Shadows of the Past (3 page)

My gaze remains locked on his lips until the elevator dings. He looks away and pushes the gate open. When he steps out, he offers his hand. “Follow me.”

We walk down the hallway and stop at a set of double doors. He takes out his room key and touches it to the lock. The light flashes green, and we push inside.
 

“Oh, my God.”
 

I stop in the foyer. Yeah, it’s got a freaking foyer with walls that stretch up forever. Gold gilding, mirrors, moldings, and a massive bed make up the space in front of me. To the right, there’s a white marble bathroom with black accents and the biggest soaking tub I’ve ever seen. I blink at the chandeliers—they’re glittering from the bathroom and above the bed.

I walk inside a little bit more and stare at the huge bed. It has a taupe comforter that looks like raw silk with a matching canopy. The carved wood headboard and bedposts are massive and masculine. The soft glow of the chandeliers makes the room feel warm and intimate.

Hot Guy acts like it’s nothing, but I know this room is bigger than most flats in London. Hell, the bathroom is bigger than my bedroom.
 

I’m still hovering in the doorway, shocked. Either Hot Guy has money or he killed someone who did.
 

“How long are you going to be here?”

He turns toward me and the expression in his eyes makes me sorry I asked. “I’m not certain.” He walks over toward the bar and lifts a decanter. “Would you like a drink?” I nod and kick my heels off before walking over to him. He pours amber liquid into a crystal cup and hands it to me.
 

After pouring his drink, he turns to me and lifts his glass. “To a bit of luck on an unlucky day.”
 

We clink our glasses together and then drink. I swallow and the burn catches up with me, making my eyes water.
 

“Wow.”

“Yes, it’s something, isn’t it?”

I walk over and stand next to him, following his gaze. To the side, in the garbage is a black bottle with a name brand that I recognize from work. I blink rapidly and look at my empty glass and then back at the trash.
 

“Was that? Is that? Wuh?” I stutter and point at the bottle.

He understands me. With a sorrowful smile he nods. “Yes, it is and this bottle was just under ten thousand quid. I saved it for a special occasion that never came.”

The lost look in his eyes kills me. My stomach falls into my feet, and I stare out the window at the street below.
 

“I know how that feels.”

His gaze slides to the side as he looks at me. He smiles slightly then resumes his stance, staring outside.
 

“What’s with the look?”
 

He’s quiet for a moment, and then turns toward me to speak.

“Nothing, this is an anomaly, that’s all. I don’t typically do this, but when I do there’s non-stop talk about expenses and investments, about money and what it can do.”

Nodding, I say, “Everyone wants a piece of you.”

His gaze narrows and he takes my hand, turning me toward him. “Except you.” He studies me, watching my eyes as he asks, “You really don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

There’s no reply. Instead, he slowly lowers his mouth to mine. His hands travel down my bare arms and up to my shoulders before cupping my face. His kiss is slow and soft, building in pressure with each pass of his lips.
 

Heart racing hard, I hold onto his neck as he pushes me into the sideboard. The decanter is behind me. I break the kiss, worried about spilling the bottle. “Wait a second. The bottle.” I manage to tell him between kisses, but he doesn’t want to stop.

When my words penetrate, he pulls away. In a husky voice, he rasps, “You’re worried about breaking the bottle?”

“I don’t want to spill that. It cost a fortune.”
 

He nods and then lowers his eyes, letting his gaze ravage my body. Leaning in he whispers, “Then let me spill it all over your naked body and lick it off.” He watches my reaction closely, keeping that beautiful face on mine.

I feel heat rush to certain places when he says those words. I’m not sure what does it—his willingness to blow that much money on a stranger or the compassion in his eyes—but those few words push me over the edge. I know he’ll do it, and I can’t say it doesn’t sound fun. Grabbing his tie, I pull his mouth down on mine and kiss him hard. Butterflies erupt inside of me, fluttering through my stomach with every touch of his hand.

Before I know it, I’m up on the sideboard with my legs parted, allowing enough room for him to stand in the middle. His kisses drop from my mouth to my neck as his hands find the zipper on my dress.
 

He freezes for just a moment before letting my dress slip down. I haven't kissed anyone a long time, and I’m surprised I want more.

"Are you certain about this, love?" he asks, voice full of concern.
 

“Yes,” I take hold of his tie and pull him down, smashing our lips together. Heat rises through me, flooding my body in all the right places. The dress drops and suddenly there’s nothing between us from the waist up.

Hot Guy’s gaze drops and drinks me in. The way he looks at me makes my stomach twist. I yank the hem of his shirt free and run my hands up his sides. He sucks in and closes his eyes before tipping his head back.

It’s a rush of adrenaline, that’s all. There’s no other explanation for the effect I have on him or how his touch lights me on fire.
 

I trace my hand over his toned muscles and smooth skin, wishing his shirt was gone. I tug at the tie, freeing it from his neck and tossing it aside. I pull at his shirt, unbuttoning it as his lips work the spot on the side of my neck. His hands remain on my waist, which is driving me nuts. I wiggle, trying to get him to touch me, but he doesn’t.

Hungry for his touch, I find his hands and place them over my chest, letting him feel my curves. His hands are smooth and strong, gripping me softly, rubbing his thumb. His kisses have become ravenous as he trails his way down my neck with his lips.

I arch my back wanting him to free me. The images behind my eyes fight to be seen, but I’m close to sensation overload. It’ll chase the shadows away, and the nightmare will cease for now. I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting him to see.
 

Today it happened. My mind flashes back to the moment before we left for the hospital. Elation fills me, followed by dread.
 

My stomach flips when he touches me, pulling me from the memory. I gasp and finally get his shirt open. I rake my nails over his chest and pull his waist to my hips. Hot Guy lets out a wonderfully deep, sexy sound as he presses against me.

Tugging at his hair, I want more. In a breathy voice, I utter a word I haven’t said this way in years, “Please.” I want him to free me, to let me escape for a little while.

He presses his eyes closed and lowers his face that last little bit, which puts his lips right in front of my breast. Breathing hard, I watch my chest rise and fall, waiting for him to kiss me there.
 

Hot Guy leans in painfully slow, and just as his lips brush against my skin there’s a knock at the door. Startled, I jump back and slam my head into the wall behind me. The result is like cold water. He darts back and runs his hands through his hair. Breathing hard, he looks over his shoulder at me, conflicted.

I remain seated on top of the sideboard, unable to look away from him. My arms slowly come up to cover my chest as a second knock follows the first.

He turns and looks at his shirt on the floor, dips over and picks it up. He drapes it over my shoulders and pulls it shut in front. When he does so, I notice his hands are shaking although he tries to hide it.
 

“My apologies, but I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. I can’t do this.” He presses his lips together and turns toward the door. In a few long strides, he’s across the room, and no longer in sight. I hear the door open, but I can’t move. Shock holds me in place for a few seconds.

When the door closes, Hot Guy returns with a wicker basket filled with clothes. “I owe you an explanation—”

My shoulders come up to my ears, and I shiver. Slipping off the sideboard, I turn and toss him his shirt. “No, you really don’t.”

“I really do.”

I pull up my dress while he’s talking and yank up the zipper, mortified. “Think nothing of it.” As I dart passed him, he reaches for me, grabbing hold of my wrist. We both spin around and face each other. He’s breathing hard, shirtless, and beautiful—with pity in his eyes. “Don’t.” It’s one word, a command to stop.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

I grab my purse and then slip my shoes on one at a time. It feels like it’s taking me forever to get out the door. I want to cry, and I can’t let him see me. I keep my gaze on the carpet as I tug on my shoes. “You didn’t.”

Before he can say another word, I’m gone.

CHAPTER 4

Sleep eludes me. I spend most of the night regretting Mr. Sexy Pants, especially with the way things ended. His wife was probably at the door. God, I’m so stupid.
 

Needing to clear my head, I impatiently wait for Emily to leave the flat before heading out. I can’t face her. She’s going to want to know what happened and I can’t tell her he tossed me out on my butt after getting a peek at my boobs.
 

When I creep out of my room, she's still sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, engrossed in whatever she's reading on her tablet. There goes that idea. Trying for nonchalance, I walk through the room, grabbing my bag and a pair of sunglasses before heading for the door.

Just when I think I'm going to make it out of the flat without facing the inquisition, she clears her throat.
 

"Um, hullo?" Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I pray for patience before spinning around to watch her walk toward me. Emily is what you'd call a "classic" beauty--pale blonde hair, emerald green eyes, a ski jump nose, and a magical ability to appear polished in any outfit.
 

She's a few years older than me and works for an upscale cat boutique. No lie. It's the place posh young starlets and rich old ladies take their cats for pampering, grooming, and diamond collars.
 

I've only been in there once and trust me, once was all I needed. It's bad enough that I live in what looks like a crazy cat lady's flat. There’s cat crap everywhere.
 

Draped across the back of the sofa? A cat blanket. It’s even embroidered with a basket of kittens. The shelves are cluttered with cat figurines. On the wall, one of those creepy cat clocks--the kind where the huge eyes and the tail move back and forth--ticks off the seconds with rhythmic annoyance. It's enough to give the non-cat lover hives.
 

Fortunately for me, Emily is allergic to cats. I’m not sure which figurine would have eaten Hot Guy’s balls, but her threat sounded crazy enough. I brush away the thought, still uncertain why he asked me to go. I want to blame it on the knock at the door, but that couldn’t have been it. He had that cognac already in the decanter like he planned to celebrate something major. Maybe that’s what he was trying to forget.
 

"Hi."
 

She crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at me. "Hi? That's all you've got? After Mr. Dashing Man shags you, all I get is a ‘hi’? Reggie is going to be so disappointed."
 

Crap. “Reggie called?”

“Yeah, he wanted to know how you were doing. He thought you looked a little out of it at work. I told him I took you out last night and you’d be sooooo happy today.” She tips her head sideways, laughing as her blonde hair cascades over the side of the sofa.

Crap. Now Reggie knows too. Ugh. Emily is awesome but doesn’t understand my need for space. When I first moved to London, I knew no one, had no job prospects, and was barely able to afford a place to stay. I didn't have much money, so finding someone who was looking for a flatmate and wasn't charging a ton was important.

Lucky for me, Emily had an awesome place, paid for by her parents as a graduation gift, and she was practically charging peanuts to rent out the second bedroom. She was also dating my friend Reggie at the time. He helped me get the job at the hotel since I was his girlfriend's new flatmate and desperately needed the money. Not long after I moved in, Emily decided she preferred girls to boys and dropped Reggie.
 

"Tell me that you didn’t tell Reggie about the uh, shagging." I sound like a whiny teenager.

“What’s the matter, Kayla?” She straightens and looks at me, really seeing me this time.
 

The way she's looking at me makes me want to spill my guts, but I can’t. There’s already a long line of people wondering where I went. Running away from home was supposed to keep me from caring, but it was also supposed to keep people from caring about me. I don't want the heartache that comes with people caring about what happens to me. I only cause people pain.

I smile the biggest, fakest smile I can manage. “Nothing’s wrong,” I laugh and wave her off, pretending I’m fine. “He was hairy. You called it. It was like nailing a rug.”

“Gross!” She squeals and I take that second to run out the door. Hopefully, she won’t ask me anything else.

CHAPTER 5

There's a coffee shop down the street, so I duck in for a to-go cup before heading to Kensington Gardens. Four years in Europe and I still can't stand the taste of tea. Scones grew on me, though. I’m a scone girl now.

My stomach rumbles as the scent of fresh bread hits my nose. Oh man. I so want to stuff my face, but the park is calling and I need to haul ass to get in some exercise before work.
 

There’s something about the park that makes me forget everything. The path winds through grassy lawns and dogs run free, playing with their owners. I hold the cup with both hands, trying to warm my perpetually cold fingers, watching two young girls. A copper colored puppy sits patiently between them, his floppy brown ears twitching happily. They keep asking each other if they should take his leash off. After some debate, they finally let the dog go.