Silk Over Razor Blades (21 page)

The truth hurt so much she
whimpered and grasped her chest.

How could she have loved Nick
when there mere sight of Tristen made her want to pull off his
clothes? When his touch sent warm thrills of pleasure shooting
through every limb?

Leaping to her feet, Lenina
snatched up her handbag. She ran for the hallway. No choice
remained but to leave. To run away. Put as much distance as she
could between herself and any other innocent. And Tristen.

A flash of red caught her eye
and she spun towards it, hands curled into fists. A mirror threw
her own startled reflection back at her, dry trails of blood still
forming streaks across her cheeks and forehead. The stitches
beneath the dressing resisted her attempts to frown.

Slowly she pulled the sticky,
white dressing away to reveal the wound beneath. She gasped.

The wound started as a deep
gouge below her left eye. It curved across her cheek bone before
tapering into nothing, a finger’s breadth from the corner of her
lip. Along its length, the ugly black stubs of surgical thread
twitched like insectile legs. It bisected the previous scratch made
by Jason’s dagger, though that first wound couldn’t compare to the
second round of damage. All the make-up in the world wouldn’t hide
that from a photographer’s lens.

A moment later Lenina realised
that she needn’t worry about photos. Without Nick there could be no
wedding.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’
Tristen’s voice came from the top of the stairs. He descended
holding a toothbrush and a large white towel. Though his tone
remained light, the intensity in his eyes deepened as he stared at
her left cheek. ‘You weren’t supposed to take the dressing off
until tomorrow.’

Though unsure, Lenina thought
she saw a flash of anger in his eyes. Before she could dwell on it,
he sighed and held out the towel and toothbrush.

‘I wanted to see. What if it
scars?’

‘It won’t.’ His voice quivered
and that strange look returned to his eye. This time Lenina was
quick enough to recognise regret. ‘And it doesn’t matter, you’re
still beautiful.’ He touched her chin. ‘I’m sorry this happened to
you, Lenina.’

The way he said her name made
her knees quake. He leaned closer and Lenina saw a flush rise in
his cheeks and neck. His breath tickled against her nose and lips,
and his heartbeat began a lively triple step.

Each exhalation brought her a
little wave of mint and faint traces of something else. Something
sweet. Smooth. Warm. Lenina knew it was the smell of desire. As if
her brain had flicked a switch to assign emotions to familiar
scents, she knew the name of this one instantly. Tristen placed his
hands on her hips. His fingers worked beneath the hem of her
oversized sweatshirt until they touched bare skin.

‘Wait,’ she whispered.

He did. But his hands didn’t
move.

When she met his gaze, she saw
raw need burning in the brilliant green depths, speaking a language
she knew and understood with the basest parts of her anatomy.

‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured. ‘I’m
here. I’ll look after you.’

It would be so easy to let him.
To fall into Tristen’s arms and let this strong, kind,
sweet-smelling distraction whisk her away to a place where the
crazy events of the last two days had no power.

‘It’s my fault,’ she burst out,
gnawing her trembling bottom lip. ‘I did this.’

‘Don’t say that.’ His hands
tightened on her hips. Pulled her closer. ‘It’s nobody’s
fault.’

Curls of dark hair brushed her
nose. The soft strands carried that familiar scent of peppermint
and caressed her cheek like velvet.

‘I’m a horrible person,’ she
wailed.

Tristen stopped her words with
a tender kiss. When he pulled away again, his chest heaved as if
he’d run the minute-mile. ‘It’s not your fault.’

The next kiss was gentle but
insistent. He cupped her uninjured cheek and tilted her face
towards his. Lenina opened her mouth, and he took the invitation to
deepen the embrace.

His free hand dived beneath the
hem of her sweatshirt and groped the swell of her breast. He
groaned deep in the back of the throat. ‘Is this okay?’

No
. Lenina wanted to
scream. To push him away and run as fast as she could. But she also
wanted to touch him. Hold him. Kiss him. Taste him.

The warring desires left her
gasping. Trembling.

‘Touch me,’ she said.

Tristen lifted the sweatshirt
over her head and ran his fingers over her skin. ‘So beautiful,’ he
murmured. Leaning close, he brushed his nose through the hair at
the back of her neck, separating the braids with his fingers. ‘You
smell so . . .’

More kisses, along the side of
her neck, her ear, the hollow of her throat, growing steadily more
frantic with every touch of his lips.

The light touch of his fingers
sent electric thrills shooting along every nerve. His taste on her
lips was the sweetest she had ever known and in that moment Lenina
wanted it more than anything else.

His overshirt made no noise at
it hit the floor. Neither did his t-shirt.

Lenina let her hands travel
over his bare chest, picking out the subtle shapes of muscle
beneath his skin. When he crushed her close to his chest, she
kissed the side of his throat, and allowed her teeth to scrape his
skin. She ran her fingers through his hair.

He moaned. A whispered, ‘Yes,’
bubbled from his lips.

The rest of his clothes
vanished as quickly.

Lenina had a vague impression
of green, silky boxers flying through the air before Tristen knelt
before her, tucking his fingers into the waistband of her borrowed
trousers. He eased them over her hips as though unearthing an
invaluable treasure, his gaze never once leaving hers.

Hooking one arm beneath her
knees, Tristen swept her into his arms and carried her up the
stairs.

The neatly made bed squealed as
he settled her on it, stretching his naked body over hers with
another slow kiss.

Lenina huddled beneath the
duvet, her limbs still singing with pleasure. She watched Tristen
roll off the bed and stretch.

Rimmed in silver moonlight, his
body resembled the sculpted perfection of an ancient Greek statue.
She imagined running her hands over him again, picking out each
muscle with the tips of her fingers. Feeling his body join with
hers in the ultimate display of intimacy.

He smiled at her.

She looked away. ‘We shouldn’t
have done that.’

His smile wilted at the
corners. ‘I know this is hard for you, but—’

‘You do
not
know how
hard this is.’ Shame gave her voice a raw edge.

‘Fine. You’re right. But we
just shared something amazing. Don’t push me away now.’

‘Nick’s body is in the morgue.
It hasn’t been a day. I cheated on him.’

‘You didn’t, you—’

‘We were getting married.’

‘That’s right.
Were
.’
Tristen sat next to her and tugged the duvet down to her chin.
‘You’ve been through a trauma. You’re scared. Don’t feel guilty
about reaching out for comfort. Any normal person would.’

Staring into his eyes, Lenina
wished she could believe him. But the sickly, crawling sensation
twisting her stomach into knots refused to let her off so
easily.

‘I’m not normal.’

‘You got that right.’ He
touched her shoulder. ‘You’re an intelligent, strong, beautiful
woman.’

‘I’m a monster.’

Any answer Tristen planned to
make died as his phone rang. He crossed to the dresser and snatched
it up. ‘What?’

‘You need to come down to the
station, Tristen.’

Lenina heard the voice
perfectly, even from so far away. She felt an inexplicable jolt of
fear and watched Tristen’s face as he spoke warily into the
handset.

‘Brad? Why are you calling my
home line?’

‘You didn’t answer your mobile.
You need to come back in.’

‘I’m supposed to be on
leave.’

‘We have another murder.’

Tristen gave Lenina an
apologetic glance and briefly covered the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, I
have to take this.’

She nodded, pulling the duvet
even closer around her and turning her back to him. Despite his
lowered voice, she heard every word.

‘What happened?’

Thorne chuckled, a dry sound,
followed by his familiar smoker’s cough. ‘A woman in Grick Park.
Bitten
on the throat
. Dead dog right next to her. Her name
is Pauline Lock.’

Lenina froze. A chill raced
through her limbs and her mouth filled with a familiar sour
taste.

‘Grick Park?’

‘Same place Lenina Miller got
bitten. Where is she, Tristen?’

Tristen cleared his throat.
‘With her friend.’

‘Bullshit. Her friend’s here,
busting our nuts because that batty old neighbour rang her up to
gossip. Chief Hobb is trying to get rid of her. Where’s the
girl?’

Lenina closed her eyes. It
might have been funny if not so tragic. In her mind’s eye she saw
Ramona marching into the police station, her expression as fiery as
the red curls surrounding her face.

‘Lenina was concerned for the
safety of her friend. Given the circumstances, I think she’s
right.’ Tristen’s raised his voice, each word clipped and
harsh.

‘Where is she?’

‘I . . .’

‘You took her home with you.’
The flat disbelief in Thorne’s made it a statement, not a
question.

‘It’s not a crime, Brad.’

‘She’s a
witness
.’ He
sighed. ‘I’m coming to get her. If she’s worried we can put her
somewhere safe, but she can’t stay with you. Stop thinking with
your dick. We have a murder to investigate.’

‘Brad—’

‘Shut up and listen to me.
Don’t touch her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even offer her tea. You
can’t be seen making moves on the woman whose fiancé just got
murdered.’

‘I’m not making moves.’

Silence from the other end said
more than words ever could.

‘Be ready in half an hour.’
Thorne hung up.

Tristen placed the phone back
on the cradle then turned to face her. While he struggled to find
the words, Lenina arranged her features into what she hoped was an
innocent expression.

‘That was Brad. I need to work.
He’s coming to take you to a safe house. I don’t want— you mustn’t
think that I—’

She sniffed. Shook her head.
‘That’s probably for the best.’

‘I’ll get your things so you
can get dressed.’ He left the room with a visible slump to his
shoulders. When he returned with her clothes and handbag, she
refused to meet his gaze.

‘I’ll wait for you
downstairs.’

Nodding, she waited for him to
close the door behind him before shrugging the duvet off her
shoulders. Two minutes later she sat on the end of the bed with no
memory of getting dressed. She stared at the opposite wall, tracing
the patterns in the wallpaper as her mind whirled like a Ferris
Wheel.

Finally she pulled her mobile
from her handbag. Five missed calls waited for her. Four text
messages. All from her father. As she read through them, her nerves
twisted like a corkscrew.

Hey chuck, not heard from you.
Can you call me?

Did you get my last message?
Give me a call, chuck.

Where are you? Call me.

Lenina, answer your
phone!!!

The panic riding in that last
message brought on a wave of dizziness. Then, as if to think his
name was a summons, the phone rang in her hands.
Dad Mob
flashed on the display.

Hand shaking, she pressed
‘connect’ and lifted the mobile to her ear. ‘Daddy?’

‘Thank God, chuck.’ Ray exhaled
hard. Behind the sound of his voice was the rumble of rushing
traffic and white noise provided by a radio station with the volume
turned low.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You didn’t call. You wouldn’t
answer your phone. Nick’s phone is dead. No one’s answering the
land line.’

She hesitated.

‘Ramona called me, but nothing
she says makes sense. What’s going on? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, Daddy.’

‘Did something happen to Nick?
He always answers his phone.’

‘Nick is—’ the tightness in her
throat cut off further speech.

‘Chuck? Talk to me.’

‘He’s dead.’ She made herself
say it slow, firm and clear.

In the silence that followed
Lenina heard the low murmur from the radio. She imagined her father
behind the wheel of his ancient BMW, gazing out the window while
drumming his fingers on the wheel.

The image was so clear that she
could almost feel the beaded seat cover beneath her, smell the
lime-shaped air freshener her mother always hung from the rear-view
mirror.

‘Daddy?’

‘What happened?’ His voice
cracked. ‘Tell me.’

Her stomach writhed at the
thought of sharing her lies. ‘He . . .’

‘Chuck, I know this is hard,
but you have to tell me what’s happened.’

She dropped the phone. Though
Ray continued to call out to her, she couldn’t move. Instead, she
pressed her hands to her face and sucked deep breaths through her
nose, swallowing repeatedly to tamp down the taste of bile on her
tongue.

‘. . . to you now.’ She heard
the tail end of Ray’s words while wiping a dribble of snot against
her borrowed sleeve. ‘I’m already on the motorway.’

Lenina snatched up the phone
and crammed it against her ear. ‘Don’t come here.’

‘I’m not leaving you alone over
a hundred miles away.’

‘I’m with the police now.
Detective Blake is here.’

‘Blake? The young one with the
ponytail?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is the other detective with
you?’ Ray’s voice dropped low. She recognised the change of tone
from her early childhood when blaming her younger brother for
broken furniture and stolen biscuits no longer worked.