Damaged: A gripping short read, the perfect escape for an hour

Damaged: A gripping short read, the perfect escape for an hour Barbara Taylor Bradford A gripping and dramatic short read from the master storyteller Barbara Taylor Bradford.Beautiful, artistic and creative, Allison Jones is a force to be reckoned with. Growing up amongst a family of men, she is the treasured gem at the heart of a large and boisterous clan of cops.After the tragic death of her mother, Allison had thrown herself into her work, but then she meets Mike. Neither one of them is prepared for the power and intensity of their love for each other.So, when tragedy strikes, Allison’s life is derailed once again. Her over-protective family have looked out for her all her life, but they cannot protect her from herself… Copyright (#u524cd948-53e5-5614-83bf-bb7d463954d7) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018 Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2018 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com (http://shutterstock.com/) Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780007503438 Version: 2017-11-02 For Bob, with all my love always. Table of Contents Cover (#u55ccea6b-2fb0-56c3-9db6-b5f37a8f6132) Title Page (#u5da8bdd8-4319-5452-a175-d84bdb4ebd02) Copyright (#u33c548c9-2e0e-57a9-83f5-11c42a0aa8d3) Dedication (#u276209f6-7541-5d86-a43f-155ce0febe52) Aftermath (#u760ea363-ea47-53ab-b20f-46980fd66fa3) Allison (#uf6f04916-b62c-56cd-b60d-741f0700bf62) The Beginning (#u20004732-7f43-5be2-bfd3-d5b19e8ee890) Allison and Jimmy (#ua36dd2d7-7b78-5879-8edb-091e98ea8d0a) Mike (#u36d28d8d-0f5c-5f78-a32b-9abce55b292c) Allison and Mike (#uf354aa48-e5db-5dbb-9ef7-b70bcadac28d) The Jones Family (#litres_trial_promo) Allison and Peter (#litres_trial_promo) Peter (#litres_trial_promo) Allison, Kevin and Mike (#litres_trial_promo) Mike, Peter and Allison (#litres_trial_promo) Mike and Allison (#litres_trial_promo) Kevin (#litres_trial_promo) Allison and Mike (#litres_trial_promo) Mike (#litres_trial_promo) Allison and Peter (#litres_trial_promo) Defeated (#litres_trial_promo) Allison (#litres_trial_promo) Renewal (#litres_trial_promo) Mike (#litres_trial_promo) Allison (#litres_trial_promo) Allison (#litres_trial_promo) Mike and Allison (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Aftermath (#u524cd948-53e5-5614-83bf-bb7d463954d7) Allison (#u524cd948-53e5-5614-83bf-bb7d463954d7) Manhattan Allison needed a drink. Her brother, Jimmy, had made his usual foray to her rented room, picked the lock, and dumped her precious stash of Tullamore Dew down the drain. It felt like Jimmy and her dad were on speed dial at every liquor store in New York’s Five Boroughs. The minute she cobbled together enough money to pick up a pint of cheap whiskey, the proprietor would pick up the phone and rat her out. After she had paid, of course. Cops! She was surrounded by cops. It was the Jones family’s curse. You were either a cop or a drunk; her father, her brother, her uncle, three cousins … all were cops. Even her mother, her beautiful, iconoclastic mother, had been a cop. Shot dead by a sixteen-year-old punk trying to make a name for himself. The whole family were cops, except for Allison. She was the drunk. Someone had to do it. And drunks needed to drink. That need was not the only thing propelling Allison Jones towards West Forty-Fifth Street on this bitingly cold November night. She needed to be with people. She needed the rowdiness of an Irish bar, the smell of shepherd’s pie mingled with corned beef and cabbage, and beer. She needed to hear laughter. When, she wondered absently, as she waited for the light to change, had she last laughed? Not just pretended she was having a good time so some guy would buy her another drink. Never, maybe. But even as that bitter thought came, she knew it wasn’t true. There was a time, not long ago, when joy and laughter and love were as familiar to her as the emptiness was now. Once she had a big, loud, loving Irish family. Once she had had a career, owned a thriving business. Once she had had Mike. If you had him, there was nothing more to want from a life. A car horn blared and she realised she was standing in the middle of Sixth Avenue, tortured by memories and regret. Those who said, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, didn’t know what they were talking about. For her, loss was a physical sensation. Loss tore at her heart, denied her sleep. Most likely it was because she knew in her heart she hadn’t lost Mike. She had thrown him away. The only thing that made the pain of this feeling stop was oblivion. She was headed there now. Allison picked up her pace. The familiar light emanating from O’Lunney’s looked, at that moment, like salvation. Her heel caught in a crack in the pavement and she stumbled and nearly went to the ground. Careful, she told herself, hanging onto a parking meter, unsteady in heels way too high for her condition. She was already buzzed. What Officer Jimmy didn’t know was that his baby sister always carried a little something in her purse, something to get her through one of his purges. Allison bent and pressed her forehead against the frigid meter until the cold cleared her head. No falls tonight. No mysterious bruises, no being carried out of a bar, no waking up next to someone she didn’t remember meeting. She had promised herself that would never happen again. Slow and steady, she whispered to herself, letting go of the meter. Ten yards more and she was pulling open the heavy oak door to the pub. Laughter rolled out into the street and Allison forgot how cold it was. She was home. Slow and steady quickly turned into fast and furious. Before long, Allison was perched on the barstool, sloppy drunk, singing maudlin Irish songs that made her cry. She had inherited her mother’s voice, if not her rock-solid sense of decency. She didn’t care right now. Now she was surrounded by men she had charmed before she went over the edge; men who had already ordered more drinks for her. Enough drinks to seal the deal. Even if they lost interest, Charlie, the bartender she had known most of her life, had collected the cash and would dole the booze out on demand. She wasn’t positive, but she thought she had promised to go home with what’s-his-name with the blond hair. It would be good not to be alone. Soon she would feel nothing. All in all, it was a good night. She stopped singing as she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the bar. The golden light in O’Lunney’s added a special glow to her curly red hair. It looked as if it hadn’t been brushed in a week. Her violet eyes no longer held the sparkle Mike used to dote on. At this moment they seemed buried in a once-beautiful face bloated from too many nights like this. She made a face at herself in the mirror. Make-up streaked her cheeks from the crying jag her own singing had brought on. She had lipstick on her teeth. No one would believe she was only twenty-nine years old. For some reason the image of her ruined visage struck her as funny. She was laughing as she slid off the barstool, knocked over two more stools and landed on the floor. She still laughed as she lay there, her skirt up around her hips, tights torn, make-up still streaming down her face. And then, she was sobbing. That broken, self-pitying drunk’s cry for rescue. One of her would-be suitors helped her struggle to her feet. The blond one, the one she thought would be her comfort for the night, stepped around her and headed for the door. No matter. She would rather be alone with her memories. That was when she saw Mike. He was standing on the other side of the bar, just looking at her, staring. Mike.It was Mike! Her mouth went dry. Her heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe. What was happening? Mike was dead. Killed in action in the Middle East two years ago. He was dead. It flashed through her mind that she was hallucinating, but she knew better. She wasn’t that far gone. Mike was here. And he was seeing what had become of the woman he once had loved. He hadn’t changed a bit in the two years since she’d last seen him. The same steel-blue eyes, military bearing, and rugged good looks. And the same look of pain he’d had on his face when she said all those terrible things the last time they were together. Before he died. Before she died with him. But this was Mike! Alive! She started towards him, a thousand questions, a thousand apologies forming in her brain. His stare stopped her in her tracks. His eyes were dead, filled with pity. Or was it disgust? He turned and walked away. She had to hang onto the bar to keep from running after him. She loved him too much to beg for one more chance, to embroil him in the hell her life had become. She had long since used up her second chances. Allison looked back at her reflection in the mirror. What she saw there was no longer funny. The shock of seeing him had cleared her mind enough for her to see what Mike had seen … a loud, blowsy, desperate drunken woman. ‘Charlie,’ she said to the bartender when she could finally speak. He started to refill her glass but she waved the bottle away. ‘Call Midtown South Precinct. Ask them to tell Jimmy to come and get his sister. Tell him she wants to come home.’ The Beginning (#u524cd948-53e5-5614-83bf-bb7d463954d7) Allison and Jimmy (#u524cd948-53e5-5614-83bf-bb7d463954d7) Breezy Point ‘It looks like somebody robbed the place.’ The massive shoulders of a police officer with copper-coloured hair almost filled the doorway of the little shop. Allison Jones, whose hair was the identical colour, made a face at her brother. ‘Fat chance of that with you and Dad patrolling the street out there, day after day, like the Crown Jewels were on display.’ ‘We weren’t patrolling,’ Jimmy said defensively. ‘We haven’t been on patrol for years. We just happened to pass by and thought we’d see how things were going for you.’ ‘Gee, Jimmy,’ Allison said, her big violet eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Seems to me the two of you have been “passing by” since I opened the doors last week. Tell Dad he might as well come in. The store’s closed. Nothing left to sell.’ A carbon copy of Police Lieutenant Jimmy Jones, a little greyer and with a few more lines in his face, stepped through the door. He picked up Allison and swung her around and around. ‘That’s my girl! The only reason we’ve been hanging around is because we were afraid you’d get trampled by all those people fighting to get in the door.’ ‘Dad, put me down! What if someone sees? I’m a mogul now, don’t-cha-know! An entrepreneur. I can’t be your little girl any more.’ ‘Says who!’ Detective First Class Riley Jones roared, giving her another whirl for good measure. He looked at the empty shelves. ‘So, people really bought all that junk?’ Finally on her feet, Allison smoothed her navy-blue velvet tunic over colourful patterned leggings. ‘It took me six months to assemble the collection and eight days for it to be gone. Clearly not junk, Dad. Accessories.’ Jimmy imitated his younger sister. ‘Daddy, they’re bags, scarves, jewellery! Essentials of life. All handmade by desperate housewives who serve as slaves for me, the Entrepreneur Jones.’ ‘They’re hardly slaves,’ Allison said. ‘They’re stay-at-home moms and every one of them is a graduate of a design programme!’ Allison tried to look annoyed but she just couldn’t pull it off. Laughing with delight, she pulled them both into a joyous family hug. ‘Thanks for all your help getting the shop set up. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. Or, for that matter, what I do now. I sold everything but once I pay the overheads, I’ll have barely enough left to buy supplies to make more.’ Detective Jones inspected the shop like it was a crime scene. A couple of scarves, a few pairs of earrings, a purse made of faux fur. Other than that, the place was empty. He held the fur handbag like it was a piece of roadkill. ‘Did you really think this thing up?’ ‘All by myself,’ Allison said. ‘We made ten, sold nine. I kept this one for a pattern.’ Riley looked at the label on the bag: LYDIA’S CLOSET. ‘Amazing what people will spend money on,’ Detective Jones said gruffly, walking away. The fact that his daughter had named her shop after his beloved wife never failed to move him. He put the bag back on the shelf and barked at his son. ‘Let’s get some supper and figure out how your sister is going to support herself and all those stay-at-home moms with nothing to sell. And a ridiculous rent to pay every month.’ ‘I could always get a push cart,’ Allison said, fully aware of her father’s struggle to keep his emotions in check. ‘Or drive around SoHo selling things out of my car.’ ‘First of all, you don’t have a car,’ Jimmy shot back. ‘And secondly, I’ve already figured out what you’re going to do.’ ‘And what might that be, Lieutenant Jones?’ Although Allison and her brother delighted in their verbal battles, the baby of the family always bristled at being told what to do. ‘It’s not a what, it’s a who. Mike Dennison.’ ‘Not him again.’ It was a defect of character, she knew, but her lifelong struggle for independence had made her balk at even the smallest suggestion from her big family of men. ‘Nice try, but no way!’ ‘Who’s Mike Dennison?’ Riley demanded. ‘Some guy Jimmy’s been trying to fix me up with for the past six months. If my brother is willing to allow me to go out with a guy, he’s probably a Sunday School teacher who reads self-help books and bakes his own bread.’ ‘Hardly,’ Jimmy said. He was checking the windows Allison had just locked to make sure they were really locked. Allison watched, shaking her head. Cops. ‘And he’s hardly a bozo,’ Jimmy said. ‘Chopper pilot, two tours in the Middle East, Captain in the National Guard, and in his spare time he’s a copywriter at an ad agency. He wins those awards for funny TV commercials.’ ‘Clios,’ Allison said. ‘See what I mean, Dad? Sound a little too good to be true? I suppose he’s handsome too.’ ‘I don’t know what he looks like,’ Jimmy said, satisfied that the windows were locked. ‘I don’t look at guys and think about stuff like that.’ ‘I knew it,’ Alison said. ‘Homely.’ ‘I’m telling you, if you want to figure out how to make this business work without all your profit going into rent, Mike’s your guy,’ Jimmy said. ‘He’ll know just what you should do about your business.’ Allison turned off the last light, plunging the shop into darkness. ‘You said it yourself. It’s my business. I’ll figure out what to do. Now, get out of here, both of you, before I call the cops!’ Allison stood up from her stool and stretched. She had been working on new designs at the big work table overlooking Jamaica Bay since her dad and Jimmy had left for work at precisely five forty-five this morning. They had the route to Manhattan South Precinct timed to the second. Fifty-eight minutes, door to door. Leave later, they’d hit traffic and be too late to grab coffee and two doughnuts each from Manny’s food truck before roll call. Leave earlier, Manny wouldn’t be there yet. It was all about the doughnuts. There was another part of their routine that Allison pretended to hate, but secretly cherished. Even though she was twenty-six years old, trained in self-defence by a family of police officers, every morning before they left for work, one of them would check her room, to make certain she had made it through the night unharmed. This vigilance, the watchfulness, had begun after her mother was killed twelve years ago, when Allison was thirteen. Since that day, their primary focus had been making sure Allison was happy and safe. But most of all, safe. That morning, like all mornings since she realised why they were checking on her, she had pretended to be asleep. Prickly as she was about any challenge to her ability to take care of herself, in this one matter she acquiesced. She wouldn’t embarrass them by acknowledging she was aware that these two big tough cops were marshmallows when it came to her. That’s why she always let them know where she was and what time she’d be home. That’s why she agreed to let them build her a private apartment atop the family home, rather than moving out to live in a loft in SoHo. She had been dreaming of doing that since her mom began taking her prowling through the quirky boutiques that were tucked away in that neighbourhood. Not that she would ever be able to afford such a luxury, if she couldn’t figure out how to sell her designs without putting all the profits into overheads. She had taken a risk when she quit her job as junior designer at a SoHo chic fashion house. But she had big ideas. Selling out in eight days told her she was on the right track with the designs. But if her ideas were a ten, her business plan was a two. Allison did what she always did when she needed to think something through. She grabbed a jacket and headed for the beach. Breezy Point in Queens, New York, was known as the place where cops lived. The peninsula was between Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic Ocean with a population of about twenty-eight thousand. Over sixty per cent of the residents were Irish-American, a whole lot of them police officers and firefighters. With a private security force and no easy access in or out, it has been said there was no safer place to live in any of New York City’s Five Boroughs. It was no coincidence that Breezy Point was where Riley Jones moved his family after his wife was killed. It was April, but with the wind coming off the water from two directions, it felt like November. Allison put her head down and took the path towards the ocean. Four o’clock was the time the residents started getting home from their shifts at the precinct or firehouse, so there was activity on the usually quiet streets. She waved at everyone she knew and she knew almost everyone. But her mind was on her fledgling company now in trouble and her social life obviously on life-support. Since the day she broke up with Brad, she had been on a ‘man-fast’. She had been involved with Brad Dolan for eight months but it wasn’t until the seventh month that she had risked taking him home to meet the family. The results were disastrous, as somewhere deep inside she knew they would be. Which was probably why she had waited so long. It wasn’t that her family ever did or said anything. They were polite, solicitous even. But they were also mirrors that revealed the truth. They had listened and nodded while Brad talked on and on about his accomplishments, his ideas, his life plan. In other words, talked exclusively about himself. Soon she was seeing Brad through Jimmy’s eyes, and her dad’s. Within a month, the relationship was over. Allison realised she always chose the wrong guys. Maybe it was just that inborn streak of defiance she acknowledged but couldn’t control. Or maybe she just liked bad boys. ‘I’ve decided to become a nun,’ she told Riley and Jimmy at supper the Sunday night after the break-up. That night’s meal was sacrosanct to the Jones family, unless Riley, who worked in Homicide, had a case he couldn’t abandon. Same menu, different crowd. Sunday was the day everyone was welcome at the Jones family home. On that rare Sunday it had been just the three of them, so Allison could speak her mind. Not that she ever had a problem doing that, no matter who was there. ‘Men are creeps. Present company excluded,’ she had announced as she dug into her shepherd’s pie. ‘Maybe.’ ‘There are exceptions,’ her brother had said, so eager to bring forth his idea that he spoke with his mouth full. ‘I know this guy you would really like …’ ‘Jimmy Jones, if you mention Mike Dennison one more time, I will poison your food next Sunday …’ ‘Hey, Ally!’ The voice of her uncle startled her back from the past and into the present. He and his family lived two blocks from hers. ‘I hear you did good with your store.’ ‘Hey, Uncle Marty,’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘Maybe too well,’ she admitted. A gust of wind sent the sand rattling against the wooden fence that lined the beach. ‘I need a new plan.’ ‘You’ll figure it out,’ he said. ‘You’re as smart as you are beautiful. Just like your mama. And don’t you ever forget it.’ A lump formed in Allison’s throat as his love for her seemed to wash over her. She certainly knew what it meant to feel love. She’d been showered with it since the day she was born. The entire family – grandparents, uncles, cousins, second cousins, her father and brother – all of them had treated her like a rare piece of porcelain that might shatter at any moment. Not only was she the only girl of the lot of them, but she had talent. She could sing and dance, and paint and design things. To them, she was a beautiful alien dropped into their boisterous midst by some miraculous quirk of fate. Only her mother had known that she was made of sturdier stuff. It was Lydia who had taught her to be self-reliant, independent and to dare. And it was from Lydia that she got her quirky sense of style. Lydia may have been a cop, but she was a fashion plate when she wasn’t on the job. As a child, Allison had spent hours in her mother’s closet trying on exotic scarves and shoes and belts. And the closet had been left exactly as it was when Lydia was shot. A cousin had taken over the family apartment on West Ninth Street but kept the closet for Allison. Whenever she needed inspiration, all she had to do was open the door. And then, when she decided to open a shop, the name was a no-brainer. Lydia’s Closet was the only one she ever considered. ‘Careful, Uncle Marty,’ she said, dragging a wool hat out of her jacket pocket. ‘My head will get so big, this won’t fit!’ She pulled the hat over her tangle of hair and headed towards the water where the sand was firm. ‘See you for Sunday supper.’ She walked for almost an hour and when she headed back up the path, she had her plan. Two cars were in the driveway when she got back to the house. The one Jimmy and her dad drove to work, and a jeep of indeterminate age and questionable roadworthiness. Her family was known for picking up strays. Heaven only knew what down-on-his-luck Irishman awaited her inside. He’d be hungry, from the look of his car. She hoped the chicken she planned to roast for dinner would be large enough. The man having a beer inside with her dad and her brother did not look underfed. Nor down on his luck. He looked … the word that popped into her mind was ‘gorgeous’. Allison’s visceral reaction to this splendid creature so startled her that she felt a blush flooding her face. That was the trouble with being a ginger. People could tell what you were feeling by the colour of your skin. Since she couldn’t do what her body was telling her to do, which was to crawl onto his lap so he’d have to hold her with those muscular arms of his, she settled for a strained, ‘Hi, I’m Allison.’ The man at the table didn’t say anything right away, even though Riley and Jimmy were looking at him expectantly. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded as if he was out of breath. ‘Hi,’ he said back to her. ‘I’m Mike Dennison.’ Mike (#u524cd948-53e5-5614-83bf-bb7d463954d7) Manhattan Mike drove back to Manhattan that night with the top down, despite the early-spring chill. He needed to clear his head. Jimmy Jones had been at him about meeting his sister since he had transferred into Mike’s National Guard unit last fall. ‘She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s talented, she’s starting her own business,’ Jimmy had claimed. In Mike’s experience, when a guy went on and on about his sister, and how she was God’s gift, sure as the devil the sister would not be as advertised. So what the hell just happened back there in Breezy Point? He had had no intention of meeting Allison Jones tonight. But he liked Jimmy and when he suggested they grab a beer after work, Mike readily agreed. Jimmy texted him directions to what he assumed was an out-of-the-way bar on the beach. That’s how he had ended up sitting at Jimmy’s kitchen table when this half-frozen goddess in a wool cap had walked in and knocked him for a loop. Allison was much better looking than advertised. But that’s not what had Mike driving into the city on a freezing-cold night with the top down. He knew a lot of beautiful women. It was what had happened to him when she walked into the room that had surprised and baffled him. It was almost as if an electric shock had run through his body. If her father and brother hadn’t been in the room, and if they weren’t cops with Glock 19s on their belts, he might have walked across the room, picked her up and made love to her right there on the kitchen table. Thank God for his training as a pilot. You were taught to control emotions, even overwhelming ones like the one he had just experienced. Fly the plane, they had taught him. No matter how you feel, just fly the plane. So he sat there, chatting with Riley and Jimmy, as if his head wasn’t exploding with possibilities. And he flew the plane. His feelings clearly were not reciprocated. Allison had spent the evening banging around the kitchen as if she was mad at the whole world. She hurled a chicken into the oven and chopped vegetables as if they had committed a capital crime. From time to time, he caught her looking at him with such intensity that he realised she must have taken an instant dislike to him. Or maybe she just didn’t like unexpected dinner guests. Whatever it was, he was going to fix it. He had spent two hours in Allison Jones’ presence. She had said maybe ten words to him. But he wanted this woman. And when Mike Dennison wanted something, there was no way he would quit. A little later, in the warmth of his apartment near Gramercy Park, he sat pondering about Allison. Should he talk to Jimmy about her, ask him if she had mentioned him after he’d left? No way. Mike liked to play things close to his chest. He’d known other women, but none had made this kind of impression. He had a great need to see her again, as soon as possible … He let the thought go, and eventually went to bed. But sleep eluded him. Allison and Mike (#ulink_d40fbed4-dc19-5d80-9975-9b47b6f1f4f1) New York City Allison was on strike. She hadn’t spoken more than two words to her brother for five days. She would put dinner on the table and take her plate to her workroom. She ignored Jimmy’s texts and her father’s attempts at intervention. It didn’t matter that Mike Dennison was about as hot a guy as you could dream up. She didn’t care that he had been a pilot who had risked his life to fly wounded fighters out of harm’s way when he’d been in the National Guard in Afghanistan. It didn’t matter that she had dreamed of him every night since she had discovered him sitting in the kitchen. What mattered was that her brother had disrespected her wishes. Jimmy was so sure he was right that, despite her refusal to be set up by him, he had brought his friend home anyway. So what if he had been right? Her mother didn’t just teach her about fashion and eclectic styles in that closet of hers. She taught her to fight to make her own decisions. ‘Honey,’ she had told her daughter, ‘as the only woman in a family of men, you need to learn to stand your ground. They love you so much they’ll want to plan your life, and choose your friends. Don’t you let them. No one knows what’s right for you but you.’ Allison had learned that lesson well. The rub was that she did like Mike Dennison. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She had Googled him; learned all about his war exploits, and his work as a storied copywriter. She knew he had raised his kid brother after his parents had been killed. It was hard to ignore the fact that they had that kind of loss in common. It was impossible to ignore the pangs of jealousy she felt when she learned he was one of the most eligible bachelors in New York City. He had probably driven out to Breezy Point to see if the cop’s sister would be another notch on his belt. The fact that he was willing to come to their home, even though she had declared she didn’t want to meet him, said something about him. It was something she didn’t like. ‘Mike had no idea he was coming here!’ Jimmy insisted. ‘He really wasn’t that keen to meet you either.’ ‘Why not, I wonder?’ Allison addressed her comments to her father since she was not speaking to her brother. ‘Am I not good enough for Mr Bachelor of the Year, do you think?’ ‘So you do like him,’ Jimmy blared, looking triumphant. ‘I said no such thing!’ Allison growled, slamming a dinner plate on the table in front of Jimmy. ‘I hardly noticed him.’ ‘Ally, check yourself,’ her father said. This was his Detective First Class Riley Jones voice. Felons had been known to crumple when hearing that voice. ‘Those are your mother’s dishes.’ Allison didn’t answer, but the next plate was placed gently in front of her father. ‘I’m going to eat in my studio,’ Allison said, beginning to make a plate for herself. ‘If Jimmy said Mike didn’t know he was coming to meet you, then he didn’t know,’ Riley said, not looking up from his food. ‘Your brother may like to play cupid, but he’s no liar. The Joneses don’t lie.’ ‘I know that, Dad,’ she muttered. Allison didn’t believe Jimmy. Or maybe she chose not to. Maybe she was frightened by the intensity of her response to Mike Dennison. Or maybe she was just stubborn enough not to want to be with a guy her brother had picked out for her. And so she took her plate and headed for the safety of her little apartment atop the house. Instead of eating, she watched the waves crashing against the jetty and wondered what on earth had happened to her the night Jimmy brought a friend home for dinner. She spent the next week putting Mike Dennison out of her mind, or trying to. She immersed herself in her business plan. She had decided to turn Lydia’s Closet into an Internet Boutique. No rent, no insurance, no overheads. Just her group of stay-at-home moms: taking orders, packaging what they’d made, and shipping them out. All she needed now was to figure out how to get Lydia’s Closet noticed among the seemingly trillion websites on the Net. Whether she did it consciously or not, she would never know. But her research eventually brought her to the conclusion that what she needed was a killer advertising plan, something that would really create buzz, get people talking. When she finally did speak to Jimmy, it was to ask for Mike Dennison’s phone number. ‘It’s just business,’ she insisted. ‘Frankly, I didn’t care for the guy.’ To his credit, he didn’t laugh out loud. ‘That’s good,’ Jimmy said, ‘because he wasn’t that into you either. Guess I need to stay out of your dating life from now on.’ Both Allison and Jimmy pretended to believe that what the other was saying was true, but neither did. Allison told Mike she would meet him at O’Lunney’s on Forty-Fifth Street in Manhattan. She made it clear when she called that this was a business meeting and she wanted to do the paying. She had chosen the meeting place because she knew she would be on safe ground. Cops hung out there. Her family had been bringing her for as long as she could remember. That was when they lived around the corner, before her mother was killed and her father swept her away to the world’s safest community. She was running behind, so she had to splurge and grab a taxi from the subway station. For some reason, it had taken her forever to get dressed today. She must have changed her clothes four times before she was satisfied that she was presenting the perfect balance of business-woman and trendy chic. She needed to sell Mike Dennison on the fact that her brand was something worthy of a heavy hitter he was spending time on. To do that, she needed to look amazing. At least that’s what she told herself as she discarded outfit after outfit. Mike was there when she arrived. He had settled at a secluded table in the very back, away from the noisy crowd at the bar. It had been her plan to sit at the long community table up front, so there would be no misunderstanding about this not being a date. However, this isolation was probably better for talking business. And Jimmy had been clear that Mike was not into her. As she approached him, her heart was beating so fast she felt as if she was climbing up a steep hill. As Mike watched the woman with the red hair come towards him, he realised he had misjudged her at that first meeting. She wasn’t beautiful; she was dazzling. Movie-star gorgeous. In the glow of the lights from the bar her hair appeared to be on fire. However, the real fire seemed to come from somewhere within her. As he got up to greet her, he felt a little dizzy. What do I do? he wondered, his mouth feeling dry. Shake her hand? Kiss her on the cheek? Or his preference … kiss her all over her tall, curvaceous body? Allison solved that problem by offering her hand. ‘Mr Dennison, thank you for meeting with me. I’m hoping to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’ ‘Name it,’ Mike said when he found his voice. ‘And the only Mr Dennison I know was my father and he is no longer in this world. Please call me Mike.’ As they sat down he noticed that she wasn’t wearing cologne of any kind. It was the scent of this woman that was making him feel intoxicated. The vibrating of her cell phone startled Allison. She was about to turn it off when she saw the caller ID, Riley Jones. Her dad only made a phone call if it was urgent. When you were a cop’s daughter, you did not want to get that call. ‘Hey, Dad. Everything okay?’ ‘You tell me!’ he roared. ‘You said you’d be home by eight thirty latest and it’s after ten.’ Allison felt the heat of that blush heading northwards from her neck. She glanced at Mike across the table. He was looking concerned. ‘I’m sorry. My meeting ran late.’ To his credit Mike kept his face expressionless. ‘What kind of meeting lasts till ten o’clock at night?’ Her father’s voice was so loud Mike could hear every word from across the table. ‘I’ll come get you. I don’t want you riding the subway at this hour.’ ‘Dad, I’ll be fine! I’ve had more self-defence training than a Navy SEAL.’ Mike shook his head and mouthed, ‘I’ll take you home.’ Allison looked at him for a long moment, thinking it over. It had been impossible to keep up the pretence that she didn’t like him after the first five minutes. The attraction was too great, the conversation flowed too easily. Suddenly it didn’t matter if her brother had brought him home, or if she’d met him online, or in a crowded subway. There was a connection so strong it was useless to deny it. ‘Allison, I’m coming for you. Where are you?’ ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ she said. ‘I have a ride.’ ‘You sound funny,’ her dad roared. ‘Who are you with?’ Mike and Allison smiled sheepishly at one another. ‘I’m with Mike Dennison. And tell Jimmy if he says, “I told you so,” I will never, ever speak to him again.’ They didn’t talk business that night at O’Lunney’s, nor did they on the long ride back to Breezy Point. Or during the walks on the beach that weekend. There was too much to discover about one another. She learned about his kid brother, Kevin. Mike said he never regretted having to leave West Point to be a father to the boy after their parents had been killed. Kevin had finished Cornell University with the highest grades and dreams of becoming an architect. Mike, his pride obvious, told her how Kevin had put those dreams on hold to serve his country, in the same unit, in the same way he had. Mike had been a Medevac rescue pilot on duty in the Middle East. He learned about her big, rabble-rousing family of men and boys. There were, of course, wives and mothers, but in all the clan only one girl, Allison herself. She told him about the Sunday suppers, the touch football games on the beach that always ended up being tackle. She even told him how her dad and brother checked on her each morning, afraid somehow that the last vestige of Lydia had been spirited away during the night. And on Saturday afternoon, just before the tide came in, they sat on the sand and shared stories of loss. She confided how she had hid in her mother’s closet after she learned about the shooting. About how the whole family was searching for her, and she knew it. But she just couldn’t bring herself to leave that special place she and her mom had shared, not even to put her family’s minds at ease. And she explained how, when they moved out here to Breezy Point, one of her cousins took over the apartment in Manhattan. He had left Lydia’s closet just as it had been the day she died. It was locked and only Allison had the key. That’s where she went for inspiration and to focus on her designs and her dreams. They talked about pain and grief and how you might think you were done, had finished grieving. But still that terrible sorrow wasn’t finished with you. And, finally, they admitted the attraction that had frightened them both the night they met in her family’s kitchen. But for now, holding hands on the beach was all the intensity they could handle. They were soaking wet when they first kissed on Sunday morning, ten days after their ‘strictly business’ meeting at O’Lunney’s. Mike had driven out to Breezy Point just as the sun was rising. He had a backpack that held a thick chunk of Irish Cheddar, a soft Brie, two kinds of sausage and a long loaf of bread he had purchased, still warm, from the City Bakery on Eighteenth Street. He also brought a cold bottle of fine pink champagne. A colleague had given it to him after his commercial for a new electric car had won a Clio, his third win. There was also a change of clothes and a blanket to sit on. And the promise of a sunny day. Allison was on the porch when he drove up. She held two clamming rakes, carried a metal pail, and wore a sweatshirt and cut-off jeans. Despite the casualness of her attire, she looked to him like Hippolyta personified. He loved that she was tall. At six feet three, he had spent his high-school years bending over to try to kiss a girl. While he hadn’t yet held her, Mike knew they would fit together perfectly. Allison took him to her secret clamming spot, a rocky outcropping about ten feet from shore. It wasn’t visible when the tide was in, but when the tide was out you could walk there without getting wet. ‘When it turns,’ she warned, ‘you need to get out very quickly before the rocks are covered in water. Because if they’re covered with water, we will be too.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/barbara-taylor-bradf/damaged-a-gripping-short-read-the-perfect-escape-for/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.