Leave Me Breathless, Page 2

  Taking a seat on the opposite side of a booth from her, we sit like good little boys and wait for her to rip our balls off. After all, we deserve it. Or at least, I do. Jake’s got nothing to do with my momentary lapse in focus.

  Two minutes later, our handler’s still doing something on her phone, and Jake and I still have our balls. I look at Jake. Jake looks at me. I shrug. “Drink?” I ask her.

  Lucinda fires me a filthy glare, and there go my balls. “Don’t test me, Ryan,” she snaps. “You’ve already given me a fucking headache today.”

  I sit back, getting a safer distance away as I hear Jake laugh. “I only asked if you wanted a drink. Besides, who knows where that girl would be now. I had to act fast.”

  “What?” Lucinda says with a laugh. “By going on a rampage in the streets of London brandishing your firearm?”

  “I’m sure the official big-bods will be easy on you, since one of your men caught a man they’ve been tracking for years.” I smile sweetly, and she rips her fire stare from my wilting six-foot-three-inch form, holding her hand in the air for the attention of the barman.

  “Flat white,” she calls. And then silence falls, neither Jake nor I willing to fill it, as I spin my bottle slowly on the table.

  Lucinda eventually pushes a file across the table, and I look down at it. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Your next contract.”

  “Time off,” I remind her. “I’m going home for a few weeks.”

  “Home? It’s in the middle of nowhere.” She laughs. “Boring as shit. Two hundred residents, a few stores, a pub, and a school. Why the hell would you want to go back there? What will you do?”

  “That’s none of your damn business,” I spit, feeling Jake’s eyes fall onto my profile. He knows what I’ll do. And he’s the only one. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with one person. You tell them shit. “I’m going home, and that’s it,” I say with fierce finality, and Lucinda slumps back in her seat as her coffee lands on the table.

  With no thanks to the waiter, she pours in a healthy dose of milk, picks it up, and downs it in one fell swoop, never once taking her lethal glare off me. She can go to hell. I’m going home to Hampton and that’s it. She can find someone else to do the next contract. And at that very moment, she turns her eyes onto Jake.

  He immediately starts shaking his head. “Forget it. I have a baby due in a few weeks.”

  “It’s a two-week contract.”

  “Nope.” He swigs from his bottle of beer. “I promised Cami this was the last job.”

  “What if I told you I’ll kick your stupid arse into shape?”

  “You did that years ago. Now I’m more scared of Cami’s wrath than yours, so go to hell, Luce.” Jake toasts her on a sarcastic smile as she snorts her disgust. I find myself grinning. Lucinda loves Cami. Jake’s wife is the only woman on the planet our handler actually likes.

  “Guess you’ll have to find someone else,” I muse, clinking my bottle with Jake’s. “We’re out.” I watch as she inhales, her eyes narrowing to scary slits and slowly dragging onto me. My grin drops as she hands me another file. “What’s this?”

  “You said you’re going home for a few weeks. This is your job when you’re back in London. A nice, boring, low-risk one-man affair.”

  “You said Miss Warren was low-risk,” I point out as I stare at the paper file, my mind replaying the past hour. I wince as my heart pounds a little bit faster. Wince harder when I see Alexandra’s face in my mind’s eye. “I’m passing,” I declare, looking up at Lucinda. As I expected, her face is a picture of shock. “I’m taking a career break.”

  “What?”

  I can feel Jake’s stunned stare on me, too. “I’m done with this game,” I tell her. It doesn’t matter how careful I am. It’s been proven today that danger has an uncanny ability of finding me, and clearly my instinct to dance with it hasn’t left me. I’m aware this contract could have ended very differently.

  Lucinda’s nostrils flare as she withdraws the file. “I’ll call you when you’re thinking straight.” She gets up and stomps out of the bar, and I can still feel Jake’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask without looking at him.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious.” I take a swig of my beer.

  “What will you do?”

  “Work on my house. Maybe build a few more.” I shrug to myself. I’m good with my hands. Built my own place in the woods from scratch. I’ve always thought about buying some land and building a portfolio of properties. Now’s the time to do it. I’ve worked in some form of protection for nearly twenty years. I’m done.

  “Sounds kinda good,” Jake says as his phone rings and he answers. “Hey.” I can tell by the tone of his voice who it is, and I smile to myself. He’s a mean bastard at work, moody and difficult to read for most, but he’s mush when dealing with his wife and daughter. “No, you can’t be.” Jake’s arse is up from the chair fast. “Fuck, Cami, I’m on the other side of London. I’m having a beer. And it’s too fucking soon! We’re supposed to be going to the country place.”

  “Sorry.” I hear her breathe. “I’ll just tell this baby to hold off until Daddy’s finished his pint, shall I?” A few rushed pants. “The midwife is five minutes away.”

  “Fuck,” he curses, turning and running out of the pub.

  “Jake!” I yell, going after him, abandoning the two beers we very nearly got to finish. “Jake, wait.”

  “Cami’s in labor,” he yells over his shoulder, breaking out in a sprint across the road. “I’ve got to get home.”

  “I’ll drive you. You’ll get yourself killed the state you’re in.”

  He throws me an indignant look. “I’m fine.”

  “Your forehead disagrees.” I point up, and he reaches to wipe the sweat away. “Get in the truck. I’m a better driver than you, anyway.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I chuckle, falling into the driver’s seat. “Is someone with her?” I pull out of the space fast and zoom down the street, weaving in and out of the traffic.

  “A friend. Heather.” He goes straight to his phone, and a few seconds later he’s talking again. “I’m on my way. How is she?” Jake’s quiet for a few moments, and my attention splits between him and the road. The guy has always been tense, but he’s off the charts at the minute. “I should be half an hour, depending on traffic. Can she wait that long?”

  I take a sharp right and sail through a red light.

  “Make that twenty minutes,” Jake adds. “Put her on.”

  Another sharp corner, and Jake motions up ahead to another set of lights that are currently on amber. I take his hint and swerve around a few mopeds in front, putting my foot down.

  “Hey, angel,” he breathes, and I smile, the softness in his voice making my big body melt a little. “Ryan’s driving perfectly sensibly,” he assures her, turning his eyes onto me. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. Just breathe like we practiced, okay? You can do it. Where’s Charlotte?” His smile is epic as he listens to Cami. “Sounds like you’re in good hands.” He jumps in his seat as the sound of a monster scream fills the truck, and I look his way, eyes wide. “Focus on the road,” he grunts, putting his phone on speaker. The sound of Cami’s wail fades, and I hear her start panting.

  “Ooh, that was a sharp one,” she sighs.

  “Dad!” A little girl’s voice comes across the phone, sounding excited as opposed to anxious.

  “Hey, princess.” Jake’s tone has gone even softer, and his body virtually dissolves into the seat beside me. “You taking care of Cami for me?”

  “Yep. She’s sweating really bad, though. And she’s really red.”

  “She’ll be fine. I’ll be there as quick as I can, okay?”

  “You better hurry, Dad.”

  “I’m hurrying, princess.” He falls into the door when I skid around a corner, cursing when he hits his head on the glass. “Trust me, I’m hurrying. See you soon.” Jake clicks off the call and rubs at
his forehead, bracing his other hand on the dashboard. “Put your foot down, Ryan,” he mutters sarcastically just as I whiz past a fancy Ferrari, the driver flipping me the finger. I honk my horn in reply and focus on getting my mate to his wife before his baby arrives.

  I can’t claim Jake’s not without his own trauma by the time I pull up outside their house in West London, but I do know he won’t have missed the birth. Jake hops out after giving me his customary manly slap of appreciation on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”

  “Call me!” I yell as the door slams and he runs up the path. “And good luck, buddy,” I say to myself, watching him fall through his front door.

  I sit there for a few moments, idle by the curb, just reflecting on a few things in my own life. Not that there’s much to reflect on. Just one thing. I smile and pull away, ready to get my arse out of the shitty apartment I’ve been crashing in for too long and go home.

  Chapter Two

  HANNAH

  Bullets of amber lights dance across the dirt track before me, jumping as the wind rustles the canopy of trees above. I look up, squinting, letting the sound of the breeze in the treetops hypnotize me. The sway of the branches, the creak of old wood, the apricot glow trying to fight its way through the leaves. It’s all so damn perfect.

  It’s home. At least, it is for now.

  I edge toward the tip of the hill, pushing my bicycle along with my feet until the front wheel dips ever so slightly. Then, kicking my legs out to the sides, I throw my head back and let gravity take over, speeding down the hill with a laugh, the sounds of my delight echoing around the woods. The wind in my face is glorious, the whoosh of air passing me purifying.

  I’m approaching the bottom of the slope far quicker than I’d like, kicking up clouds of dust in my wake. The basket on the front of my bike jumps as the dirt road meets the paved section, sending a few of the raspberries I’ve picked catapulting into the air. “Oh shit.” One hits me square in the forehead, the ends of my head scarf whipping at my cheeks. I quickly pull it free, stuffing it in my pocket before the wind whisks it away.

  “Afternoon, Hannah,” Mrs. Hatt calls as I hurtle past her toward the small bridge that crosses the river toward town. Cats circle her feet as she walks down the brick path to the front door of her cottage, weighed down with shopping bags.

  “Afternoon!” I yell, quickly reclaiming the handlebars with both hands when I hit a divot, causing me to wobble. I lose some speed as I roll up the slight incline of the old stone bridge but regain it after breaching the summit. Passing the town church, I see Father Fitzroy in the small graveyard that circles the ancient building, dusting off the headstones with a broom. “Afternoon, Father.”

  He swings around, turning to follow me on my bike as I pass. “Afternoon, Miss Bright.” He holds up his broom before going back to his task.

  I’m forced to use my brakes when I approach a group of schoolchildren waiting to cross the road, and I slow to a stop, smiling as they’re herded to the other side by their teacher. “Afternoon,” she sings, pulling a stray child back into the line.

  “Hi.” I wave, laughing as the stray kid goes astray again. There are just ten kids, and that accounts for twenty percent of the school’s students. That’s what I love about this town. It’s small. It’s also cozy, friendly, and safe.

  As soon as the children are across, I push off and start pedaling leisurely once again toward the huge pond that marks the beginning of the high street. The pub is the first building on the left, followed by a row of small chocolate box cottages, and then a gas station at the end. And on the right, a row of shops, starting with the town store—which sells everything from milk to screwdrivers—and ending with a post office. And in between, Mrs. Heaven’s café and, finally, my shop. My gorgeous, cute little arts-and-crafts store.

  I roll to a stop outside and throw my leg over my bike, leaning it against a nearby lamppost, and stare up at the new sign that was recently installed. I smile.

  “There’s not much call for art around these parts, love,” someone says from behind, and I turn to find an old man with gray wiry hair and a long beard to match. His green-checkered shirt hangs out of his brown cords, his hands resting on the handles of a cart. He’s staring up at my shop’s new sign.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” I say, approaching him.

  “The name’s Cyrus.” He removes the toothpick from his mouth and points it at my shop. “I hope you’re not planning on making millions.”

  “Not millions,” I assure him. “Just enough to live on.” I’ll be okay for another year or two, but the money I left with is running low. So it’s time to start making some for myself.

  Cyrus eyes me, looking me up and down a few times. “You look like the creative type.”

  I laugh as I feel at my haphazard bun. “And what does the creative type look like?”

  “Messy.” Putting his stick back between his teeth, he pulls a broom from his cart and starts brushing at the pavement. I frown and look down at my dungarees, spotting a few blobs of paint. And then I pull at my white T-shirt. More paint spots. “It’s even on your flop-flips.” Cyrus chuckles, sliding his brush back into the cart and taking the handles.

  “You mean flip-flops?”

  “I mean what I mean.” He starts pushing his cart up the street, the wheels creaking as he goes, and I pull my red scarf from the pocket of my dungarees, reaching up to put it back on, tying a big bow tightly on top.

  “Hey, Mrs. Heaven,” I call when I see her come out of her café.

  “Hello, Hannah.” She follows me into my store. “I brought you a muffin.”

  “You’ll make me fat,” I say as she hands it to me, and I take a bite, moaning a little. Mrs. Heaven’s blueberry muffins really are heaven.

  She chuckles and wipes her hands down her apron. “You could do with a bit of meat on those bones of yours.”

  “Are you kidding?” I say through my mouthful. I’m the curviest I’ve ever been. Long gone are my days of watching what I eat. Or being told what I can eat.

  “A few pounds won’t hurt you.” She winks on an impish grin. “How are you settling in?”

  I wander over to the last of my boxes of stock and pick the edge of the tape. “Great, thank you. Only a few more boxes to unpack before I officially open.” I get on with pulling out the brushes, slipping them into pots on the nearby shelf in order of size and type.

  “How exciting for you, Hannah,” she chirps. “I’ll be sure to tell all my friends about your work.” Mrs. Heaven walks the length of one wall, where many of my landscape paintings hang. “Such a talented young lady. Have you always painted?”

  I step down off the stool. “Yes,” I say, because it’s the easiest answer to give.

  She hums, cocking her head from one side to the other. “I love this one.”

  I make my way around the cashier desk as she studies my latest creation, an oil on canvas of a nearby valley that I painted last week. “It would look lovely on the wall of your café,” I hint, not so subtly.

  “Well, when I have some spare cash, I might buy it from you.”

  “I’ll do you a special deal,” I say as I follow her to the door and open it for her. She chuckles as she chucks my cheek. She’s always chuckling or smiling. She’s the sweetest lady. “See you later, Mrs. Heaven.”

  “Bye-bye, Hannah.”

  I head out into the sunshine with her and tuck my hands into my pockets, watching as she dips and collects up a candy wrapper. “I don’t know,” she sighs, dropping it in a nearby bin. “Why do people insist on littering our lovely little town?”

  She’s right. It truly is a lovely town. It’s almost a shame I can’t stay here forever. I breathe in the clean spring air and wedge the door open, then get back to unpacking.

  * * *

  By five o’clock, I’m done, and I stand gazing at the splashes of color on every available space. It’s cluttered, a charming kind of messy, just as planned. Just how I always drea
med my own art store would be. “Perfect.”

  With celebrating my achievement in mind, I lock the store door and head to the kitchenette to collect the bottle of wine I bought earlier, before I go upstairs to my apartment and chill out. Pulling open the mini fridge, I seize the bottle of cheap white…and nearly drop the damn thing when a loud crash has me jumping out of my skin.

  I whirl around. What was that? “Hello?” I call, blindly placing my bottle of wine on a nearby counter. No one answers, and I damn my pulse for thumping so hard. Edging toward the doorway that leads back into the shop, I swallow and gingerly peek around the corner.

  No one.

  I pass the cashier desk, scanning every corner of my store, and stop moving when I see a pile of mini paint pots scattered across the floor, fallen from the shelf I just meticulously stacked. “Shit!” My hand shoots out toward the wall, knocking a painting askew, my heart stopping in my chest.

  Meow.

  “Jesus,” I breathe as a monster tabby cat jumps onto the display table in the center of the store, knocking a few pots of brushes over. The clatters mingle with the pounding of blood in my ears, and I stagger back, my hand resting over my pumping heart. “Just a cat. It’s just a cat.” I force my muscles to relax while I repeat the mantra over and over out loud. “Where did you come from?” I exhale, just as an almighty bang sounds behind me.

  I’m jumping out of my bloody skin again, more pots of brushes toppling on the table as the cat, obviously startled, too, jumps off and darts toward the door. I look across and see a woman on the other side, peeking in, her hand on the handle.

  I’m safe, I tell myself. No one knows I’m here. No one knows I’m anywhere.

  I hurry over and open the door for her, at the same time letting the huge tabby cat out. “Hi,” I say as both our gazes follow the speedy getaway of the cat.

  “Sorry, did I frighten you?”

  I laugh under my breath as I turn and dip to collect up the brushes scattered all over the floor. “The cat scared me more than you did,” I say, scolding myself again for being so unreasonably jumpy.