Perfect Strangers

I laugh nervously. “Like I should get back to New York right away.”

“Because?”

Uh-oh. That sounded murderous. I should change the subject. “Ugh. Because he’s an idiot. Forget I said anything.”

There’s a long, hard silence. “Did he threaten you?”

“No!” I pause. “I mean, not the way you mean it.”

The sound of teeth grinding together comes over the phone. “I’m tearing out my fucking hair over here.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want you to worry.”

“Too late. If you don’t tell me everything, I’m on the next plane back to Paris.”

What’s changed so much about me lately that I’ve now got men flying all over the world in a panic to fling themselves bodily onto my doorstep? “That’s not necessary.”

“It will be if you don’t start talking.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, the golden chain dangling over my thighs. “He said if I wasn’t back in New York in twenty-four hours, he’d arrange for someone to make sure that happened.”

Without missing a beat, James snaps, “Get out of that apartment! Now!”

Opening my eyes, I frown at the wall. “Excuse me?”

“Go to my place. It’s unit 912. There’s a keypad on the wall next to the door. Type in your name backward and it will open.”

Type in my name backward and his door will open. Like my mouth is open. Like the top of my head is open, because it just exploded. “What?”

“Do it. Pack your bags and get out. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Get over to my apartment—right fucking now—and wait for me there.”

The line disconnects.

Stunned, I stare at the phone in my hand. My heart starts to pound. Anxiety sizzles through me. Looking at the blank screen, I say, “Call James!”

When I put the phone back to my ear, it’s ringing. He picks up and growls, “Goddammit, woman—”

“You don’t get to curse at me right now!” I holler, red-faced. “Tell me what the hell is happening or I’m not going anywhere!”

His breathing is ragged. His words come out sounding like he swallowed a handful of rocks. “You said you trusted me.”

“James—”

“Did you or did you not say you trusted me?”

I look at the glittering diamond butterflies I’m holding, and curl my hand around them, wishing I’d never opened my big fat mouth. “Yes,” I admit grudgingly.

His rough exhalation holds a tinge of relief. “And you were right to. I’ll never let anything harm you, and that’s a vow. But I’m not there right now, and in order for you to be safe, you have to listen to me.”

I cry, “Why is everyone so worried about my safety now? How am I suddenly in danger?”

James’s voice drops. “It isn’t sudden, sweetheart. You’ve been in danger for years. You just didn’t know it.”

I start to shake. My armpits go damp. I can’t control the tremor in my voice when I whisper, “How do youknow?”

“I swear I’ll tell you everything, just please, please go over to my apartment right now. Will you do that for me?”

It’s the undercurrent of worry in his voice that finally makes me decide to obey him.

Probably the begging, too. He isn’t a man who begs.

When I say yes, he mutters, “Thank fuck.”

“But you better be prepared to answer a lot of questions, Romeo,” I threaten. “And if I think you’re not telling me the unvarnished truth, I will be on a plane back to New York within twenty-four hours.”

This time, I’m the one who disconnects. At least I think I do. Who can tell with this stupid phone?

With a profound sense of disbelief that this is my life, I put the chain back in its pretty box, hustle over to the closet, pull out my suitcase, and drag it over to the dresser. I unzip it and start throwing things in. Jeans, T-shirts, panties, all the stuff I so carefully unpacked and folded now gets tossed in like garbage.

Danger. I’m in danger—and have been for years.

What the actual fuck?

I can’t think straight. None of this makes any sense whatsoever. The only thing I can focus on is getting the hell out of this apartment, which now has the oppressive feeling of a prison cell.

Or a coffin.

Shoving the phone James gave me into the back pocket of my jeans, I hurry with the suitcase to Estelle’s office, where I grab my manuscript off the desk and stuff it into the outside zippered pocket.

I don’t even bother with my cosmetics or toiletries. I just hightail it out of there, grabbing my purse and slamming the door shut as I go. Panting and sweating, I jog down the hallway to the elevators.

When the doors slide open, I’m halfway expecting a pair of armed men to jump out and tackle me, but it’s empty. The short ride down to James’s floor feels like it takes a millennium. Then the doors open again, and I bound down the hall.

When I realize I’m going in the wrong direction, I turn and run the other way.

True to his word, there’s a slick electronic keypad attached to the wall next to his front door. I use the keypad to type in the letters of my name backward, hoping that this is all a bad practical joke, but when the light on the keypad turns green and the door clicks open so I can see inside, hope turns rancid in my stomach.

You know that old saying, if something seems too good to be true, it is?

It’s been around a long time for a reason.

The good news is that one entire wall of his elegantly furnished living room is lined with books. There’s a glass-front bookcase with one of those cool rolling ladders libraries have that stretch all the way to the ceiling. A big brown leather armchair sits beside a window with a small table and reading lamp off to the side.

So he’s a reader. At least he wasn’t lying about that.

The bad news is that the window is blacked out with a thick panel of steel, and the wall opposite the bookcase houses another collection of items encased in glass…items designed with only one purpose in mind.

Killing.

“I’m dead. You’ve killed me.”

I recall with horrible clarity how James’s mood changed from light to dark in the blink of an eye when I said those words to him. Words meant as a compliment to his kissing, but that, for him, obviously signified something very different.

Like maybe I’d figured something out.

For a cold, breathless moment, I gape at the collection of pistols, rifles, and machine guns so neatly displayed on pegboard racks, cheerfully lit from above with pin spots and lined below with hundreds of boxes of various size ammunition.

Then I do the only thing that makes sense.

Run the fuck away.