ambulance?”
No response. Her mind raced. Did he have a medical condition, any prescriptions lying around that might help? Were there emergency numbers for a friend or family member she could call? Why had it never occurred to her to ask these sorts of questions before? The answer came immediately, of course. Because theirs was a strictly business relationship, built on a no-questions-asked basis. She really knew nothing about him, and until tonight, had needed to know nothing.
Trying to keep calm, she scurried into the kitchen where she dug hastily through the cabinets until she found a dishtowel that she soaked in icy water. One last ditch effort to wake him, she decided, and if that failed, she’d start searching for a phone to call for help.
Back on the couch, Sir shuddered as the cold cloth was pressed against his brow. Was it helping? She couldn’t be sure.
She tried talking again, in a soothing tone. “Breathe easy, Sir, and try to come back to me. Whatever it is that’s holding onto you, just let it go and follow my voice.” Maybe he heard her, and maybe he didn’t, but she kept it up. “You’re safe,” she comforted. “We’re sitting here in your apartment, together, on the couch. You drank a little, we talked, and now you’re having a nap. No big deal. You can wake up whenever you want.”
Was it her imagination, or was he growing still under the sound of her voice and the touch of the wet cloth? She kept both her tone and the cool stroking steady as she continued streaming whatever words came to mind. She had no idea what she was babbling
about. She was too busy watching for signs of improvement while battling internally with the decision of whether or not to call for help to pay attention to the part of her that kept nattering meaninglessly on in the background.
It was probably only a few minutes before he started to come back to himself again. To Teagan the passage of time felt blurred, however. The wait between the end of his twitching and the first time his eyes opened seemed longer still. There was no recognition in his dark gaze as it flicked over her before moving on to roam over the rest of his surroundings. That incomprehension sent a fresh flood of concern through Teagan.
“Sir?” She gripped his hand and gave it a tight squeeze to draw his attention back to her face. Maybe now was a good time to use a familiar name. “Mr. Rotham, sir, do you know where you are? Does anything hurt? Can you understand what I’m asking you?” She knew she was barraging him with too many questions but couldn’t seem to help herself.
His eyes gave up their exploration of the room and returned to her. With a rush of relief, she saw recognition set in.
“I never gave you my name.” His voice sounded cracked as he made the statement, but at least he sounded like his rational self.
“No,” she admitted, feeling her racing heart slowly drop to a calmer rhythm. She was surprised to see his mouth tilt slightly at one corner.
“I see you’ve been doing a little detective work on me.”
“I hardly needed to,” she answered, moving to give his sweaty brow another swipe. He still looked awfully dazed. She tried to distract him as his gaze drifted toward the ceiling. “Apparently Mr. J. Rotham is a pretty important figure in this town. I can’t pick up a paper without seeing your picture. ‘Mr. J. Rotham closes the deal. Mr. J. Rotham meets with board of directors. Mr. J. Rotham cleans his toenails with a solid gold pick’—I made that last part up myself.”
He closed his eyelids. “Very clever of you.”
