Page 22 of Resisting Mr Black
As Art’s hands grip the base of the box, I notice the knuckles of his right hand are covered in cuts and bruises.
I frown. “What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing. I just got a little overzealous with the punch bag in the gym this morning.” I notice the exchange of looks between him and Big Steve and before I can ask any more questions, Big Steve is already trudging down the hall.
I bend down to pick up a suitcase, but Art shakes his head in protest. “Leave it. That’s what I’ve hired the muscle for.”
I feel like a spare part. “Is there anything I can do to help?
“You just make sure there’s a brew at the end, and we’ll call it even,” Big Steve calls back over his shoulder as he disappears down the stairs.
Fifteen minutes later the boxes and suitcases have been loaded into the van, and we’re good to go. I give the flat one last quick look-over to make sure I’ve got everything, then lock up and make my way down the staircase one last time. As I get to the bottom, I can see Art leant against the side of the van.
“You need to be careful,” Big Steve warns, and my curiosity is instantly pricked. “She seems like a nice girl, mate, but you need to be careful.”
I slam the front door closed to signal my presence and their conversation predictably grinds to a halt.
I turn round and force a smile to see Art watching me over his shoulder. He cocks an eyebrow and grins. “You ready to go?”
I pull up outside the apartment block, behind the Aston Martin and get out of the car. He rests his hand on my back and ushers me through the glass doors into the foyer.
The polished cream floor shines beneath spot lighting and two lifts take up the left-hand wall. Directly in front of us is a curved, polished marble reception desk. A middle-aged guy, with short, spiked hair and a navy suit acknowledges me with a bob of the head.
“Good afternoon, Mr Black.”
“David. This is Miss Ward. She’s moving into 101 today.” Art’s hand moves up my back in between my shoulder blades. I smile politely at the concierge.
“Lovely to meet you, Miss Ward. If I can be of service in any way at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.”
He begins to move us towards the lift. “Thank you, David. I’ll see you later.”
We walk into the already waiting lift, and he pushes the button for floor ten. The doors slide shut and I’m suddenly nervous because I’m aware we’re alone again, in a small space.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes, I can’t still quite believe I’m going to be living here,” I say, fiddling with the edge of my black t-shirt.
“Believe it. The other place wasn’t good enough for you.”
I frown at his snobbery. “Some of us haven’t got the luxury of wealth. It’s what I could afford. Feel free to give me a pay rise.”
His lips quirk into a smile at my quip but then it’s gone. “You deserved better than your old place.”
The lift comes to a halt and as the doors ping open, he walks out, cutting the conversation dead. The door to the apartment is open, and I can see the boxes and suitcases are in the hall waiting to be unpacked.
“Steve’s already brought all the stuff up from the van.” My eyes widen in astonishment. That guy has got Trojan speed and strength. I glance around the empty apartment as a thought hits me. “Has he gone already? I thought he wanted a cup of tea.”
He rubs a hand through his hair, making it look even more tousled. “Yeah.”
“Was he okay?” I ask cautiously. “It’s just… I thought I overheard you two arguing when I came down to the van earlier?”
“He’s fine.” A muscle twitches in his jaw as he looks over into the kitchen. “He just worries.”
Now I’m worried. Big Steve was warning him to be careful about me. But why? I glance around the apartment when an unsavoury thought hits me. Money. He must have loads of girls making a beeline for him because of his money. I’ve got to admit, it does look a bit suss when I think about it. He’s a successful, wealthy businessman and within a few days of meeting me he’s helped find me a gorgeous new apartment to move into. Big Steve probably thinks I’m a gold digger who’s spied an opportunity and is exploiting it. He’s so far from the truth it’s laughable. I know that’s not the case and so does Art.
My gaze falls to the cardboard box with “Living Room” scrawled on the side in marker pen and I’m immediately distracted. I rush over to the box in a fit of semi-panic and peel back the Sellotape holding the lid down with my nails, pushingback the flaps and grappling the wooden edge of the frame. I slide it out of the box and swiftly give it a once-over, sighing with relief when it appears the painting has made the journey without getting damaged. Satisfied, I place it gently on the marble floor and lean it up against the white wall.