Dirty Charmer

by Emma Chase

  Her pretty frown makes an appearance.

  “My flat is not lifeless.”

  I glance around, confirming another detail Amos and Stella dug up.

  “You don’t own a television.”

  Abby shrugs. “Television is junk food for the brain.”

  “What do you do for fun? When you want to kick back and relax?”

  “I read.”

  My sister Bridget reads. Romance novels covered with bare-chested blokes and sultry-eyed, shapely women. I flipped through one once—and if that’s the type of literature Abby enjoys, I wholeheartedly approve.

  I wonder if she’s into role-play? It’s not like we’d have to play very far—I already have the profession for it, the accent . . . and the handcuffs. It practically writes itself.

  “What do you read?”

  “Medical journals. Articles about new procedures and surgical techniques.”

  And it’s a swing and a miss for the dirty role-play hopes.

  I scratch my forehead. “Your idea of a good time is reading about cutting people open?”

  She thinks it over, toddling her head to and fro.

  “I guess you could put it like that, yes.”

  I take one large, deliberate step back from her, raising my hands in mock submission.

  “All right then, Jackie the Ripper—I’m going to do a sweep of the rest of your place. You can wait here . . . and don’t make any sudden moves.”

  That gets me a quick snort of a laugh and an effervescent smile.

  And I feel like the king of the world.

  * * *

  After I sweep her flat, Abby goes into the bedroom and emerges a few minutes later wearing velvet gray lounge trousers and a snug navy tank top that I imagine peeling off her with my teeth.

  Over her arm she carries a massive poof of fuzzy white fleece that at first look seems to be a blanket. But when she slips her arms through it, I see it’s actually a robe. An immense, gigantic robe three times her size, tied tight in the front, that makes her look like a stuffed, redheaded teddy bear.

  I wonder if she’s wearing it for my benefit or if she just likes walking around in a cocoon.

  Abby sets herself a rather formal place setting at the dining table—fabric napkin, sterling silver forks and knives—all carefully placed in the proper order. In the kitchen, she heats a premade plate of bland fish and vegetables, with a dry salad on the side. And to wash it all down, after a long, hard day . . . water.

  With no ice.

  Christ, this girl needs to loosen up. It’s fucking heartbreaking.

  She’s in the prime of her life—beautiful, obviously brilliant—and she spends her nights alone, eating food like a granny who needs to mind her dentures, without even background noise for company.

  I was raised a strict Catholic, but more than that, I believe in God—those two are not always mutually exclusive. I believe God has a plan for all of us, a purpose. And now, more than ever, standing in this dreary flat, watching this stunning girl eat her sad, lonely little meal—I believe God wants me to screw some joy into Abby Haddock’s life.

  Lucky for me, the Almighty’s desires coincide with my own.

  And I’m more than up to the task.

  A gentle quiet settles over the room as Abby eats her dinner, save for the occasional hushed scrape of her flatware. Some clients struggle with personal security—it makes them uncomfortable having someone present who’s all up in their business all the time. But I don’t sense any awkwardness now. Because Abby was raised amongst servants—and because I think she’s accustomed to the quiet. To being alone.

  “Are you hungry, Mr. Sullivan?” she asks shyly—like she was debating if she should pose the question. “My personal chef, Miles, prepares my meals several times a week. There’s plenty to eat if you’d like some.”

  She’s being polite. Because she’s stuffy in every sense of the word . . . but not rude. There’s a natural friendliness to her that, for some reason I haven’t figured out yet, she tries so very hard to suppress.

  “It’s nice of you to ask. But I’m good.”

  I’d like to share a pint with her—or a bottle of anything—wine, whiskey, champagne. I bet piss-drunk Abby would be hilariously adorable. I’d love to see her take a swig straight from the bottle—loose and laughing and lovely. And I make a promise to myself that I’ll make that happen . . . but it won’t be tonight.

  I hear Bea’s approaching footsteps out in the hall before she knocks on the door. Abby follows behind me as I move to answer it, and Bea walks in wearing the standard uniform—dark trousers, dark blue blouse and her own personal touch—black combat boots.

  I make the introductions and Abby holds out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bea.”

  “Why is she a pleasure?” I complain. “I’m so much more of a pleasure than she is.” I give her a wink. “I’ll have to work harder at making our time together more pleasurable for you—I have a few ideas.”

  Abby shakes her head. “And there you go being professional again.”

  Bea jerks her thumb in my direction, telling Abby, “Professional bodyguard and a professional charmer, this one—don’t take anything he says seriously.”

  Abby’s glittering green eyes meet mine—almost playfully, and her lips tease the hint of a smile.

  “That makes so much sense.”

  Then Bea amends her statement.

  “Unless he tells you to get down or run or don’t move—that sort of thing. Then you should definitely listen to him.”

  I don’t take my eyes from Abby’s because . . . well . . . she’s just damn nice to look at. And it’s even nicer when she’s looking back at me.

  “Much appreciated, Bea.”

  “Always trying to help, Tommy.”

  Abby squares her shoulders and straightens her robe, even though it didn’t need straightening. “Well, good night then, Mr. Sullivan.”

  I dip my chin and soften my voice. “Sweet dreams, Abby.”

  * * *

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  Abby Haddock rides a bicycle.

  “Not in the least.”

  A ridiculous bicycle—bright yellow with a light and a wicker basket in front and a silver bell attached to one handlebar—that she wants to ride to the hospital.

  “It doesn’t seem very sensible.”

  I discover this the next morning when I relieve Bea of duty outside Abby’s building.

  “It’s perfectly sensible. We each need to do our part to help the environment—too many cars will be the death of us all. Also, surgical residency involves insanely long hours; I have to squeeze in rigorous physical activity where I can.”

  She completely set herself up for that one—I just can’t resist.

  “I know some rigorous physical activities that are a hell of a lot more fun than riding a bike.”

  When that doesn’t get a reaction, I lean forward, whispering. “I’m talking about fucking. The really good, sweaty kind.”

  It’s all good—long, hard, sweet or sweaty—any which way will do.

  Flirting is fun. Teasing is foreplay. And playing with Abby like this—making her laugh and blush and frown—is all part of warming her up and breaking her down. How I’ll enchant her and charm her and show her what an irresistible man I am.

  So when the night comes that she’s not a client and I’m no longer on the clock—we’re locked and loaded and rearing to go.

  The corners of Abby’s mouth quirk and I even get an eye roll. Nice.

  “I’m aware of that, yes, thank you.”

  I lean back. “Just making sure.”

  “But we really must leave now if we’re going to be punctual,” Abby insists.

  I tilt my head up to the still-dark sky, squinting into the misty drizzle and coming back with a face full of wet.

  “It’s raining.”

  Without a word, but still defiantly, Abby reaches back and pulls the hood of her perfectly practical
brown poncho over her head. Then she tugs on the ties, knotting it tightly under her chin.

  And a chuckle rolls up my throat.

  Because she looks damn adorable—in her scrubs and rubber rain boots, with the snug hood highlighting her lovely face and lush lips, and the feisty challenge in her eyes.

  I want to kiss the daylights out of her.

  Right here on the wet pavement. I want to kiss her mouth while she moans into mine, and bite her neck, and whisper hot, dirty nothings in her ear until she’s soft and pliant and clinging to me.

  But no matter how stupendous of an idea that is and no matter how much I want to . . . now’s not the time. Sometimes vows are a real pain in the arse—and the balls.

  “You realize, it’d be more sensible to ride your bicycle when your family isn’t potentially under a threat of harm?”

  “But that’s what I have you for. Unless you don’t feel you’re up to the task? I thought you’d jog along beside me the whole way, but maybe you don’t have the stamina?”

  I lift an eyebrow.

  “Attacking my manhood? Cheeky.”

  She shrugs one shoulder.

  “Whatever works.”

  I nod. “I respect that.”

  I mentally go through the route from here to the hospital.

  “All right. But we stay away from the populated areas along the way. Follow me.”

  Abby holds up her hand, shaking her head.

  “Out of the question. I ride the exact same route each time.”

  “Why?”

  She gazes up into my face. “I know every pothole on the way, every bump in the road. There are no mishaps, because I know to avoid them. I know exactly what time we’ll arrive at the hospital. Riding the same route helps to begin my day on the right foot.”

  “So it’s like a superstitious thing?” I wonder.

  “It’s a repetition thing. Consistency. Routine breeds excellence.”

  I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck.

  “All right, we’ll take your route.” I jab a finger in her direction. “But . . . if we do get ambushed, after I heroically save your life . . . I’m definitely telling you I told you so.”

  Abby swings one leg over her bike, looking extremely pleased with herself.

  “Noted.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Abby

  “YOU REALLY WEREN’T JOKING WHEN you said you didn’t have time for dinner . . . or screwing, were you?”

  For the last week that Tommy Sullivan has been guarding me, he’s had a front-row seat to the demanding, one-day-runs-straight-into-the-next existence of a surgical resident.

  Ding

  His mobile pings with an incoming message.

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  I’ve felt his eyes on me, following me, as I attended rounds, treated patients, spoke with supervisors, viewed surgeries in the observation suite and scrubbed in. He watched me run a jugular venous catheter in the emergency room, and later as I assisted in the delicate removal of a pipe impaled through a man’s chest that somehow missed any internal organs or arteries—a fascinating case.

  His mobile pings again.

  And he’s watching me now. His eyes heated with interest, at my flat, as I’m hunched over my dining table, beneath a bright spot lamp, snipping and suturing.

  “What the hell are you doing again?” he asks.

  I look up, momentarily distracted by the rich warmth of his voice.

  “Practicing.”

  His expression turns distasteful.

  “On chicken’s feet?”

  “Yes. The tendons in chicken’s feet are challenging to get to, but once you do, their consistency is very similar to humans’.”

  He snorts. “If my mum were here, she’d make soup out of that. What else do you practice on?”

  “Oh, let’s see—grapes, oranges, drumsticks, hogs—cadavers are best, but they don’t let us take them home.”

  He grins. “But I bet you would if you could.”

  I glance towards my kitchen, perfectly serious. “If I had freezer space for it, absolutely.”

  He laughs then—full throated and amused.

  “You are an odd bird, Abigail Haddock.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Ding goes his mobile once more.

  “It doesn’t seem like you were joking either—when you said you were quite busy. I imagine running your own business and still working in the field yourself is time consuming.”

  “It is.” He nods, glancing with a furrowed brow at his mobile screen.

  Ding

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  “Yeah—sorry—it’s the Realtor for a flat I’ve been interested in. She says if I want to take a look at it, it’s now or never.” He slips his mobile in his trouser pocket. “But it’ll have to be never.”

  Bea isn’t scheduled for her shift for another few hours.

  I take a deep breath and rub the back of my aching neck. And for reasons I couldn’t articulate if I had to, I offer, “We could go look at it now, if you like? I mean . . . I could go with you.”

  He narrows his eyes. “It’s not your concern—and you’re practicing—I wouldn’t want to get between you and your chicken’s feet.”

  “No, it’s fine—truly.” I switch off the lamp. “I can do with some fresh air—and a break.”

  The smile he gives me is warm and grateful. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

  And though it’s just a small thing—the change in my routine, the newness of going to a different place, with this man beside me—it feels like an adventure.

  * * *

  Tommy Sullivan’s prospective flat is located on the other side of town, near the river, a few miles from my building. I wouldn’t consider it a “bad” part of town, but it’s noticeably older, slightly more run-down than my area. We take his car and though there’s no odor, I scowl fiercely at the pack of cigarettes and lighter nestled in the center console.

  When we pull up to the building, I want to grab them and toss them in the bin—but I don’t think I can manage it without him catching me in the act.

  The Realtor is a bristly, brusque woman with dark hair pulled up into an overly tightened bun. She unlocks the door to the fourth-floor flat, ushering us in and rattling off the amenities.

  “Just a block from the tube station, oak floors throughout, new kitchen appliances, two bedrooms, two full baths. Plenty of space for a couple . . .” she glances at me “. . . or a growing family.”

  A moment later, she excuses herself to take a call in the hallway, closing the door behind her.

  Leaving just the two of us. Alone.

  The front room is bare, lampless, and the newly polished floors give off a pleasant, earthy wood-oil scent. The moonlight coming from the large windows that line the rear wall casts everything in soft shadows and gray hues. The streets below are unusually quiet, and it feels isolated, but not in an uncomfortable way. More . . . intimate. Secluded. Like Tommy Sullivan and I could be the only two people in the whole world.

  Silently, we walk through the rooms, passing the kitchen with an overhead light above the stainless-steel sink. Until we end up in the back room—the master bedroom.

  Sarcasm isn’t my forte, but I give it a go now, gesturing to the painted walls. “Would you look at that . . . beige. Must be a popular color.”

  “Your favorite,” he concedes.

  “It’s a very nice place,” I say.

  “It is.” He nods, then leans back against the wall beside the bedroom door, crossing his arms, watching me.

  My shoes click on the floor as I drift around, seeing what it could be in my mind.

  “You could put a standing mirror in the corner, here. And there’s room for a bureau there. And a television here on the wall, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  He chuckles and the sound strikes the strangest chord in me. I’m not a naturally jovial person and I don’t make people laugh—but I seem to amuse him often an
d without even trying.

  “Such a planner you are.”

  I move to the wall opposite the windows, closer to the corner where he stands.

  “The bed would go here, I think.”

  He hums in agreement. And I’m close enough to see his eyes now—trained on me—golden brown and heated. Like he’s imagining it all in the most vivid detail—the bureau, the bed . . .

  “It would be a large bed,” he says in that soft, decadent tone. “I like room . . . to move.”

  There’s nothing overtly inappropriate about the words, but the way he says them—the tone of his voice, the shape of his mouth—makes the skin of my chest go warm and flushed.

  Because now I’m doing it too—imagining how Tommy Sullivan would move in his very large bed. What he would look like with the moonlight caressing the ripples and ridges of his arms, his back—and lower. How it would feel to move with him.

  My voice has a breathy, hazy air to it. “That sounds about right.”

  I swallow, pulling my gaze from his to the window.

  “Oh, look! You can see the hospital from here.”

  I move across the room, bracing my hands on the light wood windowsill, gazing at the tall rectangular building dotted with bright, white-lit windows.

  “That’s the surgical floor,” I say, pointing, “the fifth one down from the top. That corner window there is just outside Operating Room C—the largest operating room. It’s used for procedures that require multiple teams like transplants or especially risky procedures. They separated conjoined twins there two years back.”

  “You really love it, don’t you?”

  He’s next to me now, his arm just a breath away from mine.

  “Surgery?” I smile without even thinking. “Oh yes. The human body is a miraculous thing. Infinitely fascinating.”

  His gaze drags slowly down over me.

  “Some bodies are more fascinating than others.”

  I allow myself to do some looking of my own. Letting my eyes graze along the swell of his biceps prominent beneath his dark gray suit jacket, the broad expanse of his chest, the tapering of his waist and hips that lead down to sturdy, powerful legs—and everything in between.