Short Story from Gracie O'Neil Author Paranormal Romantic Suspense

"It wasn't always," David said lightly, kissing my forehead on his way through the door. "Nice place."

Part of me wanted to throw him out. Part of me wanted to drag him in. Part of me was glad I'd made myself spend my free day tidying. Another part of me worried that I hadn't tidied well enough.

Too late now.

I closed the door and followed him into the living area. "Why are you here?"

"For coffee. And a chat." He moved to the picture windows where nocturnal Wellington glittered on the hills around the harbour like a bejewelled lady reclining on black velvet cushions. "Amazing view."

"Yeah." I moved into the kitchen. Flicked the electric kettle on. Measured coffee into a French Press. And I watched him. Watched him analyse the terrain, search for potential threats, evaluate exits, review possible sniper positions... Watched him with a heady mix of need and gut-clenching fear. With a hunger I thought I'd conquered. Fat chance. God help us both. "Is there a problem?"

"That's my girl." He half-turned towards me. "Direct as ever."

I shrugged. "No point being any other way." I carried everything into the living area. "And I'm not your girl. Not anymore." Placing the tray on the coffee table I dropped into an armchair. Nudged a small plastic action figure of Princess Leia further under the table with my toe. "What is it? One of your employers planning to topple our government?"

"Not that I know of." He lowered himself into the armchair opposite, studying me from under half-closed eyes. "I liked your hair longer. And you're dressing more up-market these days. Where's my jeans-and-t-shirt girl?"

"She grew up," She'd had to.

He sighed softly. "I've missed you, Jacqui."

That soft Irish lilt had once held magic that could make me tremble. Now I poured coffee with a steady hand. "You might've missed the sex," I said, passing him his mug, "but I imagine there've been plenty of willing bed-warmers."

"There haven't."

In a pig's eye. "Losing your touch?"

"When I lost you I lost everything that mattered."

There was enough sincerity in his voice to make me study him a little harder. I wouldn't--couldn't--fall for that old line. David cared for David. And money. And the thrill of the chase. Like me--like I had been--David was a mercenary. Unlike me, he was utterly charming and completely without conscience. In other words, my kind of man. But not for the long haul. And not now, not any more.

"Please." I let a note of mockery creep into my voice. "Don't pretend you're here to tell me you love me."

"Among other things."

I snorted. "Then tell me the other things first. I might need the laugh afterwards."

He was fast--faster than I remembered--and I was slower than I should've been. His fingers curled around my wrist in a grip just this side of bruising, and he removed my brimming mug from my hand before I had time to think about flinging the contents in his face.

"I hurt you," he said quietly. "And you left. But that doesn't mean I stopped caring about you, that I don't still love you. It just means I was a thoughtless, selfish bastard. And I'm sorry." He took a deep breath, released it. "I'm out of the game."

Out of the game? Mr 'I'll Retire When I've Made Ten Million?' Fat chance. "Who are you? And what have you done with David?"

He didn't crack a smile. "You think I'm handing you a line?"

"Would I be wrong?" I asked, not ready to believe one answer, and not willing to hear another. "You want something or you wouldn't be here."

"I want something, certainly. But I'm not lying about the way I feel."

The trouble is, when you've lived the kind of life I have, and met the kind of sleazeballs I've met, your faith in truth, justice, and Mum's Pavlova gets a tad tarnished. On the other hand, I of all people knew that sometimes individuals changed.

Sensing my uncertainty, David pressed his advantage. His lips touched my forehead, then my nose.

"Don't," I whispered, feeling my heart twist inside my breast. Losing him had been hard enough to deal with first time around. I didn't think I could handle it twice.

"I'm serious, Jacqui. I'm out. Done." He grinned, and his eyes danced. "Retired, shall we say?"

He couldn't mean what I thought he meant. I opened my mouth to ask-- But it was too late. The theme from Star Wars rolled through the apartment like a thunderclap.

David flinched. "What the hell?"

My moment of truth. "It's the front doorbell. Stay here."

He ignored the instruction, rising to his feet to follow me. "You hated Star Wars."

"I've learned to boldly go," I said, over my shoulder.

He was right behind me. "That's Star Trek, not Star Wars." His fingers wrapped around my wrist again, and tension thrummed through him like a bass note plucked on a cello. "Wait. Are you expecting someone?"

"This isn't Colombia, David," I said as gently as I could. "I don't have to greet my visitors with an Uzi. It'll be my mother."

"In her case you'd need a rocket launcher--" the rest of his sentence was lost in another terrifying burst of inter-galactic sound effects as my visitor pressed the bell a second time, and I opened the door.