Gentleman Sinner

My eyes drop to the black card held lightly between his fingers, with red type in one single line across the middle. His name. And a mobile number. ‘Why would I need to contact you?’ I ask, not bothering to point out that I can’t, because my phone is in a million pieces down an alleyway, and I’m not likely to be able to replace it until I’m paid on Friday. But that’s irrelevant. I should never contact him again. He’s definitely a man who should be avoided.

He comes forward and slips the card into the top of my bag. ‘Don’t ever walk home alone in the dark again,’ he warns, glancing away for a second. It’s only a second, but his craned neck reveals a sliver of ink peeking up over the collar of his shirt. Black ink, shaded subtly at the edges. I find myself straining to get a better look, silently begging for him to turn his neck farther and reveal more of the art. But he doesn’t, looking back at me instead.

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ I say.

‘I’m telling you. No woman should roam the streets of London at night alone.’

It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone to worry about me, to care for my well-being. Well, Jess worries all the time. But it’s different when the worry is from family. The fact that a huge, mean-looking mountain of a man like this is concerned about a perfect stranger like me softens my heart to him. ‘I can take care of myself,’ I say anyway, prompting him to glare at me.

‘You shouldn’t need to.’

‘I really do need to,’ I assure him, catching sight of his tattoo again, more undistinguishable shadows and lines. Before I embarrass myself and reach up to pull the collar of his shirt down, I quickly scoot past him, frowning when he quickly moves from my path, putting a good few feet between us.

‘Why?’ he asks. ‘Why do you really need to?’

I realize I’ve unintentionally given him another hint of something I didn’t want him to know. Something I don’t want anyone to know. ‘Because I don’t have a huge man like you to spring out of nowhere and save me.’ I flip him a cheeky smile, and his lips quirk through his small frown. He loses so much hardness from his face when he’s amused. It’s riveting.

He clears his throat, as if he’s just realized that, too, and wants to uphold this iron front. The hardness returns. ‘Don’t walk anywhere alone,’ he reiterates, his intense stare burning away my smile.

‘Fine,’ I say for the sake of it, taking the door handle and quickly exiting his office, falling against the door and taking a few deep breaths.

‘Miss Izzy?’ A hand rests on my arm, and I jump a mile into the air with a silly squeak. ‘Oh dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Jefferson’s hand recoils, and his old eyes behind his specs run a quick check over me, frowning. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ I breathe, pushing myself away from the door. ‘I’m sorry.’ I rub the sleeve of my coat, my head beginning to pound, and I smile tightly at Theo’s friendly butler. ‘I’m ready to go home now.’

‘Callum is waiting for you outside. It was lovely to meet you.’

‘And you, Jefferson.’ I make tracks to the giant doors that will get me out of this pressure box, finding a Mercedes idling under the canopied driveway. Callum, the blond guy who was in the alley with Theo, is holding the door open for me, his face expressionless. I notice for the first time that his eyes are deep brown, warm, but he still seems cold. And inconvenienced. As I approach, he takes a step away from the car, giving me way more space than I need, and I give him a small, nervous smile as I slide into the back, a smile that’s not returned.

As we drive away, I look over my shoulder through the back window, a bit bewildered by the turn of events that my regular evening has taken. The house is still illuminated, glowing up from the ground, and then it suddenly falls into darkness, disappearing from sight. I turn in my seat, resting back, and close my eyes. I’ve never sensed so much danger in my life. And yet, the most disturbing part is how enthralled I was.

What’s Theo Kane’s story? Who is he?Chapter 3

‘What are you doing up?’ I ask Jess as she plods sleepily into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. It’s eight in the morning. She must have only gotten in from work an hour ago. She plops on to a chair, and I immediately get to making her a coffee.

‘I had a shower when I got in. I should never have a shower when I get in from the red-eye shift.’ She gratefully accepts the coffee I hand her and takes a hungry sip. ‘Sleep well?’ she asks.