Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
My shaky hand goes to my inside pocket as I drink in clean air, fumbling for my pills. It’s stupid; there won’t be any miracle effect from swallowing one now, but the psychological need is there. I pull them free and fiddle with the stupid small twist-top, the bottle slipping from my grip. They hit the floor at my feet.
“Fuck,” I curse, dipping, trying to straighten out my vision to locate the small bottle. I’m seeing ten of everything. Breathing ten times faster than I should. My hands feel the floor as I desperately try to home in on my target.
“Here.” The blur of another hand appears in my hazy vision, claiming the bottle and holding it out to me. My vision clears in an instant, and I look up to find concerned topaz eyes staring at me.
I swallow and take the pills, trying to unscrew the top as I rise and slump against the wall again. Camille puts me out of my misery and claims the bottle, opening it with ease and tipping a pill out into her palm. She holds it out to me, and I stare at the little tablet for a few seconds before taking it and knocking it back.
I close my eyes and force some deep breaths, hating myself for exposing the weak side of me to my subject. This has never happened before. Not to this extent, perhaps only in my dreams. But that perfume. It was a trigger. Fuck.
“Beta-blockers,” Camille says quietly. “They control adrenaline. Stop anxiety attacks.”
I drop my head, finding her screwing the lid back on, chewing her bottom lip. I can’t lie. But what the fuck would I say?
I reach forward and take the bottle from her, slipping it back into my inside pocket before assessing the stability of my legs. A quick tense of my thighs confirms they’re good enough. I push myself away from the wall, feeling her watching my every move.
“Where to next?” I ask, evading her eyes.
“I have some paperwork to go over at home this evening,” she replies quietly.
“Home, then,” I declare, gesturing for her to lead on.
But after a few uncomfortable seconds, she still hasn’t moved and I’m forced to search her out, set on giving her an expectant look. The expectant look doesn’t happen. She’s looking at me, not in interest and not in curiosity. It’s compassion, and as much as I know it shouldn’t be, it’s comforting.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say quietly, our eyes glued, neither of us breaking the connection.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t deserve it.” I find myself falling victim to the intensity of her beautiful eyes, hauling me in, enhancing the comfort that I don’t deserve.
“What happened to you?” she whispers.
“War,” I say simply, surprising myself with my easy, if not detailed, offer. I see understanding surface on her flawless face, and I finally yank my eyes from hers before I spill any more shit on her.
“Home.” I sweep my arm out and hope she follows this time. She does. Quietly and pensively, she passes me.
Camille Logan has exhausted her sass for today. She’ll never know how grateful I am.
* * *
As I tail Camille into the lobby of her apartment block, my mind is still reeling, my nose still full of the scent. I press the call button for the elevator, turning when I hear footsteps approaching. The concierge is holding up an envelope, smiling. “Miss Logan, your mail.”
Camille takes the envelope just as the elevator pings its arrival and the doors slide open. “Thanks,” she says, pulling the seal open as she wanders into the lift. Her steps stutter and I frown, following her in.
“What’s up?” I ask, not liking the visible goose bumps that have jumped onto her bare arms. She gazes up at me, a little vacant, forcing me to take the envelope that’s held in her limp hand.
An image hits me square between my eyes. “Fuck,” I curse, staring down at the photo of Camille wandering down a street with bags hanging from her hands. I flip the picture and am immediately confronted with another, this time her getting into her red Merc. There’s text at the bottom of this one, and I get tenser with each word I read.
YOUR FATHER HAS 3 DAYS TO COMPLY.
The elevator doors start sliding shut, and my hand shoots out to stop them. “Hey!” I shout to the concierge as he wanders away. He turns, still smiling. “Who delivered this?” I hold up the envelope.
“Royal Mail,” he answers, making me turn the envelope over and search out the postmark. There’s nothing, just Camille’s name and address on a typed label. I let the doors close this time, getting my phone from my pocket. Logan answers after the first ring.
“Camille’s had some photographs delivered.” I cut straight to the chase. “Whoever this is has been following her. I saw a white van outside her agent’s office yesterday morning. I approached and they drove off rather hastily.”