Breaking Josephine
Read Breaking Josephine Online
Authors: Marie Stewart
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.
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 restraint. I
felt painfully awake and alive for the first time in the grip of this stranger;
a stranger whose house I’d broken into and whose things I’d just stuffed into
my bag. Heavy and delirious with desire, I could feel my arousal building as we
stood inches apart, staring at each other. God, how I wanted this man.
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.