Page 4 of Take My Breath Away
“Just wait.”
The cabbie mutters something I doubt is complementary but I don’t give a damn.
“Perry, have or have you not got a home, a proper home, to go to tonight?” I keep my voice low, and gentle. Huddled in the corner, his suit rumpled and his tie hanging loose and partially undone, he looks tired, dejected and unspeakably sad as his eyes fill with glittery tears.
“No.” He shakes his head and turns to face the window, as though ashamed to be seen as he fights a losing battle against the tears streaming down his face.
There’s only one decision to be made. I give the driver my address, because tonight, Perry’s coming home with me.
Chapter Two
PERRY
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God,oh God.”
My head feels like somebody’s taken an axe to it and as I try to push myself up to sitting, the room spins and all I can do is collapse back down and clamp my eyes shut.
If I lie here, just for a minute… It’s warm, and comfortable, the sheets are silky soft and the duvet as light and fluffy as marshmallow. I prise open my eyes, and look around but it hurts. My eyeballs are too big for the sockets, every movement a colossal effort. The chink of light coming through a gap in the curtains is enough to confirm the creeping suspicion that I’m not where I expect to be.
The huge bed, the high ceiling, the plain painted walls. The blond wood freestanding wardrobe. The open door by the big window, showing a glimpse of a claw footed bath. There are no stacked boxes of musty files, no blanket and flat pillow bundled up behind them. This isn’t the basement of the office block where I work, stuffed full of crap nobody goes to investigate from one year’s end to another. No, this is—
“No! Oh, Jesus Christ!” I slap my palms over my face, and wince as a shot of pain sears through my shattered head. It all comes back, every horrible, excruciating moment of it.
Half a bottle of rum. Beer. Tequila.
James.
Oh, bloody, sodding, frigging hell.
James, pushing me into a cab, pulling me out of a cab. Me, raging and crying, and raging again. And flirting with him. And trying to kiss him. Was that before or after I threw up? Because I’m sure I threw up. The taste like a decomposing rat in my mouth tells me I threw up.
There’s an odd whimpering sound, and it’s coming from me. It’s not a sound to be proud of, but pride’s the last thing I’m feeling. I’m in his spare room. He’s put me to bed — and I freeze. The sheets are beautifully soft against my bare skin.
Oh, no, please don’t say he undressed me…
Pulling my hands away from my face, which is throbbing with cringing embarrassment, I pick up the duvet, peek underneath — and let out a relieved breath. I’m wearing my underwear, so I’m not totally naked which is one good thing. The other is that I’mnotwearing the ones covered with cartoon fluffy sheep, which my friend Alfie sent me for my last birthday. Pulling the duvet up and over my head, I have to work out how on earth I’m going to face James.
A soft knock, and a slight creak as the door opens tells me I’m going to have to face him a lot sooner than I thought.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, I know you’re awake.”
James’ voice, a low and growly purr like a classic car, is edged with amusement. I’m glad somebody’s laughing because it sure isn’t me.
If I just stay very still and pretend…
The duvet’s tugged away from my head and I gasp as I stare up into James’ face. A crooked smile’s pulling at his lips and one brow’s raised. He doesn’t look angry, which is something I suppose.
“Errrggg…” What’s meant to be the start of an abject apology is nothing more than a strangled, incomprehensible moan.
“Feeling that good, eh?” James’ arched brow moves up another notch, towards his short, steely hair. “There’s a glass of water and a couple of aspirin on the side, here. I’ve also brought you some clothes to wear. They won’t fit but they’ll have to do. Your own are a — little mucky. Everything’s been washed, but they’re not dry. Once you’ve had a shower, come downstairs. I think we need to have a talk.”
Before I can even think what to say, he’s gone.
I stare up at the ceiling, my head hammering and my heart matching it thump for thump. Oh, God. A talk. It’s the last thing I want to do but somehow I don’t think James is going to give me any choice in the matter.
Swallowing the tablets, I stand up, but have to plonk down on the bed again as the room tilts. A minute, I’ll make my way to the shower in a minute. The minute up, I stagger and lurch to the en-suite and into a shower I reckon is bigger than the whole bathroom where I live.
Correction. Where Iusedto live.
