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Ever since Lucy Carlyle had landed in his sitting room, Anthony Lockwood’s life had been in a constant state of turmoil. He had known what his life was; he had his mob business and it was doing quite well. He had his friends and his colleagues. He had his house. He had his warehouse. He had a pretty good life, all told. Sure, he didn’t sleep much, but after six years of living on nearly no rest, he had gotten used to it.
But Lucy Carlyle had changed everything. He had been forced to incorporate her into the legal side of the business while she was staying with him. Granted, it was something of a forced stay, but it wasn’t his fault by any means that her goddamn arsehole-of-a-police-detective fiancé had decided he didn’t want her back after Lockwood’s men had kidnapped her by accident. If fucking Paul Bell hadn’t decided to illegally hold Lockwood’s childhood friend, Holly Munro, Lucy would have never been snatched off the streets. Hell, if Bell had had the guts to beg for his fiancée to be returned to him, Lockwood would have given the order. He didn’t particularly relish holding a woman against her will.
But this woman drove him insane. He didn’t blame her for the bad attitude, he genuinely didn’t. He would have been pissed off, too, if he’d been forced to stay in a stranger’s home after being grabbed off the streets. But he was trying to help her and trying to get her back to her piece-of-shit fiancé, and she held no gratitude. Every offer, every olive branch, had been met with a rude and snarky response, and Lockwood wanted to strangle her. It didn’t help that Paul Bell beat the absolute shit out of her, and she still insisted that he was the man for her.
Lockwood’s older sister had been involved with a man much like Bell, and she had ended up getting beaten to death. Lockwood had no love for men who treated their women like punching bags. But Jesus Christ, Miss Carlyle seemed determined to make him out to be the kind of monster who shoved old ladies out of their way and kicked puppies. It was frustrating and demeaning and he had already spent several nights wondering why the hell he hadn’t just handed her money for a cab and sent her on her way.
Deep down he knew why, and he despised it.
He was going soft.
But he didn’t want another woman to die at the hands of an unreasonably violent man. And so he couldn’t just turn her out on the streets with nowhere to go. And she had yet to make an escape attempt - and he hoped she wouldn’t. He had kept their whereabouts in London a secret, but they were in the East End, right where White Chapel met Stepney. This area was extremely dangerous, and he had no intention of sending her outside.
“There you are.”
Lockwood turned instinctively towards the voice; Quill Kipps strolled towards him from the direction of the warehouse. Lockwood had just been on his way out of the house after catching up on paperwork - forged and legal - for the various aspects of his business.
“Do you need something?” Lockwood replied, focusing on the slightly shorter man.
Kipps held out a stack of envelopes. “These were delivered to the warehouse, but they should have been sent here. It looks like whoever you have dealing with the - er - art orders screwed up.”
Lockwood took the envelopes from Kipps. A couple had been slit open, and he curiously pulled out the order form. “
Shit
,” he cursed as he realized what Kipps was talking about. “You’re right, they should have been sent directly to the house. I need to run these inside to George so he can send them on to the art dealer.”
Kipps smirked. “Are you ever going to tell us who the art dealer is?”
Lockwood grinned. “A friend of Jessica’s, and that’s all you need to know.”
“It never hurts to ask.”
“It’s too bad you didn’t ask before you and George sent Ned and Bobby to south London to kidnap Miss Carlyle.”
“Are you still holding that against me?”
“It’s been nearly a week and a half, and she’s still at the house.”
“It’s good for you. She livens the house up a bit.”
“Yes, her sarcastic remarks are much appreciated.”
“You like a challenge, Lockwood. And she’s very much a challenge.”
“She’s engaged, Kipps, to Paul Bell.”
“Engaged. Not married.”
Lockwood narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Just what exactly are you hinting at?”
Kipps grinned widely. “You’re the one who felt the need to mention that she’s engaged. Trying to remind yourself of that? Attractive young woman sauntering around your house, and you can’t touch her.”
“You’re misjudging me completely, Kipps. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“So you’re not attracted to her?”
Lockwood busied himself with slitting open the rest of the envelopes with his pocket knife. “Not at all,” he said as he checked over the forms to make sure they were for art orders. “She’s a pain in the arse. Stubborn as hell. She’s lucky I haven’t thrown her out of the house, though maybe she’d like it if I did. It’d allow her to crawl back to her arsehole fiancé.”
“But you won’t let that happen because you don’t want to see another woman get beaten to death.”
Lockwood’s gaze flicked coolly towards Kipps. “You’re walking on thin ice.”
“Thinner ice than when I accidentally caused an innocent girl to get kidnapped?”
“Close.”
“Damn. I’m so scared I’m shaking. Look at me quaking in my boots.”
“Get your arse back to the warehouse. I’ll run these envelopes inside to George. I should be at the warehouse in an hour or so.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Kipps said with a cheeky smirk. He tilted his cap and spun on his boot’s heel to stroll away, before calling over his shoulder, “By the way, I brought some pastries from Dottie to the warehouse. I’ll make sure to save a couple for you before they all get eaten.”
“You’re slightly forgiven.”
“Please. You’d hate it if you saved my life in France for nothing.” And then Kipps sauntered off, much too jaunty for a man who remained perpetually on his boss’s bad side.
Rolling his eyes, Lockwood turned and mounted the steps to the sprawling townhouse, letting himself back inside. He passed the guards in the entry hall with a nod, and made his way down the winding corridor. He had long since suspected that the townhouse was actually multiple townhouses joined, but he had never dug up the records to prove his theory. But his mind returned to that particular train of thought as he approached George’s office. Maybe one day he would find the records just to check if he was right.
He tapped politely on the office door and let himself inside -
- And nearly stumbled over his own feet.
Miss Carlyle was bent low over the filing cabinet, rummaging around deep inside, and it was absolutely obscene the way her skirt hugged her arse and clung to her hips.
Lockwood immediately averted his gaze, his cheeks burning, and he cleared his throat. She must not have heard the knock. He had completely forgotten for a couple of minutes that she would even be in the office, and he deeply regretted not bracing himself for the onslaught of sarcastic comments from the soft, bright red lips.
Miss Carlyle straightened up and turned around. “Oh,” she said, sounding very displeased by his presence, “it’s you.”
“It’s me. I did knock,” Lockwood added, “but you must have been too - er -
involved
in your work to hear me.”
“Bit of an issue with one of the invoices. I’m still trying to get the files all organized. Once I’m gone, you’ll need to hire a clerk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Lockwood waved the envelopes. “I have more orders for George. Where is he?”
“He stepped out to try to round up a leg of lamb for lunch,” Miss Carlyle replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s the matter, Mr. Lockwood? Don’t you trust me?” A small smirk played around her lips, and Lockwood couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or mocking him.
He decided to go with the former for the time being. “Seeing as how you’re still technically a hostage, not particularly. But I appreciate the sentiment. I’ll just wait for George to come back.”
Miss Carlyle shrugged. “Suit yourself. It might be a bit. He’s walking to the butcher’s, and you know how he likes to haggle.”
Lockwood did know. It was one of George’s many impressive traits.
“I suppose I might as well make myself comfortable,” he sighed. He leaned up against the desk, refusing to sit in Miss Carlyle’s presence if she hadn’t already taken a chair. It just wasn’t good manners, and Lockwood may have been a mobster but he maintained that his manners were
excellent
.
“Fine,” Miss Carlyle said, still sounding rather bored. She bent once more over the filing cabinet, and Lockwood’s thoughts spun right out of control.
Of course he had known and understood that she was very attractive. With her soft brown curls and pretty blue-gray eyes, there was no denying that she was lovely. But her venomous tongue and poorly-earned loyalty to her fiance did nothing for Lockwood.
But her curves certainly did. And her curves were absolutely exquisite. He longed to memorize the shape of her hips, to cup her arse, to trail his fingers along the dip of her waist.
He knew he needed to avert his gaze, to turn his eyes away. He had no business staring when he couldn’t even stand her, but images were slipping through his head. He could see the hollow of her throat as she threw her head back, the soft pink of her tongue dipping out to wet her lips as her fingers sank into his shoulders.
And then he shook himself out of that fantasy. He
couldn’t
.
He didn’t even like her, for fuck’s sake.
“Lockwood, what are you doing here?”
Lockwood spun guiltily to find George ambling into the office. He was limping slightly; he had had polio as a child and he wore braces, but some days his legs ached worse than others.
“I’ve got order forms for you. They were sent to the warehouse by mistake,” he said quickly. “Here you go.” He handed them over to George. “I’ll be on my way now. Good day, Miss Carlyle,” he added with a tip of his hat as she straightened up to look at him.
“Wait, Mr. Lockwood - “ She hurried after him, her heels clacking against the wooden floor as he stepped out into the hall.
“What is it, Miss Carlyle?”
Oh god, had she caught him? Had she felt his gaze, heavy with lust and desire, burning into her backside?
“I’ve got a request. If you’re passing by a shop, that is.”
“I might be. What is it?” He continued walking down the hall, though he moved slower so she could easily keep up.
“It’s rather…ridiculous, but…” Her cheeks flushed. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll just…I’ll ask Kat when I see her next.”
“Kat is out on a job for me, Miss Carlyle. What do you need?”
“Chocolate, please. And…” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “A hot water bottle would be lovely.”
“A hot -
oh
.”
Her blush darkened, and he realized that she’d draped one arm around her stomach.
“Er…George might have some tea to help with the pain,” Lockwood told her, refusing to make the situation more awkward than it needed to be. He had lived with women before and he understood about menstruation and cramps. “And bananas. Bananas help. There should be some in the kitchen. I can show you where.”
“I would…appreciate that,” she choked out, as if it hurt to say that.
And so Lockwood led her into the kitchen and located the bananas for her. He plucked one and even peeled it, before passing it over.
“Thank you.” She took a bite. “It only hit a little bit ago,” she explained. “While George was out, or I would have asked him to at least grab a hot water bottle. I thought about asking him when he came back, but I didn’t want to send him back out with his legs.”
“Understandable. Do you have what you need?”
“I do. Kat stocked some - some supplies - in my room, but…no hot water bottle.”
“I’ll get you one,” Lockwood promised her. “And chocolate.”
“Thank you.” She finished her banana and binned the peel. “I appreciate the lack of horror. You’re very matter-of-fact.”
He snorted. “Am I supposed to be scared of a bit of blood? I’m a mobster. If I couldn’t handle blood then I wouldn’t survive two days.”
“Paul finds it gross,” Miss Carlyle mumbled.
“Well, your fiance isn’t much of a man.” He waited for her reproachful look, her snappy comment, but it never came. Instead she pursed her lips, almost as though she agreed with him. “In any case,” he continued on, “I’ve lived with women. I know how menstruation works. Congratulations on not being pregnant with Paul Bell’s baby, by the way.” And before she could seize an apple from the fruit bowl and chuck it at his head, he ducked out of the kitchen.
Lockwood had initially intended to go straight to the warehouse, but seeing as how he had a girl suffering from cramps back at the house, he didn’t feel that it would be particularly kind to leave her in terrible pain.
And so he stopped in at a local chemist’s shop, where he purchased a hot water bottle and a couple boxes of chocolate. He grabbed aspirin as well, in case it would help with the pain, and forked over the money for everything.
He really was going soft. And over Miss Carlyle of all people.
He hated to admit it, but he suspected that it was because she was very, very pretty. And it was entirely possible - much to his chagrin - that Kipps may have been right. He was ever so slightly attracted to her. Just slightly. It was barely noticeable.
But it still simmered low in his veins, and as he grabbed the paper bag from the clerk, he wondered what fresh hell he had stumbled into.
Lucy felt miserable. Her lower stomach felt as though someone was dragging a blazing hot knife through the tissue. The banana had helped some, enough for her to comfortably finish her work, but the second her filing was done for the day she retreated up to her bedroom, where she curled up on her bed with a small whimper.
She didn’t expect Lockwood to return with the chocolate and hot water bottle for a while. She knew he’d been on his way to the warehouse, and surely he wasn’t about to stop at a chemist’s shop for the hell of it. He had mobster things to do; the needs of the random girl stuck in his house wouldn’t be at the forefront of his mind.
She did appreciate the banana, though.
She supposed she could go downstairs and ask George if he had any tea that would help her cramps, but she felt a bit awkward asking yet another man in the house for help. Paul had never been any use this time of the month. He usually ended up staying at a friend’s house during these weeks so he wouldn’t wake up to bloodied sheets.
At least she didn’t have to worry about him treating her as though she were a pariah this month. It did make a rather nice break.
Lucy revisited in her mind what Lockwood had said - about living with women before. She had felt pathetically grateful for his help, and it had been that much more embarrassing because despite her best intentions, she hadn’t failed to notice how handsome he really was. Mobsters should have been hideous, she decided, not tall with dark hair and broad shoulders and high cheekbones. Not smoky eyelashes and dark red lips.
But he had lived with women before. He had taken lovers. She had known this, of course, but her cheeks still flushed the way they had when she had accidentally stumbled upon his bedroom a couple days before.
Her abdomen contracted again and she winced, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.
She really would need to get up and ask George for help, she realized with a sinking feeling. She was just about to sit up when there was a pointedly polite tap on her door.
“Yeah?” she asked, wondering who the hell had the nerve to disturb her when she was in so much agony.
“It’s Lockwood.”
“Oh. Come in, I guess.”
He opened her door and strolled into her bedroom. He clutched a paper bag and a hot water bottle.
“I already filled it from the kettle downstairs,” he told her as he handed it over to her. “So it should be good and hot. I also got you aspirin to help with the pain, and here are the chocolates. I also asked George to make you a cup of the tea that Kat drinks when she’s cramping.”
Lucy settled the hot water bottle over her lower stomach with a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That’s very - that’s very kind.”
His gaze was gentle as it rested on her. “Well, I can’t leave a woman in pain.” He cleared his throat gruffly. “I’ll go check on your tea. George was limping so he probably shouldn’t climb the stairs too many times. If it’s ready, you can take the aspirin with it.”
“All right,” she agreed, and she reclined into her pillows.
Lockwood hurried out of the room, and Lucy reached into the paper bag. She retrieved the bottle of aspirin and the chocolate, and popped the lid on the box. She eagerly unwrapped one - Cadbury,
nice
- and tossed it in her mouth. It was delicious, rich and creamy, and it melted in her mouth like butter. She ate another one and sighed.
Lockwood was very accommodating, she supposed. He certainly wanted her to be comfortable, even if she was stuck in the house as a hostage for his and Paul’s stupid little game. Paul had grabbed Lockwood’s friend and refused to return her, and now Lucy was trapped here.
But sometimes…sometimes it didn’t feel like a prison. Sometimes…well, sometimes it almost felt like home.
Almost.
Lockwood returned with a mug of tea. “Here you go, Miss Carlyle. I hope you feel better soon.”
“I’m already doing a bit better, thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Honestly, thank you for everything. I appreciate it.”
He offered her a cheshire grin. “I can tell you’re in pain - you’re not even giving me any shit. I’m looking forward to you feeling better. I’m starting to miss the sarcastic comments and the bantering.” He offered her a wink and turned on his heel, walking out of her room. He shut the door behind him, and Lucy realized that her cheeks felt hot once again.
She groaned. On second thought, she really needed to get out of here.
As soon as she was feeling better, she would make her escape. She sure as hell couldn’t let herself fall for a mobster, especially not that one.
But for now, she would enjoy the warmth of the hot water bottle and the luxury of the Cadbury chocolates. She popped the aspirin and chased it down with a gulp of the pungent tea.
She would leave soon, and she would never have to think about Mr. Lockwood or his soft gestures and hidden kindnesses ever again.
She couldn’t wait to put him out of her mind.
Soon. She would put him out of her mind very, very soon.
She would never put him out of her mind.