Читать книгу In His Sights - Danica Winters - Страница 14

The Lyft driver hadn’t spoken to them, which was just fine by Mindy. She hated the formality and awkwardness that came with forced small talk with a single-serving stranger. It wasn’t that she wasn’t nice or didn’t want to be kind to others; it was just that with everything in her own life, giving any more emotionally—even ten minutes to a stranger—threatened what little control she had left. She was so tired.

As they arrived at her Upper West Side brownstone, Jarrod got out and walked around to her side, opening the car door for her. The gesture was as welcome as it was unexpected. It was a rare New York man who still had manners, or perhaps it was just that the prep-school kind of men she dated had let manners fall by the wayside. Maybe this man could finally bring a bit more civility and old-world charm into her life.

“Thanks,” she said, holding her hospital gowns in place like they were a Givenchy cocktail dress instead of the blue checkered fabric that had been worn by countless others.

She couldn’t wait to take a shower. Yet, if she left him alone in her apartment, she would be the one devoid of manners. Assuming that he was coming in. He probably had better places to be, including reporting back to his Swedish bosses.

“You are welcome, ma’am.”

Oh no, he didn’t… Old-world charm be damned.

“Ma’am? Really?” she asked, raising a brow. “What am I, eighty?”

He laughed, the sound rich and baritone, as strong and virile as the man it belonged to. “I’m sorry, I guess my upbringing is showing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She didn’t believe that for a second. Maybe he hadn’t meant to call her old, but he had meant to imply that she had the upper hand in whatever social hierarchy lay between them. On one hand, the feminist in her loved the idea of holding the power, but on the other, if they were to become anything more than friends… Well, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would be willing to have the woman in the driver’s seat. But he had yet prove he was the man she assumed he was.

She fished in the hospital’s plastic bag until she found her keys. “You’re fine.”

None of what she thought or felt about the man really even mattered. This was nothing, just a man being chivalrous after a near-death experience. She couldn’t project some kind of hero fantasy on him. He barely even seemed interested in her.

“I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to see me home,” she said, unsure whether or not she should ask him in or let him go.

The thought of being alone made her hands shake, and she struggled to put the key into the lock.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he said, taking the keys and unlocking the door.

Damn.

She hated being this weak in front of a man like him. Her confidence was her armor, and up until the moment she’d met Jarrod, it had been seemingly impenetrable. Now here she was, so far away from her safe emotional space.

Yep, he had to go.

Still, she hated the thought of being alone.

If she had been the target of the attack, for all she knew, there could be someone waiting just behind these doors. The thought made chills tumble down her spine.

She had to be confident. She had to be strong. She had to let him leave and walk through the door alone. It was the only way she could fall back into her normal life.

“Do you mind if I use your restroom?” he asked.

Ugh. There went her mantra and any measure of self-control she had left. She could hardly let him stand out here on her stoop, but letting him in now wouldn’t be just good manners—she would be letting him into her life.

“Go for it,” she said, slipping off her Hermès flats, the only piece of clothing the hospital hadn’t cut her out of. She pitched them into the garbage pail inside the coat closet.

He watched her with curiosity as she closed the closet door. “You know, your shoes are probably fine to keep. Whatever they used on us, it’s worn off by now.”

“It’s all right,” she said with a shrug.

“They looked expensive.”

They had been, but it didn’t matter. If she kept them she would think of the attack every time she put them on. She would already have to pass by the street corner every time she went to her office. She didn’t need any more triggers—at least none beyond the man who stood in front of her.

“It’s okay, I have another pair just like them.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she wasn’t ready to completely open up to him. “If you’d like, you are welcome to use the shower upstairs. We can call out and get you some new clothes, as well.” She looked him up and down, trying to estimate what size he wore, but a flirtatious expression forced her eyes away.

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great. You’d save me from going back to my hotel room in a hospital gown. Did you see the way the Lyft driver looked at me when he came to pick us up?” He chuckled.

“We really did look like two escapees, didn’t we?” She waved down at her gown. “This is one look that I’m happy to see go. In fact, I may take a shower in my en suite when you take yours.”

He raised a brow. “How big is this place?” He stepped into the living room, and his gaze moved to the original Picasso that hung over the mantel.

She’d always loved that piece, a bit of surrealism in a traditional world. In a way it reminded her of herself, a woman working in a man’s world. Sure, it wasn’t unheard-of to have a woman hold a seat on a board, but a woman at the seat of a gun manufacturer’s board was unusual.

She shrugged. “Big enough?” She gave him a half grin in an attempt to downplay her elaborate dwelling.

“Is that a real Picasso?” he asked, pointing at the colorful painting.

She nodded. “He was a friend of the family’s in the 1930s. He made it specifically for my great-grandfather, but he never particularly liked it so it sat in storage for years until I took over the place.”

Jarrod walked across the room, staring at the painting. “Beautiful.” He looked back at her. “Why don’t you have security staff?”

The thought of hiring security had crossed her mind many times, but she rarely spent enough time here to concern herself. She’d have to start looking into changing things. “I’m new to living completely in the public eye and drawing all the scrutiny that comes with it. My father was the former CEO for Heinrich & Kohl. That is, until he passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your father’s death. From what I’ve heard, he was a good man.”

She was surprised that, working for the Swedes, he had heard even a single good word about her father. “So, you know about my family?”

“A little bit, but not much. Just what I could glean from the meetings I’ve attended.”

She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be vague or if he really didn’t know much about her. Either way, it was strangely endearing. “What do you do for the Riksdag?”

“I don’t work for them,” he said, all of his attention back on the painting.

“Okay, so who do you work for?” She walked over to her white couch and sat down, arranging her gown to cover her knees.

He turned to her, and his gaze dropped to her hands. She covered her naked ring finger with her other hand, his simple action making her feel almost naked…and vulnerable.

“I work where I’m needed and when I’m called upon.”

“That sounds dangerous.” And sexy as hell. “If you tell me, would you have to kill me?” she teased, but from the tense look on his face the joke had fallen flat.

He was silent for a moment too long. “Let’s just say I’m a man who understands the value in keeping a personal life sacrosanct.”

Maybe they had more in common than she had initially thought.

“You’re naive if you think that you’re safe,” he continued.

She felt her hackles rise. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

“I didn’t mean any offense,” he said, raising his hand and motioning her to stop. “I was just saying that I don’t think I should leave you here alone. At least not until the NYPD and the FBI get their hands on whoever was behind the attack.”

“I’ll hire people,” she said, trying to gain control over her anger. Whether or not he had meant it, it had still hurt. She didn’t need anyone telling her that she was stupid.

“I’m sorry again,” he said, sitting down beside her on the couch. “I really didn’t mean it like that. Please forgive me.” He looked her straight in the eyes and took her hands in his.

Sweat rose on her skin as she stared into his bottomless blue eyes. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen eyes that exact shade before. They reminded her of the color of the deepest ocean, and it seemed that they held just as many mysteries.

But she couldn’t forget who she was or change for any man, no matter how handsome. “I don’t appreciate being put down. Ever. I know it was unintentional, but don’t think that you can talk to me that way.”

He looked contrite, bowing his head. “I know. I made a mistake. I just… Well, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

What bothered her the most was that he was right in his castigation of her. It had been naive of her to think that she was safe on her own here. She had chosen this place, without a doorman, living a life halfway between obscene wealth and a recent college grad. Her brother had warned her that this day would come, the day when things would change and she would have to start really taking her life and safety into consideration. With a business like theirs, it was only a matter of time until they were on the receiving end of the guns they made. They worked in a volatile business, one full of secrets, underhanded deals and political warfare.

Until now, she had thought they had done a pretty good job of staying out of it.

When it came to dealing with corruption, it was best to walk away—no amount of money was worth dying for.

“I appreciate your apology.” She paused, studying his thick, wavy hair. “It’s too bad you’re working for someone else, or else I’d think about bringing you on as my chief security advisor.”

He jerked, looking up at her.

As his gaze pierced through her, she wished she hadn’t spoken so fast although she had meant what she said. He would be a valuable asset to her life, especially when it came to her well-being and safety. She wasn’t sure that he would be as sound an addition when it came to her heart. Though she was almost certain she could trust him, she wasn’t sure she could trust herself.

“I—” he said.

“The shower is upstairs, third door on your left,” she said, intentionally interrupting him, fearing what he was about to say.

“Oh, okay,” he said, some of the tension leaching from his voice.

“Towels are in the linen closet in the restroom.” She motioned toward the stairs, afraid that if she spent one more moment alone with him she would say something else that would bring him even deeper into her life.

He nodded and silently made his way out of the living room and up the stairs. His footfalls echoed on the marble steps, their sad sound cascading down upon her. As the sound quieted, she exhaled long and hard. She needed to get a grip on herself.

She sat down on her couch, picked up her landline telephone and dialed her brother. Daniel’s phone went straight to voice mail. “Hey, Danny, I hope everything is going well in DC. Things up here… Well, give me a call when you can.” There was a crack in her voice as she spoke. No doubt Daniel would pick right up on it and be worried. “I’m fine, everything is fine, but I hope Anya’s okay. Just call.”

Ugh.

That wasn’t how she had anticipated that going. Once he got her message, she would have to talk him down off a cliff. He’d always been the worrying type. She hung up the phone, half expecting to get a call from him, but nothing came.

She waited for a moment before ascending the stairs to the third floor and to her bedroom. It was just as it had been yesterday, understated but tasteful. She could still pick up the scent of her Mademoiselle perfume as she entered the bathroom.

It was as if nothing had happened.

A towel hung on the hook next to a clean washcloth and bathrobe. The cleaning lady must have come, and all had been replaced and freshened. In fact, the only thing out of place in the entire house was her.

She pulled off her hospital gowns and tossed them in the bin as she turned on the shower and waited for it to warm. Steam began to rise around her as she stood examining herself in the mirror. For all intents and purposes, she seemed the same. Same eyes, same nose, same cheeks, but nothing felt the same. In one moment everything had changed.

She wasn’t entirely sure if it was because of the attack or because of the strange feelings she was experiencing with Jarrod.

It was though she were drawn to him by some invisible force. The words that came out of her mouth even worked to pull him closer. At the same time, all she wanted to do was push him away.

She wrapped a towel around her body and made her way out to her closet. Surveying the racks of clothes, she wasn’t sure whether she should go with business attire, or leggings and sweatshirt. Whatever she wore, it would send a message to him, but what she wanted to do was put on comfortable clothes and binge-watch Netflix all day.

She grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. A happy medium, for them both.

As she reached into her drawer of undergarments, a draft brushed against her bare shoulders. She started to turn, but a hand wrapped around her neck.

She dropped her clothes. “What in the—”

“Shut up, dammit.” A man’s hot breath wafted against her skin.

She tried to turn around, but as she struggled, the man’s hand tightened. Reaching to her left, she grabbed her Manolo stiletto.

“You can thank your boyfriend for this.” His accent was thick, guttural.

“Who are you?”

The tip of a knife pressed into her side. And his hand loosened slightly.

She stole the moment. Raising the shoe, she slammed it down as hard as she could into the man’s thigh. She rolled out of his grasp, grabbing her other shoe as he dropped to his knee in pain. He yelled, something in a foreign language she couldn’t understand but was sure was a string of expletives.

The man struggled to stand up, limping on his good leg, slashing at her with the knife. She pressed back into her closet as blood poured down the man’s leg. She had hit him perfectly in the inner thigh.

“Don’t come any closer,” she yelled. “Jarrod is coming. He’s here. He’ll kill you. Jarrod!”

The man lunged at her with the knife. She watched his eyes darken and his shoulders move toward her. His breath froze as the knife in his hand moved immeasurably slowly and the world stopped around them. She held the shoe high and bore it down. The heel pierced the soft, pudgy flesh of the man’s neck.

Blood pulsed from the hole she’d left as she drew the shoe back and slammed it down again.

The man fell as the red fountain sprayed from him, coating the clothes to her right. In a few beats, it slowed. The pool of crimson blood grew around him, staining the faux fur area rug that adorned the closet floor.

She stared at the shoe that was protruding from the man’s neck. The swooping swan-style jewels on the shoe were covered in tiny drops of blood.

Dang.

She’d always loved those shoes, even though they were too narrow and had done nothing but sit in her closet since the day she’d bought them.

At least she had finally gotten her money’s worth.

No matter what—or who—was to come, she couldn’t be taken by surprise again.