My steps echo on the concrete as I cross the parking lot. There are twelve units with four apartments in each. Mine is on the first level of the second unit. The fact that it’s not on the ground level makes the possibility of someone climbing through a window or the roof even more improbable.
It’d been a long day at work. I’d rushed home to get ready, putting on a blouse with wide sleeves I made from tea-stained lace with a pair of high-waist black pants fastening with buttons on the sides. Pairing it with high-heeled booties, I call it my pirate outfit. So much for making an impression. I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I’m on the rebound, but I hate being dishonest. I’ll have to tell Lina to limit her matchmaking to guys who aren’t looking for anything serious.
Who am I kidding? The idea of a man’s hands on my body repulses me. I was hoping tonight was a step in the right direction to get over my phobia of being touched, something I’ve developed since I escaped. I’m worried sex isn’t in the cards for me for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll never be able to tolerate an intimate touch again. Maybe Maxime damaged more than my sense of safety for life.
Climbing the stairs to my unit, I pull free the elastic that ties my blond hair into a ponytail and shake out the long tresses. I use a straightener these days to get rid of my natural curls.
On the landing, I tiptoe so my neighbor doesn’t hear me. Mariska is a nice girl, but I’m not in the mood for company. I just want to wash the makeup off my face and crawl into bed. I was worried for nothing, though, because a reggae song pierced with laughter filters through her door. She’s got company. Later, I’ll have to listen to the banging of her headboard against the wall, lying awake in the dark and pondering all the ways in which I’m screwed up.
Those sleepless nights are the worst. I ache for a touch I can’t tolerate from any other man, my body heating with need at the memory of another woman’s man. I burn and cry, and eventually make myself come only to hate myself for it in the morning. Maybe I’ll take a sleeping pill tonight. I picked up a herbal remedy from a natural medicine pharmacy a while ago, but I haven’t tried it yet.
I keep my alarm remote and keys in a zip pocket of my bag that’s easily accessible so I don’t have to fish for them at the door. It’s the small security measures that make the difference. Get inside fast before someone can snatch you on the landing. After deactivating the alarm, I unlock the security gate and door, and blow out a sigh of relief when I’m inside. I lock the gate and door, then double check by testing the handles to make sure I’ve locked them. Hanging my bag on the coat stand in the entrance, I go through the door on the right to the kitchen and fill a glass with water from the tap. I take a long drink before unzipping and kicking off my booties.
The heat in the overcrowded bar left me sticky. I envision another quick, cool shower as I make my way to my room with the glass in one hand, already unbuttoning my blouse. The lamp I left on in the lounge guides my way. The radio still plays softly. I always leave on signs of life when I go out so that potential robbers would be deceived into thinking I’m home.
I enter the lounge to switch off the light and music, and then stop dead. My heart slams into my ribs. My breath catches, and the glass slips from my fingers. It shatters when it hits the tiles, water splashing over my bare feet and against the legs of my pants.
I don’t look at the damage at my feet. I don’t look away from the large frame of a man sitting in my armchair. I’m battling to process what’s happening as we’re staring at each other, my body frozen in shock while he assesses me with an emotionless expression.
“Hello, Zoe,” he says in a gruff voice, the foreign accent rich and unmistakable. “Or shall I say, Amanda?”
Chapter 7
Zoe
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
Shock pierces my skin like needles. I go hot and cold, then hot again.
Maxime looks exactly as I remember, except for the slightly longer and disheveled hair that matches the dark scruff on his jaw. He’s wearing a white dress shirt that’s unbuttoned almost to the waist and a pair of dark suit pants. His ankle rests on his knee in a casual stance, but there’s nothing casual about the cold light shining in his gray eyes.
He holds one of my water glasses filled with a quarter of amber liquid in one hand while the other lies in a relaxed pose on the armrest of the chair, a gun resting in his slack grip. All the while, he’s watching me with the cruel amusement and unsettling interest of a serial killer.
Even from here, the smell of whiskey reaches my nostrils. I don’t drink it, but I got the bottle in a crazy bout of devastating sadness one day when missing him hit me so hard it felt like a physical disease. My cheeks heat when I remember how I made myself come on my fingers, fingers I’d dipped into that alcohol and sucked to remind me of the taste of his kisses.
I stare at him in horror as he considers me with that laid back demeanor and strange look that seems indifferent, volatile, cool, and heated at the same time. Despite his quiet immobility, I sense the litheness trapped under the deceptive calm. If he appeared dangerous before, he’s danger personified now. The only thing preventing me from bolting for the door is the gun resting in his hand.
His gaze slips down to where my blouse is unbuttoned, heating as it lingers there. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest he must be able to see it.
Terrified, I clutch the ends of my blouse together. “How did you get in?”
“Really, Zoe? That’s the first thing you’re going to ask me?” His tone is mocking, his accent both familiar and new after all this time. “No greeting or welcoming kiss?” Putting the glass on the side table, he gets up. He executes the action leisurely, but he dominates the small space with his height and mere presence.
Instinctively, I take a step back. Something sharp cuts into my heel. I gasp at the sting.
He holds up a hand, the hand with the gun, but the barrel is turned toward the ceiling. “Don’t move.”
Lifting the pressure off my heel, I look down. A shard of glass is lodged in my skin, and blood is mixing with the water on the hardwood floor.
Maxime tucks his gun into the back of his waistband and crosses the floor. I shrink back when he reaches for me.
“Don’t touch me,” I cry, holding up a hand as if that may stop him.
His voice holds a warning that clashes with the melodic quality of his French accent. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He will if he has to. Just like before. Just like always.
“I just want to help you,” he says.
Help me? That’s not why he’s here.
Putting my weight on the toes of my injured foot, I back out of the door as fast as I can. If I can get to the entrance, I can push the silent distress button on my alarm remote that’s hanging from the keychain in the door. The security company will be here in a few minutes, and they’ll alert Damian.
Maxime has the physical advantage, though. He has longer legs and wider steps. He chases after me with determined strides, in no particular hurry to catch me. Like a fox playing with a rabbit, he backs me up to the door and grabs the keys from the lock before I can reach them.
“Looking for this?” he asks, dangling the keychain in front of my face.