Page 41 of Take My Breath Away
“Perry?” There’s command in his voice, forcing me to raise my gaze. His face is softer now, all hard edges gone. “Never believe that. Don’t let others say it of you, and don’t let yourself say it, either. A man who’s determined to take control of his life and forge his own way through it is not those things.”
His hands on my shoulders are solid and sure; they’re not pushing me down but holding me up. His fingers move, a light kneading motion, round and round, tiny circles, easing out the tension that’s made every muscle in my body tight and taut as piano wire. I sigh beneath his touch as my muscles begin to soften.
“Better?” James asks, his voice little more than a purr. “Good. Sit down and I’ll make the tea.”
His touch loosens and falls away and it’s everything I can do not to grab him, not to pull him back to me, but he’s out of reach and I sink into a chair at the table.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, as he places a steaming hot mug of tea in front of me a minute or so later, “I think the idea of basing yourself at home’s a good one. Less of a risk. Even if it is on the dark side of the moon.”
“The dark side of the moon? Brighton?” I can’t help laughing. “It’s not much more than an hour from Victoria station.”
“Like I said, the dark side of the moon.” His lips curve up in a languid smile, as he gazes at me through the tendrils of steam floating their twisted way upwards from the mug he’s holding. “But if you really are determined to bury yourself miles away, don’t rush into anything. Take your time.”
“You said that to me before, when you insisted on coming to look at those rooms with me.” I can’t contain the shudder that runs through me.
“And I’ll be by your side again. But wasn’t I right about those places? Anyway, steering you away from those dreadful rat infested flea pits kept you here, didn’t it?”
“And is that what you’re trying to do this time? Keep me here with you?” I say it as a joke, I swear I do, but something stops me from laughing as my heart beats out a jerky, hard rhythm.
The hesitation’s there, tiny, so tiny I could tell myself I’m imagining it. But why tell myself a lie?
“We’ve no need to rush anything, Perry, no need at all.” His voice is a low rumble, the idling engine of a sleek, shiny car.
“We?” It’s no more than a croak, and he’s not heard it because he’s already up at the sink, throwing out the tea he’s barely touched, before he puts the mug in the dish washer, the jangle of crockery and knives and forks discordant and jarring.
“Goodnight, Perry. I need an early night.” His touch on my shoulder is fleeting and light, but it doesn’t stop the nervy tingle that runs down my spine, taking my breath away with it.
He’s gone before I can answer. Alone in the kitchen, the aftershock of not only his touch but that one little word,we, shudders through me.
In some indefinable way, my world has tilted.
Chapter Nineteen
JAMES
“You realise you owe me for this, Hendricks? Big time.”
I glare at Elliot, who’s standing on my doorstep hugging an old moth eaten brown and grey fuzzy blanket that’s seen far better days. Closer inspection, however, reveals it to be Jasper, Elliot’s arthritic mutt of which he’s inexplicably fond. It doesn’t even look like a real dog, but more like a Brillo pad pan scourer, on four very stumpy legs.
“I’m sure you’ll extract your revenge in some way, and take great delight in so doing. We’ve got to rush because we need to get to the airport.”
He turns to the car, idling on the curb side. Freddie’s in the driver’s seat and he gives me a little wave.
“And there are these.” At his feet is a large bag. “His food, and some treats. We’ve written out a list of how much to give him and when. There’s also his blanket, his cushion, and his favourite chew toys. He particularly likes the squeaky bone.”
“Don’t we all,” I say, which is met with an eye roll from Elliot. “I still don’t know why you couldn’t put him in kennels. Or found somebody else,” I grumble, as I eye Elliot’s ugly little dog.
I’m not a dog person, and I’m particularly not a Jasper person. He seems to sense my antipathy, which means every time I’m forced into his company he insists on snuffling up to me and, dear God, even tries to crawl into my lap. His stiff back legs make it hard for him to scramble up so inevitably I’m forced to pick the thing up and do it for him.
“I explained over the phone. We tried. You were the last resort, and I mean the last resort.”
“How kind of you to say.” I understand what he’s saying but I still can’t help being a little peeved at being considered alast resort.
“We tried Freddie’s parents but they’re at a wedding all this weekend, Cosmo’s away for work,” he says, referring to my cousin and Freddie’s best friend, “and my neighbour’s broken her leg so obviously she can’t help. Kennels don’t suit him. He tends to get bullied by the other dogs so he gets very stressed, and that results in toilet issues for a few days.”
“Toilet issues? You don’t mean to say he shits everywhere? If he starts that here—”
“No, he won’t. He is house trained, you know.”
