Chapter One
THE SHARP MOVEMENT of something in my periphery makes the hairs on my arms spike. With trembling fingers, I reach for the lamp and click it on. Startled marble eyes peer at me with feral interest.
I stare at my cat, Felix, my shallow breaths interrupting the silence of the lonely night.
I’m twenty-four years old and still scared of the dark. Why shouldn’t I be? Bad things happen when it’s pitch black.
The nuns at parochial school often said that idle hands were the Devil’s playground. Given the countless sleep-deprived nights in my past, I realize they were right.
What time is it?
The neon-blue light emanating from my table clock glows 4:03 a.m. With a steady rhythm, I breathe in and out, willing myself to calm. What the hell is wrong with me?
Tossing and turning for ten wide-awake minutes, unable to sleep, I succumb to the inevitable and get up. After a quick stretch, I make my way to the spare room that for the last year has housed my art studio.
The rich scent of linseed oil floats in the air and though clutter surrounds me, I find comfort in the space. Picking up the palette full of still-moist paints, I sit in front of the easel.
I paint flowers because they tell all types of stories. A flower can make you smile, it can make you cry, and it can even be an unspoken promise. All the possibilities are enchanting, yet the painting before me lacks charm. It’s an empty shell, and I don’t possess the talent to make it whole. Frustrated, I scratch at the damp paint forming vivid lines against the canvas.
Light creeps into the dark room. What time is it? I rush to the bedroom clock. Shit! Seven oh six a.m. I’m late.
I hop in the shower, and five minutes later I’m clean and getting dressed. It’s casual Friday, so jeans and a black shirt will do. I grab a hair tie and simultaneously cram my long curls into a messy bun and my feet into flats. Biting into a bagel, I start walking to the school down the street. Before any lingering thoughts about my failing artistic abilities can perturb me, I’m there.
“MS. SNOWE, look. It’s pretty, right?”
The watercolor of a daisy is simple. Kate didn’t spend much time mixing colors, but it does look beautiful—it looks happy. I smile at her. “It’s perfect.”
Time trickles by and the bell rings, signaling the end of sixth period. It’s three thirty in the afternoon and as the students scurry off in an excited frenzy, I begin the dull task of cleaning up. Preoccupied with the mess, I don’t hear Tina enter.
“Hey, girl, ready for happy hour?”
Christina Alba, an English teacher at the school I work in and my best friend since childhood, is not the type of woman to take no for an answer. Dark eyes narrow at me from under her mane of long black hair, and the I’m ready for anything smile plastered on her face makes it hard for me not to chuckle. I gesture around the room.
“Not exactly.”
“No way. Leave it for Monday.”
“I’ll be another twenty minutes.”
“Evie, you better not leave me hanging again.” She leans against a desk, mischief sparkling in her eyes. “Besides, there’s this cute bartender I want you to meet.”
I groan while tossing an assortment of crayons in a bin. “Another charmer like last month’s, whose opening line was—” I clear my throat and deepen my voice, “Tina didn’t tell me you had such a nice rack.”
She covers her mouth attempting to hold back a laugh, though it bursts from her lips anyway. “Yeah, okay. Not my best match, but you have to admit he was super-hot.”
I roll my eyes at my bossy bestie. “Sure, so hot that when I asked him to name his favorite contemporary artist smoke practically fizzled out of his head like an over-fried circuit.”
“Can it be we’re setting our standards a tad too high?”
Ignoring her, I fish my bag out of the supply closet, and head for the door. “You go ahead and I’ll meet you there. I need to stop at the bank and cash a check.”
She points her index finger at me like a female Uncle Sam. “If you’re not there in thirty minutes expect my pissed-off call.”
“Yes, sir! I will be there, sir!” I give her a mock salute and her serious expression turns into one of exasperation.
AS I approach the bank, I spy a black Escalade parked by the curb, and a sentry-like man in a suit standing at attention. Yeah, that’s totally normal.
I shrug, make my way inside, and grab a deposit ticket. Of course, the pen provided is out of ink.
A baritone voice breaks the monotony of my simple bank transaction.
“Everyone on the fucking floor! Now!”
Oh shit! My muscles lock in place and the pen I had begun searching in my purse for is clasped between my now-sweating fingers.
A blur to my left comes into my line of sight. The figure is wearing a ski mask, ripped jeans, and a stained sweater. The broad shoulders and physique make it obvious the robber is a man. However, the gender of my assailant is the last thing on my mind, because he has a firm grip on an enormous gun, which is pointed at me.
“Are you fucking deaf? Get on the floor, bitch!”
I close my eyes and bend my knees—or at least I think I am. I’m finding it hard to breathe, and the room is spinning. I must not be moving fast enough because the next thing I know, the man with the big gun grabs me and shoves the cold tip of the barrel against my neck.
This is how it ends? A pang of regret stabs deep within my belly. I wonder who will feed my cat when I’m gone, and the pathetic nature of that last thought is sobering. I haven’t accomplished much in the last twenty-four years. My eyes begin to water, and my vision clouds.
“Hey, take it easy,” a much calmer voice calls out from behind me.
I try to focus on the deep tenor of this stranger, who to my shock is defying a man with a gun, but my senses aren’t cooperating.
Using me as a shield, my captor spins me and I get a blurry first look at my would-be hero. Through pooling tears, I see he’s dressed in an expensive black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a solid black tie. He has hair the color of dark coffee, and because he defies the order to hug the floor, I notice he’s tall. His sapphire eyes lock on mine, urging me to breathe, and for a split-second I forget I’m in the arms of a lunatic because it’s this stranger’s gaze holding me hostage.
Though his hands are in the air, like everyone else’s, he seems to be humoring the robber rather than obeying him out of fear. And while not armed, his calm demeanor is more threatening than the creep jamming a gun against my throat. It’s as if under the façade of composure something dark and dangerous lingers—the insight makes me tremble.
“Trust me, sir. You don’t want to do this.”
My mysterious hero speaks with disconcerting calmness.
“The next few minutes are going to define the rest of your life. Are you going to be the man who robbed a bank, or the murderer who shot an innocent woman?”
His tone is stone cold, and though I can’t help but feel envious of his detached demeanor, I’m also pissed because that question is more loaded than the gun against my head. You better have a plan, Mr. Black Suit...
My potential murderer again digs the barrel of the gun against my neck and the pressure forces a guttural cough to escape from my lips. Oh please God, let this be over soon! Praying, even silently, is something I haven’t done in years. It’s pathetic to call on an abandoned faith in a moment of need, but as I stand there, petrified, I take comfort in words I have long since abandoned.
“Who the hell asked for your opinion?” the man gripping me snarls.
“You want money, don’t you? Leave her alone and focus on the reason why you came here.”
The thief’s grip tightens around my chest. “Hey, how’s it going back there with the money?”
There are two of them?
“We’re running out of time. Hurry the fuck up!” The man pressing the gun against me is obviously unnerved by the slow progress of his partner in crime, along with the faint sound of sirens. Drops of his sweat are dampening the curve of my back, and his grip is bruising.
“Do you hear that? The police will be here soon. If you plan on getting out you better help your friend. You’re wasting time.”
Again, my hero speaks, and I swiftly come to the conclusion he’s either a full-fledged idiot or ten times braver than anyone has the right to be under such circumstances.
You’re antagonizing a man pointing a gun at me, Mr. Black Suit. Roll the dice when it’s your life on the line, not mine.
“Maybe I should just shoot you and the bitch.”
The thug pulls the gun from my throat, and a momentary spasm of relief pulses through me. I’m still in the arms of a lunatic, however, at least the gun is no longer burrowing its way through me.
“Where the fuck’s that money?”
I know the sound of desperation, and this man is without a doubt desperate. Anxiety can cause people to do crazy things, and at this moment I’m being held by a ticking bomb.
For the first time, I dare to sneak a glance at my captor. He has his head turned so he can address his partner, and is holding the gun with an outstretched arm, his aim fixed on the cocky Mr. Black Suit.
Taking advantage of Ski Mask’s inattention, Mr. Black Suit lunges for the gun, grabbing the barrel and shifting it to the side, while his opposite hand pushes against the criminal’s wrist. A snapping noise following the hasty movement.
I’m thrown off balance by my abrupt release and stumble back, arms lurching forward as I join everyone on the floor. Thunderous gunshots echo throughout the hushed bank. Screams erupt as someone with a ski mask, who I assume is the other thief, drops near the teller line.
Am I shot? No, I’m still in one piece and my hero is in possession of the gun, now aimed at the thug beside me. The criminal is bellowing something about his wrist, which is twisted in an unnatural position.
My hero’s voice reverberates against the marble interior of the room.
“Stay down!”
I’m not sure he’s telling me or the groaning man beside me. Though it doesn’t matter, because I don’t possess the dexterity to move—there’s no way I’m getting up.
Wide-eyed, I observe an armed man enter the bank. He’s the guard who stood outside near the Escalade when I arrived. Peering to the left, I focus on the crumpled form of the shot man. Blood is pooling on the floor and I’m on the edge of a panic attack. This isn’t happening, I must be dreaming. Please, let me be dreaming. I blink a few times, willing everything to disappear, but my attempts are futile.
Mr. Black Suit is conferring with the guard. My assailant’s gun is in his grasp, still leveled at the thug who would’ve taken my life with little or no thought. The tears I’ve been harboring cascade down my face.
I’ve had panic attacks before. I try to count. I try to think of a comfortable place so the room can stop spinning, so I can stop shaking. Take a deep breath from your diaphragm and hold it, focus, and you’ll make it through. My body trembles as I struggle to remain in control. Get a grip!
I hear the scatter of feet while the people racing toward the exit speed by like out-of-focus photographs. Wait for me! I want to go, too!
Mr. Black Suit materializes in front of me. He’s crouched on the ground, speaking. His lips move, but I can’t hear him. I’m still trying to slow my rapid breathing. His chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath of air, his lips parting in a charming little circle while exhaling. Oh, so that’s how it’s done? Slowly, we find a rhythm, and in no time I’m back on Earth, back in Miami, Florida.
I don’t know how long we sit there doing the most basic of functions, but I’m grateful someone is next to me. And at the moment he doesn’t seem like a full-fledged idiot.
“Everything’s okay, you’re safe.”
His sapphire eyes are simultaneously soothing and threatening, like the flicker of fire. He offers me his hand, and when I place my palm against his, it’s like I’m touching a fuse the second it blows. My muscles burn; it’s hot around me, and I’m sweating.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m unable to move, and it’s him who hoists me up. My knees buckle and I fear I’m going to fall, but his strong forearm curves around me, supporting my weight and holding me upright. Although the fabric of our clothing folds against our pressed forms, the defined ridges of his muscular chest push along the swell of my breasts and the image of ripping his button-down open and running my hands over his bare pecs flashes in my head.
Inhaling a deep breath because I’m obviously in desperate need of air, I’m hit by the decadent scent of his skin. The danger of going limp again becomes a real possibility. Before I sway, I dig my fingers into his toned shoulders, holding on for dear life.
“Steady.”
He smiles down at me. It’s a movie-star grin, teeth perfectly straight and white. The sight does nothing for my already shaky stance.
“Mr. Black, I’m sorry it took so long for me to respond. As soon as I realized what was going down—”
The sentry’s apology is cut short by my hero, who is apparently his boss.
“You did fine. We’ll talk about it later. This is neither the place nor the time.”
Mr. Black? Mr. Black Suit is actually named Black? I can’t help it, I laugh. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through my body, the interesting coincidence, or that I’m in the arms of the most drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, but I burst into a fit of giggles.
Again, he’s staring at me, and though a second ago he was dismissive with his underling, there’s gentleness in his gaze. It’s an intriguing look that contrasts with the hard, chiseled features of his handsome face and before I can stop myself, my pointer grazes the line of his jaw.
A shadow crosses his eyes and his grip on the small of my back tenses. “Are you able to walk, or do you need me to carry you out?”
The deep grate of his words makes the already personal question boarder inappropriate, but damn, I’m tempted. So tempted I’m finding it hard to think about anything but being swept up in his arms.
Loud voices shouting orders and the scuffle of tramping feet jerk me back to reality. Did I actually touch his face? This isn’t me… I don’t touch strangers, no matter how good-looking. Then again, I’ve never met anyone this good-looking… Focus, Evie! I shake my head, trying to push through my embarrassment.
“No, of course not. I… I can walk.”
I pull away from his arms, needing the distance to function. Steadying myself, I scan the room. The police have arrived and are everywhere, inspecting the area.
Mr. Black talks to his man though his eyes are pinned on me. “I’m going to have to speak with the authorities. It’ll take some time. Take this young lady outside. The fresh air will do her good.”
I don’t move until Mr. Black’s guard grips my arm, and as I am led out of the bank I can’t help looking back at the man who is literally my hero. The thought once again brings me to irrational giggles.