And then, I died Page 3

  “God, if you don't sound like Will!”

  Beth didn't appreciate the jest. Not one bit.

  She would have been perfectly content had she been able to blank out the very existence of her roommate for the rest of the evening.

  All thoughts of William were so confusing she found them borderline painful.

  She knew what to make of men of his sort – the young, rich bastards who thought themselves entitled to anything they chose – yet she regarded him with very little suspicion, and that in itself was enough to wish him far, far away.

  Her lack of judgement didn't just end there. She'd found herself looking at him, generally when his attention was engaged elsewhere, and damn it if she didn't like what she saw.

  She'd seen her fair share of attractive men – Jace Warden being the latest in a very long list – but she'd been left quite cold until William.

  He was QG worthy, with his perfect hair, that pair of broad shoulders, and those intense blue-grey eyes, but there had to be more to it, Beth told herself, unwilling to admit to being one of those women who could be swayed from everything they believed in by a pretty chest.

  “While you mention him, should I give him a ring? He might be hungry.”

  Kicking Charlotte Knightley's shin equated to poking a hungry, angry hibernating bear with a red hot pitchfork, but she risked it nonetheless.

  “Girls night in.”

  Chapter 3:

  Challenged

  Strange how the most foreign, unnatural, uncharacteristic things could become habits over a few short weeks.

  Liam didn't eat fruits; he drank them, along with his daily dose of lactose and protein. Yet the deli he ran to when he could spare the time for a proper break in the afternoon didn't even raise an eyebrow the sixth time he requested a basket of grapes, apples, and oranges along with his usual shake.

  Jack was another story.

  “Is the girl still dishing out cookies?”

  “Shut it, Holt.”

  The agreement wasn't outspoken. One day, out of the blue, he'd brought back some grapes and they had disappeared by morning. He wouldn't have been upset in any case, but as things stood, he had nothing to complain about; in their place, there had been a plate of blueberry muffins. Fair exchange, if there was ever one. Since, he'd occasionally bought fruits, she provided baked goods. That had become normalcy.

  “Are they home-baked? If they are, you should share. It's right there, page one in the Man Code.”

  He had to think, for a minute, but after consideration, shook his head. He'd never seen her bake and, besides, the cakes were too well presented.

  Regardless, they were welcome. A man such as him could hardly stroll into a fancy bakery and demand frosted cupcakes without a hell of an excuse.

  Other changes weren't as desirable. He could pinpoint a dozen alterations in his routine and would have been hard-pressed to decide whether they were more of a hindrance or a benefit of her company.

  The benefits had been as a shock. He hadn't expected to enjoy anything about having the woman in his personal space; she had first come across as a snobby little thing and nothing she'd done so far indicated otherwise, yet, unpleasant as her manners could be, he found himself relishing in the presence of a pretty thing who didn't speak much and whom he could occasionally look at.

  It wasn’t surprising that lonely fools often chose to marry appealing bimbos.

  Her presence meant that he had to maintain his guarded persona at all hours, though. Liam had been one to lose the suit in favour of a pair of tracksuits when he made it home, but over the last month, he'd kept the professional wear until bedtime.

  Yet, by leaving the occasional empty cup, misplacing the cushions, and listening to her old fashion blues, she’d somehow managed to make their house a home.

  He could get used to it. In all honesty, he already was.

  “Do you need anything tomorrow?” he asked her as she got up from her armchair just before eleven, the second Thursday of March.

  Whatever time he made it home, Beth was idly reading her Kindle in some grey, brown, or equally dull lounge wear; he doubted she ever got out much further than the bakery down the road.

  It was a wonder she kept such a good shape, considering her indolent lifestyle.

  She shook her head, effectively terminating his latest attempt at conversation.

  What was it with that girl?

  “Ace,” he asked, “load anything you find on Beth, would you?”

  No problem.

  His program ran for twenty-three minutes – twenty-two minutes more than it had, when he'd looked into the background of the last woman he'd found himself sort of involved with.

  There were some articles and some pictures, showing her for exactly what he would have thought her to be – a nobody occasionally mentioned on Page Six – but they were over a decade old.

  Ace – the program empowering his laptop and his phone – had taken the time to run a facial recognition scan through the internet, but save for the old shots, there wasn't so much as a portrait of the woman on the entire web.

  Nothing.

  He was still mulling over her lack of online presence nineteen hours later, when he'd made it to the bar of the exclusive hotel where Charles had set up the meeting with Aiden, Ariana, and Adrian Turner.

  The triplets, each renown in their fields of choice – law, medicine, and entertainment – didn’t talk business anywhere else, and he and Charles needed their custom; if they bagged the Turners, their successful businesses would get to the next level.

  At present, any socialite worth their grain of petrol owned an awful lot of things starting with 'i'. Charles had come up with a great computer and he was launching a phone, amongst other gadgets; should the Turners use – and be known to use – their products, they'd get an injection of glam they desperately needed.

  Liam had banked a faithful clientele of housewives through his practical appliances, Charles was the first choice of most professionals, however, what neither of them had reached was their own demography: the young professionals. It was the golden egg – an ever demanding crowd who kept their underwear longer than most of their tech.

  The world stopped and turned out of its axis just as he was about to take his place between Charlotte and Ariana.

  Beth was there. She looked better than usual; her jumper was grey – of course. Did any other shade actually exist? – but very smart, soft, and almost fitted. She’d gone so far as to wear a little lip gloss.

  Aiden and Adrian certainly didn’t seem to have anything to say against her appearance; the brothers could hardly stop staring.

  Liam barely comprehended what his eyes told him. Her presence didn’t make sense; she belonged on their couch, not at a business meeting. He was about to ask what she could possibly be doing there, when he caught Charles’ gaze. It was quick and discreet, but it definitely meant Shut The Hell Up.

  He endeavoured to calm his irritation, realizing that there must have been a reason behind her attendance; Charles knew this meeting was too important to risk it so carelessly.

  “Here he is. Elizabeth, you know William Slate?”

  Her eyes, focused on her nails as they had been the first time he ever saw her, darted up and she got to her feet while graciously offering her hand.

  Shit, here it was. The touching.

  He had avoided it as much as possible over the previous weeks. Touching her was bad for all kind of reasons. The feel of her skin shot straight through him, and as per usual, the member between his legs awoke, pushing against the zipper of his pants. Now was a great time to be seated.

  “We've met,” she answered in her bored, disinterested tone.

  Charles was going to pay for this.

  In ten second tops, she'd turned him from the affable businessman he strived to be in such company, to a defensive jerk. Every shrug was a direct hit and it wouldn't be long until he bit right back.

  “Now everyone's acquainted, let's get to
it,” Ariana suggested, to his relief.

  It was an informal presentation of his and Charles' work. Charles started and the object of Beth's presence became evident within the first minute; she asked just the right questions and showed the anticipated enthusiasm so genuinely, the rest of the company were soon enthralled by everything they heard.

  God, she was good. Was it her job? If so, he understood how she’d come to own Upper East Side mansions.

  He wondered if she was going to offer him the same courtesy when his turn came, but little as Beth might like him, she wasn't spiteful so as to slight his business: she helped him out in the same subtle – if slightly underhanded – fashion.

  “And are you going to share Ace?” she asked, after playing around with the prototype of the phone he was marketing.

  “Not exactly, no; Ace was made to fit my personality. I like to get to the point, so he’s pushy and says it like it is.” And, he didn’t add, he could easily break into inland security. Instead, he settled on: “I suspect he might annoy someone else. The program installed on the new phones is more generic, but everyone will be able to tweak the characteristics.”

  “It's like getting our very own Jarvis.”

  He was almost speechless, astonished to actually find a common interest with the girl. She liked Marvel? It was possible she may not have been half as bad as he’d portrayed her, then.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I'd like one. You got me when you talked about the solar powered battery, to be honest. Don’t you just hate when your smartphone dies by four?”

  And just like that, the Turners were in the bag.

  Beth could have an X-Ace tomorrow. He was ready to throw in a bottle of Champagne and some flowers, while he was at it.

  Soon after they'd shaken hands on a deal, Beth excused herself and Charlotte followed in.

  He got up under some pretence; she may have been here to help out her friend, but she had done him a humongous favour in the process.

  He had expected to have to beg the siblings to use his handset in public, not to be offered five times the phone’s worth for an early prototype.

  They'd walked towards the ladies, but a noise stopped him as he passed a dark, empty conference room.

  A familiar noise, halfway between a sob and an intake of breath. It was broken, hectic, and erratic. How many times had he heard Flora Slate in that exact state?

  Without consciously choosing to, he was opening the door, up until the voice halted him in his tracks.

  It was Charles talking.

  Which meant that, somehow, the girl in the middle of a panic attack was cold, indifferent Elizabeth Carver.

  “I'm so sorry. I would never have asked for help if I’d thought... Eliza, how can you do your job if you still...”

  Liam was intruding and he should have turned away, but he remained firmly grounded, listening in.

  “I'm good at playing roles, Charles,” the girl answered after long, purposeful inhalation. “And that's exactly my job.”

  

  “I'd like you to talk me through the scenarios. Just pick one and explain exactly what happens.”

  She took a few seconds, pondering over the best way to describe her fantasies.

  “Do you ever see someone you find attractive and play little scenes in your mind? What if he crossed the room, seized my waist, and kissed the hell out of me? In my mind, I tend to be the one crossing the room.”

  Annabel nodded encouragingly.

  “Then, I kill him.”

  Suffocation, a bullet through the skull, stabbing; the details varied in shapes and forms. Beth didn't look away from the window, unwilling to read her shrink's expression.

  “You need to tell me why you're ashamed of this.”

  “I know it's wrong. Most of those guys have never done anything to warrant it, but if I could, I would kill them all.”

  “Why can't you?”

  She was kidding, right?

  “Correct me if I'm mistaken,” Annabel carried on, “but you've got the skills to do it and get away with it. Why don't you?”

  She really didn't see where the woman was going with this.

  “You don't plan on murdering any of them because you've got a very strong sense of right and wrong, Beth. I know what you expect me to call you. You think you've got psychopathic tenancies.”

  Didn't she?

  As Natalia Maine, she'd acted as a social butterfly, a bartender happy to lend an ear to any passing stranger, but it was exactly what it was: an act. Left to it, she preferred solitude. She didn't feel much empathy towards most people and, while she could behave in society, her thoughts were anything but normal.

  “You really don't.”

  Her heart wanted to soar, but she ignored it. She'd seen Annabel all of six times so far, in less than four weeks – how could she tell for sure?

  She could change her mind later, when she understood that Beth saw the two doors and the ventilation grilles as escape routes; that she'd identified the three pencils, the ruler, the mugs, and the cables around the room as potential weapons.

  That she would not hesitate to shove one of her two long silver hair pins inside her eye socket if she felt like the situation called for it.

  “I'm not saying that you're perfectly healthy, mentally. Those who go through traumas like yours generally aren't. But your relationship with Victoria and Charlotte is a proof of your ability to let people in.”

  Was it? Vick and Charles were as close to her as anyone could be, but they were far from in.

  The very essence of their relationship worked on a live and let live basis; she didn't push for their secrets, they didn't ask about hers. What was worse? Beth didn't even care to know. If she had, she would have discovered each and every one of them.

  “What you undeniably are, though, is a misandrist with a very well-managed form of social anxiety. It is understandable but it's also what you need to work on, especially if you want to go back to your job.”

  The one million dollar question was: did she?

  Beth needed to be employed – not for money, but because she suspected she might become a complete hermit if she wasn't forced out of the house – and she didn't know anything but what she'd been doing for five years.

  “Back to your interactions with men: you've mentioned a roommate. Will, was it?”

  “William,” she corrected automatically.

  He was too prime and proper for a Will, Willy, Billy, or other nicknames she could conjure. For Christ's sake, the man's dark suits weren't even crinkled at the end of the day.

  “Right. You said he was a friend of a friend.”

  “Vick and Charles both know him well.”

  She heard herself grow defensive, mistrusting the course of the conversation. What had she said or done to make Annabel believe he was of consequence in the grand scheme of her life?

  “So, a friend by association. Have you ever thought of harming him?”

  She had to consider this.

  She had harmed him that first day. She could have been content with incapacitating him when he'd surprised her at the door, but she'd purposefully hit the back of his head.

  It hadn't been with the intent to cause him damage, though. Anyone would have done as much or more, had an intruder attempted to sneak into their place.

  Wouldn’t they?

  “I've thought of cooking his balls in the fireplace.”

  Annabel ungracefully spit out the tea she'd just lifted to her lips as chuckles erupted.

  “How did that come about?”

  “He told me what to do,” she said, recalling his confidence when he had dictated she would stay in her own home.

  How she'd despised herself to yielding to his demand.

  “Beth, I don't know one woman who doesn't threaten guys balls when they are annoying us. Now, did you specifically imagine grabbing a sharp object and severing them, with the clear intention of causing an injury likely to end his life?”

&n
bsp; “Of course not.”

  She almost gagged at the image that description evoked.

  “Right. Well, next time you have one of these fantasy, I'd like you to do an exercise for me. It is quite an amusing one. Sometime, I sit in a café and do it, just for fun. I'd like you to invent a life for the stranger in front of you. An anecdote about their mistress, their hairdresser, their mum. I'd like you to write it down for our next session. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, although that task would cause her some pain. Her daydreams were a copping mechanism – if she hurt them first, they couldn't get at her – but the backstory would make it impossible to wallow in her fantasy. What would she do instead, when she felt uncomfortable? Her track record on that front wasn't in her favour.

  “And I have a second set of homework for you. I'd like you spend some time with your friend William, socially.”

  Shit.

  “I can't.”

  “Why ever not?”

  There had been a party, and her presence had been expected; it was, after all, in credit to her work. No one had expected them to tie up the Kiev situation for years – if ever – but here they were: two agents under thirty, responsible for dismantling one of the most powerful organizations on Earth.

  She'd listened to Christopher and worn a damn dress, a slim, backless number she'd bought very reluctantly at the store where her partner, like the peacock he was, had purchased his shiny white tux.

  His point had been valid: she would have been out of place and therefor more noticeable in anything else.

  In hindsight, she wished she’d stuck to a pair of pants.

  The prick in administration had looked her way all night, but she'd ignored him, determined to avoid anything that could ruin Chris' hour.

  Up until the man had touched the lower side of her naked back, aiming for her butt.

  “Do you know what made me come to you, Annabel?”

  “I understood you had a run in with a colleague of yours.”

  “A superior. He said he was simply trying to greet me.” Bullocks. What he had been trying to do was to cop a feel of the wrong woman. “Whatever his intentions, he had entered my personal space without warning. It's been six weeks and I sincerely doubt he can use his arm by now.”