Chapter Two

I turned my head and pretended to look out of the window. I could hear him glide into the seat opposite me, a mixture of fabric and hands clasping the table. I knew I should have picked a double seat. I should have known I'd get unwanted company at a four-seater with a table. Only I wanted a place to rest my head if I zonked out.

There was a sigh, some movement under the table. It sounded as though he had stretched his legs and crossed his feet. I risked a glance. He was looking about the carriage. His eyes met mine and I flinched. They were very dark, mischievous and with a hard, dangerous edge I was all too familiar with. There were lots of handsome, shady characters in my family. I often wondered if they were a part of a clan. Not the Ku Klux, but something wider scale. I didn't dare say Mafia. It was too cliche. Was my strange Italian family a part of the cartel? Not impossible, but still ridiculous.

'Nice colour,' said a voice. I glanced over to see if it was him who had spoken. He nodded once at my chest, where bits of my hair had fallen from my ponytail. The ends of my hair had turned amber under the bright train lights. He couldn't have meant my breasts. They were colourless and under an unflattering, baggy nurses' uniform. My name tag glared up at me like a warning signal. Somehow I knew it was a bad idea to let this man know my name.

I lifted a hand to hide it, but knocked over my bottle of Evian in the process. He picked it up and stood it straight before I had the chance. Our fingertips met in the kafuffle. It wasn't unpleasant, but I whipped back my hand as if he was fire and I gasoline. I even winced in pain.

Standing without a word, I hurried to the ladies'. It was becoming a regular habit. I needed some space. I needed to get away from his … chaotic energy.

Good idea, shot back my mind.

In the stall, I checked my face in the mirror. I was unusually red, flushed as if I'd had a good romp then a bottle of whiskey. Right. In my dreams. I didn't have time for a glass of wine, never mind anything worthy of being called intimate.

I applied concealer under my eyes and a red-tinted lip balm. For som reason, I felt the need to look clean, fresh and together.

That's my girl, said my thoughts. Although it sounded like something Uncle Regis would say, that and 'You show 'em what you're made of.'

I took a pee, freed my hair out of its band, ruffled it into bedhead chic, then went back to my seat. He was still there, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table. They were, of course, very masculine hands, with nails neatly cut, with artist's fingers that could sculpt with clay or wood but be capable of harm if needed.

Don't forget that, chimed back my thoughts, still sounding like an outer interference rather than my subconscious. I shook my head. It was getting irritating.

'You can sit here,' came that deep, vibrating drawl of his. I couldn't place the accent. It may not have been British. It was slightly … Yankee.

I'd always liked Americans, so it was no surprise when I took his offer without a single thought (for once) and sat beside him. He turned a little in his seat and appraised me. That was the only way I could describe the way he searched my face, in particular my eyes, as if to locate a hidden message, as if he was surprised by what he was reading from them. He finally let the corner of his mouth curl. It wasn't a full-on smile, yet it lit up his dark eyes and turned them into friendly pools of honesty that I couldn't have imagined being there earlier.

I found myself smiling back, ignoring the return of my tugging thoughts telling me not to engage in any kind of a conversation with the striking stranger. He almost didn't look real, more like a hero from an action flick or a romantic hero from a BDSM novel where he was a dark and sinister sex fiend who had a softer side. Could he be the second theory? His smile further quirked up, as if he'd heard the silly question. I blinked and became flustered, brushing down my hair to give me something to do. I wasn't usually nervous around men. I usually didn't pay them much attention.

'Bella Travinni,' he muttered, looking at the tag that I'd forgotten to tear off in the ladies'. It was the reason I'd gone in.

'That's right,' I said, giving in to my stupidity.

'Chad,' he said after an awkward silence. 'Chad Glover.'

I would have expected a Carlos, James, Elijah or even Steven, but not … Chad. The name didn't exactly drip with sex appeal, not like this guy.

'So, you nurse people back to health?'

I nodded, avoiding his contemplative gaze. 'And you?'

'I … do things for people too.'

'Vague much?'

He sniggered, but it was barely audible. I figured he didn't laugh often and felt the need to keep it under control.

'Deliveries.'

'Oh, delivering what?'

'Things they've ordered but want to get rid of.' He said the last part slowly, emphasizing the words 'rid of'.

'And what do you do with the things they want to get rid of?' I went along with what I sensed was his way of giving me clues in cryptic replies.

'Dismantle. Crush. Bury.'

'Bury?'

There was that barely audible snigger again.

'Under the rest of the piles of the unwanted.'

An image of skulls and corpses came to mind, a mountain of them from many years of neglect. I shuddered.

'Are you cold?' He began to take off his jacket, sending a waft of spicey aftershave to hit me, gently, soothingly.

He smelt good, just showered. My mind took me to the image of him bathing, lathering up and rubbing his manly chest. There was plenty of rubbing; water dripped from his chiselled features.

I hugged his jacket and inhaled it like a crackpot. 'Mmm,' I said from somewhere out of my rational mind.

He sniggered quite loudly this time and settled back into his seat. 'Yeah, something like that.' His profile became a deep frown.

'Are you from the States?' I asked, relaxing into the warmth of his jacket. I didn't want to have to give it back.

'Used to be. I was moved to England from Boston when I was ten.'

'That explains the faint accent.'

'You can hear it?' He was still frowning. Maybe he had a headache too.

'I can, yes. I love Americans.'

His eyes softened just a tad as he turned his head to me and held my gaze. If I didn't know any better, I would have imagined he was just as wary of our moment turning out to be just a pleasant dream.

He blinked and flashed a smile. 'It sounds like you were born and raised here in London.'

His question, I noted, seemed a way to compose himself, rather than out of interest.

'Yes, Lincolnshire. Although Father had lots of dealings across the pond to do with business.'

'I bet,' he muttered under his breath.

'Sorry?'

He shook his head and was about to speak, but his eyes diverted to his left and stretched wide open. His jaw dropped. Screams erupted in the carriage.

A man was standing beside me, wearing a black balaclava with holes for his eyes and mouth. He was holding up a gun to Chad. I didn't have time to react. The gunshot exploded from the barrel, landing a bullet straight into Chad's forehead. Blood splattered against the window and gushed from the back of him.

It was all over me, red, like my lip balm, my purse, Mother's favourite vintage wine; red, like my father's rage.