Breaking josephine, p.1
Breaking Josephine, page 1
BREAKING JOSEPHINE
By
Marie Stewart
Copyright
Copyright © 2013 by Marie Stewart
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Marie Stewart
Cover Image Copyright © Conrado, 2013. Used under license from Shutterstock.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its author, Marie Stewart.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
My toe slipped on the wet stone, and I slammed my knee into the wall. Digging my fingers into the gritty mortar between the granite stones above my head, I held on and wedged my toes back into the wall face. I’d have a nasty bruise, but that was all. I’d already scraped my shin climbing over the rocks naturally separating the house from the rest of the beach and doubted my ability to cope with more injuries. I drew in a sharp breath and forced myself to exhale. I needed to calm down and get it together. I looked over my shoulder to the worn wood deck and beachfront twenty feet below me, silently chastising myself for being there at all. I hadn’t broken into a single house in over four years, not once since I’d left the Overton Home for Girls in Portland for a life on my own. Now I wished I’d at least taken up rock climbing in the years since. Not that rock climbing was comparable training to sneaking out of Overton, climbing down its three stories and climbing into various Portland mansions, but it would have been better than nothing.
I fit my toes into the next gap between the stones and lifted myself up, hoping again that the mansion was as deserted as it had appeared over the past week I’d been watching intermittently from across the street. The shutters on the front of the house stayed closed and locked, no lights came on as far as I could tell, and I never saw anyone go inside. Although one car had driven up the drive, it turned around and left before I could even take a good look at the driver. The back of the mansion looked equally vacant from the beachfront—no lights twinkled through the second floor curtains, and although the entire back of the first floor was wall-to-wall glass, the dark rooms inside were still and empty.
From the street, the mansion looked strange and out of place, like a lonely sentinel looming over its portion of the street, guarding the craggy rocks and beach front from passersby. Most of the mansions in this area were more casual, seasonal beach houses, only occupied in the summer months by wealthy California and Oregon residents who came to Cannon Beach to relax and get away from their daily lives. But staff still came regularly to keep them clean, and locals rented some of the smaller ones during the winter. Everything I’d seen in between shifts at work and in the evenings when I’d watched the house as I pretended to take a leisurely walk down the street, however, confirmed my conclusion that it sat uncared for and empty. But despite my assessment, I wasn’t going to just break down the front door. No, I wanted to get in and get out without being seen, and hopefully, without anyone knowing I was there at all.
I finally reached the top balcony, three stories up, and swung my leg over the stone rail. Then I pulled a small black cord and carabineer from my messenger bag and attached them to the guardrail, throwing the rope over the rail and down the wall. Although I intended to climb down, I knew my skills were rusty at best, and I didn’t trust myself to climb down as well as I could climb up. After securing the rope, I turned and faced what I hoped were the french doors leading to the study. I’d learned from my teenage career as a petty thief that the easiest things to steal and sell in a nice home were the silver in the kitchen or the baubles and expensive trinkets lining the shelves and drawers of the study. A nice pen or a silver serving spoon meant practically nothing to a family of means, many being forgotten for years in seldom-opened drawers. Usually the victims never even noticed their disappearance, and when they eventually did, I was long gone and they just assumed someone lost them or the hired help carried them off.
Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I crept up to the glass-paneled door and took a deep breath. The thrill of adrenaline I hadn’t felt in years coursed through me as I pressed my fingers down, ever so gently on the door handle. The door gave way easily, opening to the dark room. I exhaled. Just like most of the houses I’d made a habit of breaking into as a teenager, the top floors weren’t secure, since no one expected a burglar to climb three stories to break in. I looked around, confirmed the room was empty, and walked in, leaving the door open so the moon could light my way.
My lucky guess paid off and I stood in the doorway to a large study. I half expected to find sheets covering the furniture and cobwebs blocking my path, but instead the room appeared surprisingly clean and tidy. The floor was smooth, dark wood with a large, low-pile rug covered in a pale, muted pattern in the center of the room. Bookcases lined the entire far wall, with books filling every shelf. There had to be thousands of books on that wall alone. I stood there marveling at the collection and cursing at myself for being there and breaking in when I should be at home, being a law-abiding citizen who could feel alive without a rush of fear-induced adrenaline. As quietly and quickly as I could, I walked to the large wood desk standing in front of the bookcases across the room. The desk top appeared to be made from a single large tree, which had been left natural, the original shape of the tree trunk curving in an impressive arc on the outside of the desk. I walked around to the inside of the desk and found a set of metal drawers suspended from the amazing wood slab. I quietly pushed the leather desk chair out of the way and tried to open the first drawer. Locked. I groaned in frustration and tried the second drawer. It opened with ease, revealing a small fortune in designer pens, several of which I put in the black messenger bag slung over my shoulder, along with a few other high-end office items. I opened the final, deep drawer and crouched down to peer inside.
“Find what you are looking for?” said a shockingly smooth and masculine voice from behind my back. All the hairs on my neck stood up as I pushed my bag behind my back and slowly spun around on the ball of my foot. I stood up, leaning back on the desk, fingers griping the edge, feeling the knots of wood digging into my palms. I inhaled and nearly gasped when I saw his breathtaking face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the open door. He had a chiseled, angular jaw and nose, soft yet masculine lips, and lovely dark hair falling gently onto his forehead. His flannel pants were slung low on his hips, and his tight fitting grey shirt left almost nothing to the imagination. Even in the moonlight I could see his defined chest, his rippled stomach, and his impressive arms, appearing as if they could crush the life out of me with hardly any effort. He casually leaned back on the bookcase with his bare feet resting on the edge of the rug, waiting for me.
I tried to focus as I broke my stare and looked behind me across the room to the open door. I guessed it had to be fifteen feet away and I wondered if I could make it to the doorway before he caught me. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took a deep breath and spun around, vaulting over the desk and breaking for the balcony. As I reached the threshold of the open door, a strong, confident hand wrapped around me, pulling me back in. His arm wound around my stomach, his heat radiating through my thin shirt, his fingers pressing firmly into my hip. His chest pressed into my back and for a moment I leaned into him, savoring his scent—a woodsy and slightly spicy concoction, melting into a warm, amber glow. As I was losing myself in the feeling and smell of him, he turned me around and grabbed both my wrists with one hand.
He pulled me to his chest and my brown eyes grew large as I took in his magnificence up close. His face was awash in the moonlight, his masculine, rugged features highlighted by the ethereal glow like the rocks worn by the waves crashing below. My chest heaved as I felt his fingers firmly encircling my wrists. I looked at his firm, set jaw, his beckoning lips, his defined cheekbones, and felt weak and slightly dizzy.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, interrupting my stare with a rough undercurrent in his voice. As my eyes timidly rose to meet his, I felt an electric current run between us—two worlds spinning into each other with a force I could literally feel. I gasped and his grip on my wrists tightened.
As his radiantly blue eyes bore into mine, I quivered and my breath hitched. His eyes seemed to see right through my paralyzed exterior, right into the depths of me where a heady mixture of longing and desire had taken residence. With his free hand he reached up and tucked a stray lock of my dark chestnut hair behind my ear and his fingertips lingered on my earlobe, caressing it with powerful restrain
Realizing I still hadn’t said a word, I managed to stammer a small “I’m sorry, I-I…” before I lost the capacity to speak. I bit my lip in an effort to clear the delirium of desire, clamped my legs together to keep from shaking, and tried to come to grips with the situation and myself. I was a burglar, breaking into this mansion, and I needed to get away before it was too late. I tore my eyes away from the captivating stranger who still held me tight and gathered up my courage. Finally, I managed to say, “Let me go!” as firmly as I could, although part of me doubted my ability to stand if he complied.
He let his fingers trail down my earlobe, lighting grazing my exposed neck. “Only if you promise not to run,” he said, his voice still rough and raw.
I closed my eyes and took in a shaky breath, absorbing the feel of his touch on my neck and the feel of his fingers pressing into my wrists. Then I opened my eyes and looked at him, drinking in all that I could see—his smoldering gaze, his delicious lips, his firm jaw, everything. I wanted to remember this man, this stranger, who stirred a longing in me I never knew existed and who I would never see again if I was lucky. I looked him directly in the eyes and with the best smile I could manage said, “I promise.”
In the instant he released me, I jumped back and away from him, turning and running as fast as I could for the balcony guardrail. I grabbed the rope, straddled the guardrail and flipped myself over the wall, sliding down the rope as fast as possible without looking back, jumping over the deck railing, onto the beach, and into the darkness.
After climbing over the rocks to reach the open beach, I all-out ran the two miles to my place, a tiny terrace level apartment in the back of a modest, inland house. I unlocked the door, slipped inside, and leaned back on the worn yellow paint and faded cafe curtain covering the door’s small window. My breathing was hard and fast, in part from my near-sprint for the last fifteen minutes, but more from the stranger and his lasting effect on me. I closed my eyes and saw his bright blue eyes, flickering like a gas flame behind his thick, black lashes. Just the thought of him made my stomach contract, my heart race, and my head spin.
“Jo, get a hold of yourself, this is ridiculous,” I thought to myself. “You burglarized his house for god sakes and he’s probably already called the police and is going to have you arrested. He’s not exactly going to be interested in ravishing the cat burglar.” But that’s exactly what I wanted him to do—I wanted nothing more than for him to grab me with his commanding hands right there in his study, push me onto his desk and do whatever he pleased.
I set the bag down on the table and caught my breath. I rubbed my neck where the strap to my bag had chafed my skin on the run home and I slipped off my shoes. I rolled up my pant leg, assessing the purpling bruise on my knee and the nasty gash on my shin. After cleaning the wound, I poured myself a glass of cheap wine and sat down at the kitchen table. I looked up at the ceiling, thankful my landlady Eileen, who lived in the main house above, was hard of hearing and didn’t know I’d come racing home in the middle of the night. An elderly woman, Eileen had called Cannon Beach, Oregon her home for all her life, and rented out her basement apartment to help pay her bills. Although basic, my apartment had everything I needed—a small range, refrigerator, and two windows that let in plenty of morning sun. Two miles to the West, through this quaint tourist town, stretched the Pacific coast, the beautiful craggy beaches that drew me to this part of the country, and the mansion I just escaped from.
I took a long drink of wine and pulled out the contents of my bag to assess my night’s collection: three lovely and impersonal luxury pens, an antique silver letter opener, and a small, silver box—one of those ridiculously expensive trinkets for people who have everything. “Why do rich people need to spend hundreds of dollars to hide their paper clips?” I thought to myself. I opened the box, but was disappointed to find it empty.
All in all, I probably had $500 worth of items if I pawned them in Portland. Not nearly as well as I used to do when I still lived in Overton, but not bad for a night when I got caught and almost didn’t escape. I cursed myself under my breath for falling back into an old obsession. I’d starting stealing just after my thirteenth birthday, my first birthday celebrated at Overton. Not that I wasn’t appreciative of having a place to live, a warm bed, and roof over my head back then, but it wasn’t exactly a life of luxury. I snuck out from Overton whenever I could, to get out from under the rigid confines of the rules, regulations, and cruelty of the place. I only stole small things, always from the wealthy, and never enough to cause a disturbance or get me noticed. I rationalized it by thinking that the rich wouldn’t miss these trinkets, and I could feel a spark of excitement, of adrenaline, and of feeling alive. And I could, in that moment, feel in control—with no one making my decisions, no one controlling my actions but me. I thought if I could pawn the small things I stole, and save up enough money, I could escape the confines of the orphanage and make it on my own.
When I left Overton, the cash I saved from my petty theft got me a roof over my head in Portland, and I worked a few waitress jobs, earning enough to pay rent, have food to eat, and save a little bit besides. I didn’t need to steal to buy food or pay rent at that point, and being in control of my life for the first time, I didn’t feel the need. I slowly saved my money, and when I had enough saved, I took a local bus out to Cannon Beach and never looked back. I’d spent a week there just before my mom died, and associated it with some of my happiest memories. I remembered being awestruck by the raw power of the ocean crashing and cresting with its might, and the extreme beauty of the cold, rocky beachfront. That image stayed with me, even through all the hard years after my mom died. When I left Portland, Overton, and my childhood behind, I needed a fresh start, and I wanted to make that start in Cannon Beach.
I got a job at The Red Barn, a small breakfast place in, unsurprisingly, a big red barn. The owner, Sam, told me about Eileen and her vacant basement apartment, and that’s how I ended up there. I had vowed to never steal from anyone in town, that I’d left that part of my life behind me years before at Overton, but I had no idea how hard letting go of that obsession would be.
I tucked the handful of stolen goods into my bedside table, changed into my staple worn t-shirt and frayed flannel pants, crawled into bed and passed out, physically and emotionally exhausted from the night’s adventure.
CHAPTER 2
His lips crashed into mine with such a ferocious intensity that I gasped, my fingers lacing into his hair and holding him there—his lips crushing mine and bruising the tender flesh. I ran my hands down his hair, his neck, his shoulders as our lips stayed locked together. As I felt every inch of his body with my fingers, he pulled back, looking earnestly in my face. “Jo, I’m never going to give you up,” he said, “so don’t you think of leaving…” As I eagerly listened to the words pouring out of his mouth, his voice changed, becoming all at once soulful and melancholy. As I came to, the Black Keys’ Never Gonna Give You Up was blaring from my second-hand radio alarm clock, my arms were wrapped around my pillow, and the blue-eyed stranger was only in my dreams.
I tossed my pillow behind me and hit the alarm off while I swung my legs out of bed, wincing as I remembered too late about my seriously bruised knee and scraped leg. I quickly showered and dressed, stuffed my apron in my bag, and ran out the door to walk the half-mile to work just in time to make my 6:00 am Saturday morning start time. Although I’d been able to meagerly furnish my apartment over the past year with a combination of thrift store, pawn shop, and garage sale finds, I hadn’t yet come close to saving enough money for a cell phone or a car. Thankfully, Eileen paid for my apartment phone and the bus system covered pretty much everywhere I wanted to go. And, on occasion, my boss let me borrow his Subaru as long as I filled it with gas and brought it back clean and on time.
