Everything You Need: Everything For You Trilogy Book 1 (3 page)

“Feeling up for a game of tennis?” He narrows his eyes on my weapon. “That’s a good sign.” The humour is delivered dead-pan.

Those Arctic blues force a purely visceral reaction. I’m more affected by him standing in my apartment after four silent years than I would have been staring down Genghis Khan and his entire Mongolian horde. My total body reaction to that faint scent of Clive Christian feels so intense, the room darkens and I stagger.

Jack rushes towards me, removes the sports equipment that I’d visualised holding off a whole army of triads with, with one flick of his wrist and lowers me to sit on the bed. I’m weak before him in every sense of the word and I’m burning with shame. This isn’t how the big reunion was meant to be.

“Catch your breath a minute. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sitting plagues my bladder even more which prompts me to remember the empty water jug. I glance over at it and back at Jack. I turn my head towards the open window, then back to him once more.

“You broke into my apartment.” My gravelly voice doesn’t sound like my own.

“I’m having the door fixed now.”

Door? “I thought you came through the window.”

He twists his neck round and frowns at the window before looking back at me with a dubious expression on his face. “You live on the top floor, Tabitha. I opened that to get some air in here but I came through the door.” Only Jack could make breaking and entering sound perfectly reasonable.

“It was locked.” And one of the last things I absolutely remember doing.

He shakes his head at me. Top floor or not, I don’t think Jack Keogh should make me feel like an idiot just because he’s not up to a four-storey climb. He’s still an intruder.

“I know it was. And you weren’t answering when I knocked and kept on knocking. That’s why I’m having it fixed now.” Jack glares as if this is all my fault.

“You broke my door down?”

“How else was I supposed to get inside?”

“Wait for an invitation?”

“When would that have happened?”

“Never.”

“Exactly.”

I wonder if it’s too late to call the police but I know I’d never do it. With my luck they’d send a couple of female officers who would be so instantly smitten by Jack’s virile male presence, sexy athletic body, blazing good looks and rogue Irish charm, they’d arrest me for harassing him and wasting valuable police time. They’d probably leave with a hefty donation of his money for the Metropolitan Police Benevolent Fund and an offer to open their next family sports’ day, as the cherry on their big creamy cake too.

I’m cataloguing his attributes like I’m about to launch an advertising campaign to persuade myself I can’t live without him. Well I can. I do and largely by focusing on his many and significant faults. He’s bossy. Pig-headed. Arrogant. Rich. Self-possessed. Over-confident. Flirtatious. Mega-attractive to every woman on the planet with a pulse. And, most importantly, not the least bit interested in me. And he breaks into single women’s apartments.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

He made it perfectly clear he didn’t want any sort of relationship with me. His company might still be CaidCo’s most important client but I never personally handle his account. I can hardly bear to look at him.

I can hardly bear not to.

The truth is, I feel totally inadequate, wearing grotty old pyjamas when he looks so amazingly well-groomed despite breaking and entering and probably sleeping the night on the sofa. I jump up and brush past him.

He grabs my elbow stopping me. “We’re going to talk about this situation.”

“I have a more pressing one.” I stare in defiance even though it makes my stomach lurch. But he isn’t letting go. “I need the bathroom, okay? An entire jug of water, Jack? Really?” I didn’t think a bladder was capable of holding that much liquid, before today. Mine won’t be for much longer.

He understands instantly, releasing me. “For your own good.”

I pee continuously for twenty minutes.

One glance in the mirror tells me I’m not leaving this bathroom until I’ve done something about the way I look. It’s hard enough confronting the past without feeling like a bag lady before a prince. The long brown tangled bird’s nest of hair makes me look like I’ve been hanging upside down or dragged backwards. My strappy top is inside out and back to front with the label showing yet I was definitely sober when I put it on. The shorts are aptly named, creased and twisted up my rear end. I heave the elastic into proper alignment around my hips. They’re so washed and worn they’re practically threadbare, I notice with dismay. I turn and look back over my shoulder into the mirror. I’ve had these ones since I was fifteen and they barely cover the cheeks of my backside.

I hide my face in my hands and groan with embarrassment. I’m a drunken mess. The thought echoes with familiarity round my head.

How was I to know this would be the day I finally came face to face with Jack Keogh again? It could only happen to me. In every fantasy I ever had about it, I was elegant and disdainful and hanging off the arm of some ripped hunk when he happened to brush past me in a crowded room. All alone. I wanted to enjoy the look of bitter regret on his face for abandoning such a gorgeous woman as me.

I stare at myself again with disgust, knowing he’ll be glad of the lucky escape. There’s no way he’s seeing me until I’m showered and changed at the very least.

Checking the bathroom door is firmly locked whilst realising the futility if he managed to break my front door down, I turn on the hot water, strip off my things and try to improve on grim reality using every lotion and potion to hand. At least I’ll come out looking cleaner and smelling more pleasant. I dry my hair and put on a bit of make-up.

It’s only then I realise I have no clean clothes inside with me. I consider the crinkled contents of the dirty laundry basket before I crack open the door and peer out, wrapped in a towel. Jack sits on the bed watching me, managing the neat trick of raising both his eyebrows whilst frowning between them which seems to spark yet another hazy memory in the recesses of my mind.

“You’re taking your time. Perhaps I overdid the rehydration. Need any help?”

I pull a face. “I need to get dressed.”

“So get dressed.” His lips curve marginally making me want to scream. He’s goading me deliberately. I don’t suppose he’s used to being kept waiting.

“I’m not getting dressed with you watching.”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen a woman’s body before.”

“You haven’t seen mine.” And that was his own choice.

“Really? The state you were in, you have no idea what I’ve seen.”

I don’t even want to know what he means by that or the smirk on his face but I do know he’s saying it just to rile me. He isn’t the least bit bothered he’s invaded my privacy; planted himself in my bedroom when I haven’t even invited him into my home. Why wouldn’t I be angry after all this time? Especially after his rejection.

I try to be reasonable. “Please can you go to the sitting room while I get dressed?”

He stands. “I’ll find you something to wear.” He searches my closet then hunts through my chest of drawers without the slightest qualm that he’s going through all my personal possessions.

“Stop!” I hold my breath and cringe when he looks inside the top right hand bedside cabinet drawer, shuts it again and turns towards me with a horribly fascinated look on his face. I go beetroot red. Now we both know that’s where I keep my Turbo Toy.

He doesn’t say a word but keeps on searching while I linguistically programme myself into believing I’m a perfectly normal healthy female and I don’t really want to turn to ashes and gust out the open window. I jump when he speaks.

“Christ, Tabitha. When did you last go clothes shopping?”

“You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”

He turns and strides towards me effortlessly pushing wide the door I’m guarding through the crack. I take a step backwards under the sheer force of his personality. “You. Are. Beautiful. Your clothes, on the other hand, are a waste of cupboard space.” He doesn’t pull his punches.

“It’s just stuff I wore through Uni. Jeans, t-shirts. What’s wrong with it?”

“Are you still at University?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you running Harry’s company now?”

“Yes.” At least in theory.

I think of my two machine-washable business suits, one of which lies crumpled up in the laundry basket in the bathroom beside me. I bought them five years ago when Harry insisted his teenaged intern be more formally dressed on occasion.

Jack turns his attention back to the closet discovering a short cotton printed skirt and matching sleeveless blouse right at the back. He hands the garments through the door to me. I bought them for a country wedding a few summers ago and haven’t worn them since. It’s not the sort of thing I wear on a Saturday morning; it’s far too dressy but as I’m currently naked under a damp towel I’m not about to argue.

I bang the bathroom door closed and lock it. Then I remember underwear and have to open up again.

“Yes?” He’s waiting right outside.

I swear from the look on his face he already knows what I’m about to say. “Underwear.” I stare past his right shoulder as I say it.

“I suppose that might be a good idea under the circumstances.”

I ignore him.

He goes directly to the lingerie drawer he inspected earlier and pulls out a bra and pair of panties, looking at the latter with barely disguised amusement. Although they’re perfectly decent and serviceable, if I’d known Jack Keogh would have been rummaging through my knicker drawer I definitely would have hidden the ones covered in cute cartoon characters, at the very least. I snatch the Wallace and Grommit minis and un-matching bra out of his hand and slam the door in his face.

I can’t believe any of this. And I don’t see that it’s any of his business what I wear or how much I drink. I dress quickly and emerge preparing for the thing I want most and least in the whole world. To make Jack go away and leave me alone.

When I reappear, he looks me up and down unhurriedly, his calm arrogance causing my skin to flare.

“Better,” he pronounces.

“Well I wouldn’t like to think I was causing offence to my housebreaker by not dressing for the occasion.”

Jack’s eyes light up but he gives a contradictory narrow-lipped grimace, like he knows he ought to appear peeved at my sarcasm but can’t quite manage it.

“All that water has certainly speeded recovery if your attitude is anything to go by.”

“You’ve probably long forgotten,” I snipe, “but when you’re twenty-two, you don’t suffer hangovers like you do at your age.” My comment only serves to put a fleeting smile on his face.

“Make some toast.”

“You want breakfast now?” I’m incredulous. He breaks in, embarrasses me then demands catering.

“You need to eat breakfast.”

“I don’t want breakfast.” My stomach chooses that exact moment to gurgle reminding me I haven’t eaten since Friday lunchtime. “I don’t want toast for breakfast anyway,” I qualify, to save face.

He grants me a look. “So what do you eat for breakfast?”

I’d love to say, men like him, but I think he’s expecting it and I’m not about to admit to my current craze for puffed wheat cereal either. It sounds so childish. My dietary habits, like my knickers and my sex toy are none of his business.

“On Saturday mornings? A couple of glasses of neat vodka.” I throw it out there defiantly, but lately it’s close to the truth.

Jack fixes me with a penetrating vision. “That’s all over.”

“Says who?”

“I’m telling you. That’s the way it is.” His expression suggests he means it.

He stands and walks out the bedroom door. I follow him towards my living room, pausing in the hallway to see two men in overalls putting the last of the brass door furniture on a brand new front door. My old front door, splintered and cracked is propped against the outside wall.

I look between Jack and the door a few times wondering about the amount of force it took to break it and see him in a new light. He might be a man in a suit but he’s all man. I pretend I don’t feel the flurry that trips through my belly that he kicked a door down to get to me.

“That’s us just about done guv’nor.” One of the workmen addresses Jack as if this is his home. He pats the door affectionately. “Best security door money can buy.”

Jack delves in his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. He peels off a bundle of notes and hands them over. “I appreciate you coming at such short notice. Send the bill directly to me, here.” He hands over his business card.

I try to work out how much money they have in their hands just as a tip. It seems like a substantial amount. Clearly, money talks and Jack has plenty to say these days.

Well, after four silent years, so do I. “Does that mean no-one will be able to kick my door down in future?” I glare at Jack as I speak to the joiners.

“Not unless they’re Superman, luv.” The workman strokes the door again. “This baby would need a blast of dynamite to shift it.”

His suggestion provokes another fleeting echo but I can’t catch hold of it and it fades to nothing. “Good. So I won’t be getting any
unwanted
visitors.” I stress the word for Jack’s benefit.