Page 188 of The Black Trilogy

A doctor would ask awkward questions about my medical history, which would lead to an interrogation about my family, which would get me a one-way ticket back into care.

“I can do it. I’ve got sutures here.”

“Really?” What would a toffee-nosed twat know about medicine?

“I’ve stitched people up before.”

“Are you a doctor?”

That would go some way to explaining the amount of money he had, but for some reason, he found the question funny. His face softened when he smiled.

“What’s so amusing?”

“The idea of me keeping people alive for a living.”

I measured up the distance to the door.

His lips quirked up again. “You won’t make it. Lean back. I promise I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?

He injected me with something that took the sting away then closed up the cut with six neat stitches. I admired his handiwork as he left me sitting there and disappeared into the bedroom. A few minutes later, he came back with a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both huge and obviously his.

“Sorry I don’t have something more suitable. I don’t bring women here as a rule.”

Really? What did he bring? Men? Four-legged friends? Blow-up dolls?

“Thanks.”

After the way I’d behaved, he was kind to offer me anything, so I made do. I didn’t relish the idea of walking back across London wearing a blood-stained coat and not much else. At least my trainers were still serviceable. I pulled on the shirt, which came to my knees, then put on the trousers. When I tugged the drawstring tight and turned the top over several times, they stayed put. I rolled the legs up as well. It wasn’t the most stylish outfit, but at least it covered me.

He’d left me alone to change, and when I emerged into the bedroom, I found he’d done the same. Dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt with his feet bare, he looked younger than I’d first thought. Mid-twenties at a guess. An air of danger oozed from him that his good looks and the dim lighting couldn’t hide.

Black. The name suited him. His inky hair was spiked up on top, but just a little scruffy. All that money and he couldn’t afford a haircut? Dark stubble a day or two past a five o’clock shadow speckled a strong jaw, and the bruise on his cheek was starting to turn a deep purple as well. Oops.

His T-shirt stretched across his chest, showing off his muscles, and from the way his jeans hung, he spent a lot of time working out. His light tan showed up more against the white shirt, suggesting he hadn’t spent much time at the mercies of the British winter.

I rated him an eleven out of ten for looks. Manners, not so much.

His eyes were such a dark brown they were almost black too. They pierced me, like he had an uncanny ability to see right through to my soul. The way he stared, as if he was studying me, measuring me up, left me unnerved. An unwanted shiver ran through my torso.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes, actually. I don’t eat before I dance.” I always made myself a sandwich before I left home and put it in the mini-fridge behind the reception desk, so I wouldn’t wake Jimmy and Jackie by rummaging in the kitchen when I got back. “If you’ll just show me where the door is, I can go home and get myself some food.”

He ignored that. “I’ll see what I’ve got.”

Back in the kitchen, he opened a fridge the size of a small family car. The shelves held a variety of tubs and cling-film covered dishes, most of them with post-its stuck to the top.

“What’s with all the notes?”

“My housekeeper,” he said sheepishly. “She leaves me instructions because she thinks I don’t know how to cook.”

“And do you?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not really. I can make a sandwich, but that’s about my limit.”

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