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)
Logan lets out an audible gasp. “What are the photographs of?”
“Camille,” I snap. What the fuck does he think they’re of? “There’s a note. They say you have three days to comply. Comply with what?”
“I don’t know! How can I comply if I don’t know what they want?”
I resist punching the wall of the elevator, glancing down at Camille. She still looks vacant. “You’ve had no further threats?” I ask.
“No, damn it! Don’t you let her out of your sight, Sharp!”
“I don’t plan on it,” I grate, hanging up and immediately calling Lucinda. She answers with silence. “I’m sending you something by courier within the hour. Have it checked for fingerprints.” The doors to the elevator open and I make quick work of guiding Camille out.
“Got it.”
Stuffing my phone back in my pocket, I come to a stop at Camille’s apartment door and look down at her. “Keys?” I ask, knocking her from her trance.
She looks up at me, making no attempt to get her keys out. “How serious is this?” she asks quietly. The fear I’d expect to be riddling her expression isn’t there. There’s still that compassion instead.
“Threats are usually exactly that,” I say robotically. “Just a form of scaremongering. Besides, nothing can happen to you while I’m around. Open the door.” I force my eyes away from hers. It’s harder than it should be, when she’s looking at me with a million questions in her eyes. But I know they’re not questions about the threat and what it means. They’re questions about me.
Chapter 10
CAMI
I spent the night lying awake, but the photographs that showed up weren’t the cause for my insomnia. It was my curiousity about Sharp. Once I’d let us into my apartment, he only spoke to me when he absolutely needed to, giving one-word answers. The tension was thick. Horrible. And I know it had nothing to do with the photos that arrived. I knew what I was doing in Harvey Nic’s, baiting him, making him suffer, forcing him into a man’s hell. I loved every moment of it, seeing him squirm and sweat.
Yet every time our eyes connected, my amusement was stripped away and replaced with something I didn’t love so much. But I can’t deny it was there. I tried my best to disregard it, but I couldn’t deny it. A sizzling electricity that I concluded wasn’t my imagination. Not that it matters now.
Since Sharp had that shocking episode in the store, he’s shut down. Hardly even looks at me. I should be grateful. It’s removed the awkwardness of us constantly catching each other’s eye, but unfortunately that awkwardness has been replaced with something else. Tension. Intrigue. At least it has on my part. He’s here but not here. He’s like a robot, and I can’t help wondering if it’s because he let his defenses down. Let me see deeper into him. Not that he looked like he had much choice. He wasn’t in control. It was pretty agonizing to see his big, strong body reduced to such a mess. I can imagine how he felt. So strong, but so vulnerable. It reminds me of someone else. Me. Much of me is a front. Privately, I feel like I’m constantly battling my demons. Sharp and I are more alike than I’m comfortable with. Because whatever his internal battle is, I understand. I get it. And it’s humanized him a bit more, made me see him a little differently.
As I enter the lounge, pulling my hair up as I go, I find the space empty. Sharp isn’t in his usual spot on the couch. It looks odd without his big body reclined on it. I hear sounds from the kitchen and follow my ears, entering to find him by the sink, just finishing a glass of water. I momentarily wonder if he’s had to take another pill. Beta-blockers. One thing I have figured out about Jake Sharp is that he’s definitely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I know, since he told me indirectly, that he’s a war veteran. He also has what I know now must be a bullet wound.
But it’s not my place to pry further, and after the state he was in at Harvey Nic’s, I dare not. It was painful to witness. I wouldn’t want to expose him to that again.
I make my way to the fridge to grab a detox juice. “I’m meeting Heather for coffee,” I say, unscrewing the cap of my juice as I turn.
Sharp hasn’t moved and he doesn’t seem to have heard me. He’s in a daydream.
I assess him as I wander away, sipping my juice. Then I notice a bag at his feet. “You going somewhere?”
He looks across to me, still appearing a bit spaced out. “I’ve been assigned to another job,” he says mechanically.
My heart sinks, which is daft. Him leaving is undoubtedly the best thing that could have happened.