Page 4 of When I Found You

“Yeah. Found her passed out on the couch in the lounge. I guess the party was too much for her.” I tsk. “Well, gents. I need to get her home.”

“No problem, Mr. Maxwell. Happy New Year.” Mike tips his head and motions for the other guard to open the door.

Once I step out into the cold morning air, I exhale with relief. The black Cadillac pulls up to the curb ahead. When my driver, Cyril, steps around the car, his brow arches in surprise. He says nothing and opens the rear door.

It takes a bit of fancy maneuvering, but I manage to get her comfortably situated in the back seat and slide in next to her. She’s still unconscious. I sigh. What a way to start the new year.

Cyril slides into the driver’s seat and glances at me in the rearview. “Where to, sir?”

“Home.” I catch the glimmer of curiosity and open criticism in his eyes.

“Yes, sir.” He pulls away from the curb and out into the early traffic.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. What the hell am I going to do with this mess? I peek at the woman beside me. A pronounced smear of blood mars her forehead. I’m a horrible person. I should have called for help or at least let her rest in the office until she woke up. But no. I didn’t need this kind of gossip spreading through the office, let alone the building.

Within fifteen minutes, I’m inside the penthouse elevator with the mysterious woman limp in my arms. It takes some time to slide the key in the lock, but once we’re inside the apartment, a weight lifts from my shoulders. I carry her to my bed and lay her on the down coverlet.

She moans and shifts but doesn’t wake. I unbutton her coat and slip it from her shoulders. The oversized monstrosity hinders me from assessing whether or not I did more damage than a knock on the head. I set it aside, noting the familiar designer style much like the new coat Victor bought last month, but the material is worn and well-loved. I shove the thought aside. A puzzle to ponder later.

After a quick inspection, I note no other injuries with a sigh of relief. I gather towels, a wet cloth, and the first aid kit I keep for emergencies.

Her lashes flutter when I brush the cloth over her hairline. The blood washes easily enough from her dark hair, but the raised bump above her hairline bleeds afresh when I dab it. A cut, not too deep, but enough to cause a deceptive amount of visual trauma. I must have caught her with the edge of the door.

Guilt washes over me. Maybe I should have taken her to the hospital. At least then I could be assured of her care, even if the circumstances of her injury seem suspicious. I take a breath and head into the kitchen to get something cold to compress over the wound.

I grab the phone and dial the number I know by heart.

“Dr. Thompson.”

“Hey, it’s Arthur.”

“Hey. You’re up early. Didn’t you have a party at the office last night?”

I rake my hand through my hair wishing I had cut it last week. “Yeah, but we went home shortly after midnight. Are you on call today?”

“No.” Rob pauses. “Do you need something or are you calling to wish me a Happy New Year?”

“Can you come over? I need your help with something.”

“Did you murder someone and you need me to help hide the body?” Rob chuckles. “That shit will cost you. We’re not kids anymore, you know. I have ethics I’m bound to.”

“Exactly, which is why I need you to get your ass over here.” I groan. “Bring your bag of miracles.”

“What happened?” The tone of Rob’s voice shifts, and I can tell he’s worried.

“I’ll explain when you get here.” I hang up the phone before he has a chance to respond. He’ll keep me on the line all day if I let him. Hopefully it’s enough of a teaser to convince him to come over.

When I return to the unconscious woman in my bed, I place the bag of frozen peas in a towel and place it on the lump. Then I pull a blanket up over her. A soft moan makes me pause. She twitches her nose and exhales.

My gaze drifts over her features. Delicate brows, full lips, and a nose curved slightly off center. I wonder what color her eyes are. Probably a bewitching shade of brown or vibrant blue. The thought swiftly fixes itself in my mind and I’m thrown off.

I don’t know anything about this woman. I’ve already dug myself into a nest of lies and perjured myself for her. I push aside any idle curiosity I have for her and focus instead on at least establishing an identity.

Carefully, I peel back the blanket to check her pockets. Wait, no pockets. What kind of garments are these? Some form of exercise leggings I expect, only made from thick material to provide warmth. The oversized cream sweater hides her figure. I search her innocently, ignoring her soft curves. No pockets and no identification. I frown. The overcoat.

I pick it up from the chair and search every pocket. A handful of crumpled papers, a key, and a stick of gum wrapped tight in silver paper. Great. Nothing.

The doorbell startles me. I dash across the apartment and open the door.

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