Page 8 of Claimed By the Mobster
The crisp white sheets rustle as I try to drag myself into a sitting position. I’m weak as a kitten.
“You’re awake.”
Benedict Crosse unfolds himself from a chair right beside me. The light spilling in from a gap in the curtains reveals half of his face, and my heart flips.
His expression is grave and he looks… Honestly if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d been up for two days straight. He seems exhausted. Wrecked, and a little over-intense. His grey eyes are silver, and the peachy light brings out the flecks of white in the hair at his temples and in the stubble that covers his jaw. He hasn’t shaved, I’d guess for a couple of days, and Mr Crosse is always perfectly shaved. He gets a five o’clock shadow, sure, but he is invariably in a suit, controlled.
Mr Crosse is basically a businessman from a men’s razor advert.
Except, right now he’s not. He’s the suggestive aftershave advert, all rough sex appeal and smouldering roughness. He’s popped open his shirt collar and removed his tie. His hair is mussed too, as though he’s been running his hands through it. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“What time is it?”
He checks the solid watch on his wrist. “Nine.”
I nod. Well that’s embarrassing. I’ve clearly overstayed my Sunday morning welcome. “Sorry I slept so late. I’ll get up.”
“In the evening, darling.” The corner of his mouth kicks up. “And you’re staying in bed.”
“Wait it’s…” There’s a tickle in my memory. “What day is it? And what happened?”
“It’s Monday night. And there was an attempt to kidnap you,” he replies calmly.
I blink.
Someone tried to kidnap me?
I scrabble backwards up the bed, until my shoulders bump into a panel. The image of a gun in Mr Crosse’s hands, pointed towards me, flickers.
“A successful attempt.” My voice is wobbly, but at least my vision is clear again. Except for the minor detail of the sight of Mr Crosse at my bedside being overwhelmed by the dread that’s congealing in my memory.
I’m pretty sure Mr Crosse pointed a gun at me and I’ve ended up with him, somewhere that isn’t my house.
Sounds a lot like kidnap.
“You were in danger.” He’s implacable. Unmoved.
I replay the incident in my mind, as best I can. It all happened so fast. A noise that woke me. The pain in my arm. I grasp my upper arm where, yes, it is a bit sore, and find a smooth hydrocolloid dressing over the skin.
“It happened then.”
Mr Crosse nods.
Another flash of recollection: the sudden weight of a man’s body slumped over me, knocking my breath away. The air is fire in my throat.
“The man,” I croak. “Is he dead?”
“Yes.” And Mr Crosse doesn’t sound at all regretful. Not even slightly.
“Was he one of your…?” I’m not certain what I’m asking.
His lip curls. “Not mine. Some… rivals who wanted to hurt me by taking you.”
How would that impact Mr Crosse? “They thought taking your son’s ex-girlfriend would affect you?”
He looks stricken and the sequence of last night runs on like a movie I was half watching, until I remember.Oh no. No-no-no-no-no.
“That’s it, yes.” His tone is excessively mild. He presses his lips together.
