He doesn’t say it in an insulting way, more . . . like I’m a riddle to be figured out.
“But it’s all right. I’m here now—I’ve got you covered, lass.”
His smile is easy and shameless. And not for the first time, it makes me almost want to smile with him.
Almost.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tommy
ON ONE HAND, THE REPORT Stella and Amos compiled on Abigail Haddock was disappointing. It contained no filthy little secrets, no tales of wild naked exploits—or even better, photos—no clandestine memberships to BDSM clubs, or seedy nightclubs . . . or even a bloody knitting club. Abby’s as good as she appears—an ambitious, focused, studious girl—straitlaced to the point of strangulation.
On the other hand, her lack of illicit adventures just makes her even more tantalizing. Because nothing is more exciting than discovering sexy black lace hidden beneath bland, plain cotton. And Abby may not be the sort of girl who wears lace or leather now . . . but somewhere inside her, there’s a woman who wants to.
I wouldn’t know that if I hadn’t kissed her—but I did. So, lucky bastard that I am—I do. I sensed it in her that day, the rowdiness buried deep, just waiting to swim to the surface. And I saw it again at the hospital today—in how she bucked her superiors in tiny ways and gave small kindness to her patients when she wasn’t supposed to.
She’s a tightly shut door, who just needs the right key to pop her lock. In more ways than one.
And that key is me.
But slipping into snug locks is for another time.
At this moment, I’m standing in the front room of Abby’s third-floor flat after her shift at the hospital. I already know the layout of the place from the floor plan that was included in Amos and Stella’s report. The guard in me automatically scans for anything off or out of place—any sign of attempted entry. Her door is solid with a shiny steel deadbolt that hasn’t been tampered with, and the two large windows that face the street are locked up tight and undisturbed.
The human being in me looks around the room and thinks something else entirely.
“It’s so . . . beige.”
That wasn’t in the report.
But the walls, drapes, sofa, throw pillows are beige as far as the eye can see. Even the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line one wall and are filled with neat rows of thick textbooks are a painted taupe.
Abby turns towards the room, as if she’s just noticing it for the first time.
“Neutral tones are calming—clean.” She crosses her arms defensively. “I suppose you’re going to say that’s dull.”
“No, not dull.”
And then I grin.
“Lifeless. That’s the word I’d go with.”
Not that I was expecting a décor in a rainbow of fruit flavors, but something besides the color of condensed milk would be nice. And Abby herself is so vibrant—deep red hair, eyes the color of stormy seas, creamy skin, a hot pink flush and lips the shade of a rose in full bloom.
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.