Beneath This Man (This Man, #2)(82)

‘Cathy.’ she says. ‘I work for Jesse.’

‘What?’ I ask impatiently, but then the anger dominating my entire being gives way to allow that little piece of information to sink in – that and the furniture polish in her hand.

Oh shit!

The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Jesse walk in. He looks at me and then at the woman stood in front of us both. ‘Cathy, you should probably get off now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ he says calmly, but I can still detect the anger in his voice.

‘Of course.’ She places her polish and duster on the side table and then takes her apron off, folding it hastily, but neatly. ‘I’ve put dinner in the oven. Give it thirty minutes.’ She picks up a carpet bag from the floor and stuffs her apron in the top. God bless her, she smiles at me before leaving. It’s more than I deserve. What a first impression to give.

Jesse gives her a peck on the cheek and a reassuring rub of the shoulder as she leaves. I watch her walk out into the foyer and see John and Clive transporting my bags from the elevator. That’s a waste of time because I’m not staying here. I stomp into the kitchen and yank the fridge open, hoping a bottle of wine might have magically found its way in there. I’m sorely disappointed.

Slamming the fridge door, I steam out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I can’t even look at him at the moment. As I enter the bedroom and slam yet another door, I stand and wonder…what now? I should just leave – give us both some space to calm down. This is too intense, too quickly. It’s poisonous, crippling.

I take myself into the vast bathroom and shut the door behind me. The surroundings of this whole penthouse are more familiar than they should be. After spending months designing and coordinating the works, I feel at home. I’m probably more at home than Jesse; he’s not even lived here for a month and one week of that was spent ridiculously drunk or unconscious.

I wander over to the chaise lounge in the window and gaze out across the docks. The people down below are going about their everyday business, strolling around or having an evening drink in the bars, all looking untroubled and relaxed. It’s probably not the case for all of them, but in my messed up state, I selfishly think that no one else could be as troubled as me. I’m head over heels in love with a man who has the most extreme temper and challenging ways. At the other end of the spectrum, though, he’s the most loving, sensitive, protective man in the universe. If John’s right, and he is only like this with me, should we be together? He’ll be dead by the time he’s forty from heart failure, and it will be my fault. With Jesse, when times are good, they are incredible, but when they are bad, they are unbearable.

I feel damned and blessed all at once for having found him.

I sigh wearily, putting my head in my hands in desolation, feeling the tears brimming and a lump in my throat forming. I thought I was beginning to find out what I needed to know but as time goes on, it’s becoming obvious that I haven’t, and with Jesse keeping his lips firmly shut, evading again, it doesn’t look like I’m going to find out anytime soon – unless I ask Mikael…

The door flies open and Jesse comes crashing in, looking like he’s been electrocuted. He’s visibly shaking and the main artery in his neck is bulging. While I’ve calmed significantly, he, it would seem, has not. He holds up something in his hand.

‘What the FUCK is this?’ He looks like he could spontaneously combust at any moment. I frown but then realise he’s holding up the flight details that Patrick gave me.

Oh Jesus, I’m in for it now.

Hang on a minute. That was in my bag. ‘You’ve been through my bag!’ I’m shocked. I don’t know why, he does it all the f*cking time. He doesn’t look ashamed or apologetic. He just waves the paper in front of my face while his chest puffs in and out erratically.

I push past him and storm downstairs to my bag, hearing him follow me, his heavy breathing almost louder than his charging footsteps. I rip my bag from the floor and take it into the kitchen.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he shouts. ‘It’s not in there, it’s here.’ He thrusts the paper under my nose as I dump my bag on the island and start rummaging through it.

I have no idea what I’m looking for.

‘You are not f*cking going to Sweden or Denmark or any f*cking where, for that matter!’ His voice is somewhere between anger and fear.

I look at him. Yes, there is definitely fear in there. ‘Don’t go through my bag.’ I grind the words out through my incensed frustration and look at him accusingly.

He backs away a little and chucks the paper on the island while maintaining his infuriated glare. ‘Why, what else are you hiding from me?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Let me tell you something, lady.’ He stalks forward, getting his face right in mine. ‘I will die before I let you leave the country with that womanising prick.’ A wave of pure dread travels across his face.

‘He won’t be coming!’ I shout, slamming my bag down for effect. I don’t know that for sure and in actual fact, I suspect he probably will. He’s got a plan and a motive. But why?

‘Yes, he will. He’ll follow you there, trust me. He’s relentless in his pursuit of women.’

I actually laugh. ‘Just like you did?’

‘That was different!’ he barks. He closes his eyes and lifts his fingertips to his temples to start rubbing away the tension.