by Elise Noble
Butt out, nothing to see here.
Emmy strode across to the dude, smiling because this was going quite well so far.
“Hi. Do you have any Twinkies?”
“Why is there a man lying on the ground? Is he okay? Should I call an ambulance?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He’s just got a bad back, so he works out the kinks each time we stop.”
“Like yoga?”
“Exactly like yoga. He’ll do the bow pose in a minute.” Yup, there it was, with a little assistance from Black. Funny how it almost looked as though he was being hog-tied. “See?”
“Y’all are travelling together?”
“We sure are. Two of our friends are getting married in Vegas, and we’re all on our way there, except we got delayed by an escaped horse near Amarillo, so we’re running a bit late.”
“That lady looks as if she’s crying.”
Emmy glanced across to where Mal was lifting Imogen clear of the van, her arms tight around his neck, and although tears streamed down her cheeks, she looked okay. Thank goodness.
“Yes, she’s crying with happiness. That’s the bride and her husband-to-be. The Twinkies?”
“Over by the magazines.”
“And can I get eight coffees?”
“Uh, okay.”
Emmy flipped a fifty at him. “Keep the change.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on their way. They’d topped off Seacroft’s gas, and one of Blackwood’s guys was behind the wheel as they drove in convoy to Las Vegas. Mal cradled Imogen in the back seat of the Explorer, and Emmy glanced at them in the mirror as she followed Black and Pale, who had Seacroft stuffed into their boot.
Fake girlfriend? Yeah, right.
Emmy fished her phone out of her pocket and tapped out a message to Luther, Blackwood’s head armourer, who worked out of the Richmond office.
Emmy: New pool—Mal and Imogen. I pick next Friday.
Luther: On it. I’m calling Sunday.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Mal asked. “Did he hurt you?”
Imogen shook her head. “He barely touched me.”
Mal’s eyes narrowed as Emmy’s gaze flicked between the mirror and the road. Uh-oh. “Barely touched you?”
“He just felt me up. He said he wanted to know whether my boobs were real.”
“I’ll kill him.”
Down boy. Although technically, it wasn’t too late for murder. They could make it look like an accident. A car crash, a trip and fall, maybe a heart attack…
“Please, I just want to go home. Where am I? I don’t even know where I am. He said we were going to Las Vegas.”
“And you’re nearly there. The plane’s waiting, and we can fly straight back to Richmond.”
“What’ll happen to Morton? You won’t really kill him, will you?”
Mal sighed. “He’ll go back to Florida.”
Such a shame. Emmy had even packed a nice, shiny spade she found in Pale’s garage, just in case the need to lose a body arose.
“He’s c-c-crazy. He said we were getting married.”
“It’s over. He’s not getting anywhere near you again.”
“H-h-how did you find me?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ll always find you, babe. I’m just sorry he was able to take you in the first place.”
Imogen burrowed closer to Mal, her face buried in the crook of his neck, and his arms tightened around her.
“I was so scared,” she mumbled.
“I know you were, babe. I know. Just rest now, okay? I’ve got you.”
Aw, so sweet. Mal was fucked. And who knew, maybe this insane trip to Vegas would lead to the sound of wedding bells after all?
“See?” Emmy said to him. “I told you everything would be fine.”
CHAPTER 18 - IMOGEN
“YOU’RE REALLY OKAY?” Stef dragged me out of Malachi’s arms and wrapped me up in her own. “Emmy called Oliver and said they’d found you, but I was still so worried…”
“I’m okay, but I’m so, so tired.”
Even though I’d slept on the plane, the events of the last forty-eight hours had caught up with me. Apart from when I was drugged, I’d been awake from my arrival in Florida to the moment Malachi had plucked me out of Morton’s van in the middle of nowhere. And Morton had been totally insane. At first, he thought I was Misty, and when he realised I wasn’t, he studied me like a laboratory specimen and told me that even though my boobs weren’t so big, I was prettier so he’d marry me instead. Yes, marry me. The freak actually thought I’d walk down the aisle with him. He’d brought a dress and flowers and everything.
“The spare room’s ready and waiting. Bridget’s left food if you want any.”
“I wouldn’t mind something to eat.”
Although I still felt sick from the shock and whatever Morton had injected me with, the nausea battled with an aching hunger. He’d kidnapped me before the wedding buffet, the asshole. Emmy had offered to stop by a fast-food joint on the way to the airport in Las Vegas, but I couldn’t stomach that at the time, and now I was starving.
Malachi shifted from foot to foot in Oliver and Stef’s pristine hallway. White walls, white tiles on the floor, white furniture. The only splash of colour came from the abstract paintings on the walls. Originals, of course.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, really, you’ve done everything. The way you found me… I was terrified Morton would force me to get married. He had a gun.”
“If I hadn’t taken you to Florida…”
“Then it would’ve been Misty instead. You weren’t to know there was a lunatic in the house. Well, apart from Erin.”
“I’m so sorry for everything she said.”
“Like you said, it’s over now. Can we just forget about it?”
He stared at me for a long beat before nodding. “Sure.”
Malachi wouldn’t forget about it. Guilt clouded his eyes, and I wanted to explain that the only way I could deal with the horrible parts of life was to stuff them into the back of my mind and force them to stay there. If I kept talking about them, it gave me nightmares. I’d found that out when I tried visiting a therapist after what my brother did. All it led to was sleepless nights as the loosened memories replayed over and over and over.
But I was so tired that the words wouldn’t come, and I yawned instead.
“I’m not even sure I’ll be able to stay awake for food. I think I’ll just go to bed instead.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Uh, the police’ll want to talk to you. We can keep them away tonight, but…”
Oliver nodded. “Give them my number. I’ll deal with them.”
“What day is it?” I asked. “Tuesday? Aren’t you supposed to be going on vacation tomorrow?”
“Not until the afternoon. They’ll have to do the interview in the morning.”
“Or we could postpone the trip?” Stef suggested, although Oliver didn’t look particularly enamoured with that idea. “You’re more important than two weeks at the beach.”
“No way. You need a break, and it’ll be Abby’s first time abroad.”
“Do you want to stay here while we’re away? Bridget’ll be on vacation too, but Gianni can send up food from the restaurant downstairs.”
“Honestly, I’ll be fine. I’ve got a roommate, so I won’t be on my own.”
And somehow, being lonely in my tiny apartment was better than rattling around in this sterile palace. It was a beautiful home, don’t get me wrong—I just preferred something cosier.
“I’ll be around,” Malachi said. “You can call me if you need company.”
That was the guilt talking, wasn’t it? He had far better things to do than babysit me. But I nodded because it was easier than arguing. All I wanted to do was crawl under the perfectly pressed quilt waiting for me along the hallway.
“I will. And thanks again for everything.” I managed to muster up a smile. “A proper Blackwood rescue—I
guess I’m part of some sort of club now.”
Even though I’d slept for fifteen hours straight, I was still exhausted. Drained. The police interrogation didn’t help. Oliver sat with me the whole time and interrupted when they got too pushy, but although I explained that I couldn’t remember everything, they still kept asking the same questions again and again and again. And then, because I’d been unconscious for part of the time, they insisted I go to the hospital for an examination “just in case.” Having a nurse poking around down there left me feeling violated all over again.
But it was done.
And now I was on my way home, hoping Svetlana hadn’t stunk the entire apartment out with incense sticks in my absence or rearranged the living room to better accommodate her yoga mat again.
Oliver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for a traffic light to turn green. Stef was back at their apartment getting Abby ready to go, and they were in danger of missing their flight because Oliver was his usual stubborn self and refused to let me get a cab home. Roxy had offered to pick me up, but her shift in the neurosurgery ward didn’t end for another three hours. I’d have been happy to wait, but Oliver insisted on doing things his way. As usual.
“You don’t need to walk me up,” I said as he abandoned his SUV at the kerb and jogged around to open my door. “You’ve done plenty already.”
“Yes, I do.”
There was no point in arguing; I knew that from experience. And secretly, I didn’t mind Oliver’s pigheadedness today because I was still jumpy. Once I’d opened the apartment door, he pecked me on the cheek and ran, and I was alone again. No Svetlana. I didn’t particularly like her—we had absolutely nothing in common—but I’d still hoped she’d be home.
Then I saw the envelope on the coffee table with my name written in slanted script.
My first thought was he’s found me, and he could’ve been Morton or Kyle or even Drew from the gym. It was just a visceral panic that made my chest seize. Then I realised the handwriting was Svetlana’s and began to breathe again. Why had she left me a letter? I tore the envelope open, and a bunch of fifty-dollar bills and a note fell out.
Imogen,
Sorry for the little notice, but I meet a man last week and he ask me to travel in South America with him. We leave straight away. Life is an adventure, da? I put a month’s rent for you.
Sveta xx
I didn’t know what to be more upset about—that I was on my own again, or that my weird Russian lodger had managed to find a man with seemingly no effort at all.
Okay, I could do this. I could cope. The door was locked, and the landlord had fitted a new door chain for me, miracle of miracles. I’d sent him a text from the airport while I was trying to distract myself from staring at Malachi’s ass, promising a six-pack of beer if he’d help me out. Guess I had to pay up now. Breathe, Imogen. The windows were shut tight. All I had to do was make myself dinner, watch a movie, then go to sleep. Easy.
Except it didn’t quite work out that way. Every bump, every creak left me wide-eyed, and at two a.m., I tried to pile furniture against the door then burst into tears when I couldn’t move the sofa.
What was wrong with me? Logically, I knew there wasn’t anyone there. Kyle hadn’t contacted me for years, and Seacroft was in jail. Wasn’t he? What if they’d let him out on bail? Kyle skipped bail, didn’t he? Then threatened to hunt me down and kill me if I pushed ahead with the court case.
By four o’clock in the morning, I couldn’t stand the uncertainty any longer. Malachi did say it was okay to call, didn’t he? I’d leave him a voicemail, and he could phone me back when he woke up.
“Imogen?”
“I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I was.”
“Sorry. I, uh, I…”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. I mean, not really. I’m on my own, and I keep hearing noises, and I just wanted to check Morton was still locked up.”
“Yeah, he’s still locked up. What do you mean, you’re on your own? I thought you had a roommate?”
“She unexpectedly moved to South America.”
Dammit, Imogen. Stop sniffling.
“I’m on my way over.”
What? “No! It’s late. Early. I’m fine, really, just being stupid.”
“I’ll call when I’m coming up the stairs.”
Shit. What had I done?
CHAPTER 19 - IMOGEN
“I DIDN’T MEAN for you to come over.”
Malachi dumped a duffel bag in the living room and surveyed the haphazard furniture. I’d tried to put it back, but the adrenaline that helped me to move it in the first place had seeped away.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“I’m not sure you’ll fit on the sofa.”
It was only a two-seater, and Malachi was at least six feet tall and built of muscles.
“Then I’ll borrow your ex-roommate’s bed.”
“She didn’t have a bed. There was one when she moved in, but she sold it on Craigslist one day while I was out at work.”
Yet another reason we hadn’t seen eye to eye. She thought that since she gave me the fifty bucks, it was okay, but now I had to find a new bed for my next roommate. I blinked back the tears that threatened to escape. Buying a bed might not sound like much, but on top of everything else, it was another burden I didn’t want to shoulder. I was in danger of breaking, perhaps as close as I’d ever been.
“Craigslist?” Malachi shook his head and unzipped his bag. “What did she sleep on?”
“A yoga mat sprinkled with rose petals. And she used to put crystals under her pillow.”
The organic cotton pillow that she’d gotten delivered from a cooperative based just outside Kathmandu. I always thought it smelled funky, probably because it was stuffed with yak hair.
Malachi opened the door to her room, and sure enough, the rose petals were still there, shrivelled and stuck to the carpet along with half a ton of ash from her incense and a package of spirulina powder she’d spilled and never bothered to clear up. She hated vacuum cleaners. Said the noise unbalanced her chakras.
“Stinks in there.”
“I know.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor in the living room.” Before I could argue, he held up a hand. “I’ve slept in worse places, believe me. Just go back to bed, babe. Nice pyjamas, by the way.”
I hadn’t even thought about what I was wearing, but now I glanced down and saw my traitorous nipples poking through the pink silk. Malachi had that effect on me, even when my mind was on other things. My cheeks heated, and I backed hastily towards my bedroom.
Slam.
I leaned against the door, breathing hard. Perhaps I should buy new sleepwear? Everything I owned was on the, uh, risqué side. Take tonight’s pyjamas, for example—the shorts barely covered my ass, and with a certain Blackwood employee around, that could be a problem. I was like Pavlov’s dog with Malachi’s freaking pheromones. Why had I called him? Stupid, stupid Imogen. Tomorrow night, I’d do the sensible thing and take a sleeping pill.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked as I stumbled out of my bedroom on Thursday morning. I’d expected Malachi to be long gone, but instead, he was on his knees in the spare room, brushing the worst of Svetlana’s mess into a dustpan.
“Cleaning up.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“My hours are flexible.” He nodded towards the living room, where his laptop was open on the coffee table. “I can catch up on paperwork from here. What about you? Do you have to work today?”
“I don’t know yet. I need to call Lisa.” She, Charlene, and Stef had held the fort while I’d been away, working extra hours and rearranging appointments. I’d spoken with her briefly to let her know I was home, and she assured me everything was under control if I needed some time off. But I preferred to be back at work. The salon was a sanctuary
, and I’d have company there. “I’ll probably go in this afternoon.”
“I’ll drive you. The coffee machine’s on, or I can go out and pick up breakfast if you want.”
“You don’t need to do all this.”
“I know I don’t need to, but I want to.”
If Malachi didn’t stop being so nice, it was me who’d be feeling guilty, not him.
“Imogen!” Jean-Luc held his arms open, a paper carrier bag in one outstretched hand. “I heard you had a terrible accident?”
I let him gather me up and sighed as I found my happy place. Well, one of them. When Malachi kissed me softly on the cheek outside the salon at lunchtime, I’d felt pretty damn happy as well.
“It wasn’t an accident,” I mumbled into Jean-Luc’s shoulder. “I got kidnapped.”
“Mon Dieu! But you escaped?”
“Sort of. I got rescued.”
“Thank goodness for the police. Here, I brought you mille-feuille with double chocolate icing. I know it’s your favourite.”
Oh, Jean-Luc. That was him all over—whenever I got down, he tried to cheer me up. While I was stuck on a grimy mattress in the back of Morton’s van with my hands and feet cuffed and bound and duct-taped together, I’d tried to distract myself by imagining my favourite indulgences. Jean-Luc’s pastries had been high on the list, behind the man himself and…Malachi.
Okay, I confess, I’d thought about Malachi more than I should have while I was trapped. A bad case of wanting what I couldn’t have? What I shouldn’t have? Jean-Luc was my dream man, so why, for the last week, had Malachi come to me every night while I slept?
Jean-Luc ticked all my boxes—kind, straightforward, easy on the eye. Jean-Luc was frothy cocoa on a cold winter’s evening. Malachi was fire. Unpredictable, deadly, and liable to burn me if I handled him wrong. The hot ones were always dangerous to a girl’s heart.
I took the bag of pastries. “You’re too sweet.”
“I thought we could eat them over coffee. Or dinner?”
Dinner? “Don’t you have to work tonight?”
