Page 8 of Taming Achilles

The doors opened with a ding. Her foyer came into view. I pulled out the gun, cupped it in my hands outstretched in front of me, ready to fire.

I stepped out slowly into the foyer, where a bouquet of golden lilies in a white vase graced that antique table she’d been so proud of. Her purse, still zipped, was neatly resting beside it, a note with a card inside lay open.

“Pip?” I said, in a low voice. I didn’t want to spook her if she was here. Or the intruder, if they had managed to get her.

I stepped down the familiar opening into the open plan living room and kitchen. There was a small space for a dining room with a minimalist, round chandelier overhead. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

“Pippa?” I asked, slightly louder.

My eyes on top of the pistol’s sights, I swept from one corner to the other. I walked to the open door of her bedroom, the master suite where she would probably be. There was no guest room because, in her words, she never wanted anyone in her little sanctuary. The lush, white bedroom was pristine, the moonlight reflecting on the cream and white upholstery.

“Pip?” I asked.

The closet door opened, and blue eyes peered out at me.

“Geo?” she asked, in that sweet voice. Gee-oh… the nickname that she had chosen only for her use.

I put the weapon on safe, and pulled out the magazine. I cleared the round from the chamber and caught it in mid-air. The metallic sound of the gun coming apart and slamming back together echoed in the room. The magazine went in my pocket, the gun on my belt.

I opened my arms to her, and she ran into them, her head cradled under my chin and she swayed back and forth in a comforting rhythm.

“Pip, what’s wrong? What happened?” I tilted her head up so she looked at me, wiping her strawberry strands from her creamy face. I looked in her eyes for signs of alcohol. The girl had a tendency to drink her emotions. But she was more sober than I was.

I could smell her lily perfume. The same one she had worn in Venice five years ago. The same bottle we had picked out from a shop on the Rialto Bridge. With its scent came a thousand bitter, delicious memories. My tongue grew thick with the memory of how she tasted as I kneaded her spread thighs in my palms and dove between those gorgeous legs.

“There was someone here.” Her eyes darted around the room as if she expected someone to jump out at any moment. “I heard them.”

“While you were in the closet?”

She nodded, looking at the massive walk-in.

“I’ve called the police, they’re on their way.” I had done that in the car, in the short drive here.

“Thank you.” She shook her head. “I only thought to call you. I-I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“A’right, stay here,” I said, pulling my arms away from her and moving towards the bathroom. “I’ll make sure no one’s here. Stay put.”

She nodded, her eyes wide, looking at me like I was her fucking savior. Half a decade ago, I had wanted to be just that.

It made me feel powerful and absolutely mental at the same time. I wanted to punch the living daylights out of anyone who had scared her, but I also wanted to strangle the living shit out of the woman because she was a consummate liar. A manipulator. I wanted to know what her game was. Why was I here? Why had she called me?

I looked through the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain. I looked at the large jacuzzi tub in the middle of the white-stone tiled room. A bathtub we had once been naked in, covered in bubbles and petals, drinking champagne as she giggled about bygone times. Back when things were different. I had set out to taste every inch of her skin that night, and I had succeeded. Twice.

I took a deep breath, banishing the memories that made my skin prickle and the blood head south.

I always knew Pippa would be the death of me. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her at seven years old. Nothing could change my mind about that.

I walked back to the bedroom. She was pacing back and forth, her light, delicate fingernails digging into her forearms, ready to peel off her skin. A habit she had never managed to break.

I took her hands in mine, prying them off her arms so she wouldn’t cut herself.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I looked around. Her furniture was all upright. I saw no signs of a break in. “Did they take anything that you can see?”

She looked around the bedroom, shook her head. She walked out into the open plan. Everything was still neatly put away and pristine, just like she liked it.

“I don’t think so. Even my purse is in the same place.”

“Alright,” I said, placing my hands in my pockets, “I don’t see any evidence that someone was here.” I chuckled to myself, raising my eyes to the ceiling. “God, Pippa, did you call me here because you were lonely? Because you needed to soothe your hurt feelings? God, I canno’ believe …”

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