Silver Lining (Diamond #3) - Skye Warren Page 0,6

me.

I know, I know. The cocaine addiction will probably get me in the end. But the three flights to my walkup in Red Hook are giving the coke a run for its money. At least the stairs get my heart pumping and fresh oxygen into my blood. A girl needs to be revitalized after an endless day ringing up bougie coffee orders and having her face blasted by the moisture from a steam wand. The scent of espresso drifts off my clothes as I make the third-floor landing. The scent of coffee grounds follows me even into my dreams. Hazard of the job.

The key sticks in the lock and I force it, mapping out the path to the shower. Kick my shoes off at the door. Shirt off by the time I’m through the postage-stamp living room with my ratty couch.

Do not pass go, do not get dinner, do not do anything but climb into the water and stand there as long as it’s hot. I kick off my shoes, drop my purse, and step into the living room.

I’m reaching for the hem of my shirt when I see it, see him, and freeze.

The couch isn’t empty.

There’s a dead body on it.

I should run screaming in the other direction. I should call the cops, sobbing and hysterical. Part of me knows this, but the bigger part of me is… curious. It’s always been my downfall.

A step closer. And another. The large mass of muscled man compiles into someone I know. It’s Adam Black. The man who kidnapped my sister.

The man who saved her, too.

My heart crawls up into my throat. What is he doing here, in my apartment? I know I locked the door when I left. Did he manage to pick the lock in this condition? With that much blood on his shirt, he didn’t fight his way in here.

I don’t have time to consider the implications of the still-intact lock on the door, not really. Not when there’s a dead man on my couch. A cold flash freezes the back of my neck, followed by a hot flush of panic. Smuggling diamonds is one thing. Dealing with a dead body is another. The police are out of the question for a man like Adam. For a woman like me.

My pulse slams against my eardrums, working overtime, and I take a deep breath. It does nothing to crack open the icy fear encasing my lungs. Think of him as a man asleep on a couch, London. One step closer. One more. There.

From this vantage point—hovering over him, a half-step from the couch—things look even worse. His shirt has caved in to the wound below it. The fabric is soaked in blood. Adam has his face turned toward the back of the couch and he looks so still, so horribly still.

A bruise paints one of his cheeks.

I reach for him before I know what I’m doing. Oh, god. What if he’s cold?

If he’s cold, it’s too late, it’s way too late. I’m going to have to walk out of this apartment and never come back, not ever. I’ll have to convince Holly not to look for me, and she won’t be convinced. I know she won’t.

My fingertips are a whisper away from the purple bruise when he moves, a hand shooting out to grab my wrist. I suck a huge breath in for a scream and then swallow the sound, jagged edges and all. My pulse is too big for my veins, the silvery burst of adrenaline so powerful it feels like an electric shock. His eyes meet mine with sharp focus.

“Who did this to you?” My voice sounds thin and high and I swallow that, too. No time for falling apart now. “Who hurt you?”

His pupils recede, and he lets his head fall back on the one throw pillow I own. “An old friend.”

My mouth has gone dry, but I manage a casual tone. “With friends like that, who needs enemies?”

He huffs his amusement, focus slipping away from me and onto the ceiling. “I have enemies, too. Believe me, they’re worse.”

I detach his hand from my wrist and run my fingers through my hair. “Jesus. Okay. You’re here in my apartment. And you’re hurt, you’re dying, you’re—”

“Shot.” He winces as he pushes himself up against the arm of the couch. Not upright, but inclined. I can tell he pays a cost for this. “You can look, if you’re interested.”

“If I’m interested.” My lips buzz with a new bolt of