Any Means Necessary
: Chapter 1

“And when are you coming back, exactly? When you said the hospital accepted the nurse you recommended instead of extending your contract, I thought that meant I’d be getting my best friend back.” Mia’s attitude is broadcasted through the kitchen, her irritation echoing on speakerphone. “It’s already been four months, how long are you going to play hard to get? It’s rude to tease me like this.” I roll my eyes at her dramatics, grinning only because she can’t see me.

“Oh please, it’s not like you’re just sitting at home all day without me,” I shoot back. “You’re the busiest person I’ve ever met. I invited you to come visit me. But noooo, you’re too important to take the time off to come to New York.” I let the sarcasm drip from my voice. Now that the potatoes are sauteed and softened, I add the steak to the skillet. The recipe calls for two steaks—so instead of halving the ingredients, I’ll just have leftovers. The meat sizzles and sputters angrily in the hot pan, spitting grease and butter onto the stovetop and counter. Damn, I hate having to wipe up grease.

“You know I have surgeries, I can’t just run around playing housekeeper for strangers like you.” She’s on the defensive now, but she has a point. That’s what I get for picking a surgeon as a best friend. Her job is a lot more demanding than mine, but I’m not about to admit that to her.

“Are you trying to say that surgeons are more important than nurses? Wow, tell me how you really feel.” I’m laying it on thick and she knows it. But she has to deny it, she can’t help herself.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying, Lexie.” she insists, but I continue to wind her up.

“It’s fine, whatever,” I miff. “I’m just not important enough to you. Just abandon me in this big city all by myself.” Opening the spice cabinet, I need to reach on my tiptoes to grab the seasoning I’m looking for. Fresh basil would taste a lot better, but that would’ve required thinking ahead far enough for this meal to buy ingredients. Which I did not.

“Oh, shut up.” Despite her best efforts, I can hear the smile in her voice. I’m about to laugh at her, but my teasing is cut short.

“Shit,” I mutter, looking down to see that I leaned into a puddle of grease.

“What?” Mia asks.

“I leaned on the counter and got grease on my new shirt.”

“That’s what you get for being mean to me. Karma used your own huge boobs against you.”

“Your boobs are big too.” She also carries some weight that creates dangerous curves. Hers less so than mine though.

“Not like yours.”

She’s right. My chest size borderlines ridiculous, making sense for my weight, but not my height. Being a well-endowed fat girl is a blessing and a curse. Right now they’re living up to the curse status—they tend to get in the way.

“They’re more trouble than they’re worth,” I grumble. “They better not have just ruined my new top.”

“Oh stop, you love your boobs. You can have an incredible rack or cook without ruining your shirt, but not both. It’s cosmic balance.”

There’s no arguing with her on that.

I pull off the shirt and take it over to the sink, treating it with a dose of grease-fighting dish soap. I’ve done what I can to save it. Now all I can do is pray that my new top lives to see another wear.

Standing in the middle of the large kitchen without a shirt on feels wrong, especially since I’m not in my apartment. I walked around my place back in Oregon without a top on all the time, but the unfamiliarity of being in someone else’s home creeps in and takes giant bites out of my comfort-based confidence. The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that offers a magnificent view of the New York City skyline from this twenty-second-floor penthouse, while usually impressive, now makes me feel like a goldfish in a bowl. Each light illuminating the view like fireflies now feels like a pair of eyes staring with an unobstructed view as I stand here in my bra.

I need to put a shirt on.

“I have to get a fresh shirt and finish cooking. So I’m going to hang up on you now.” I announce, walking back over to where my phone sits by the stove, just barely out of the meat’s spitting range. The steaks roar loudly as I flip them, before settling into the pool of melted butter and herbs.

“Fine.” Mia’s voice brightens with excitement. “But video chat with me tomorrow so we can watch The Bachelor together. I heard from one of the interns that Brandi slaps someone, and I bet it’s Ashlyn.” Damn, that sounds awesome, I love petty drama.

“Are you serious? Yeah, we’re definitely watching that tomorrow. I’ll call you,” I promise. “Bye, Mia. Love you.”

“Love you too, babe. Talk to you later.”

Ending the call, music resumes playing over the house bluetooth speakers. Cranking down the burner to lower the heat on the skillet and praying that I’m not about to ruin my dinner, I rush to my room in search of a clean shirt. The guest room I’m occupying is on the first floor. I chose the one closest to the kitchen on purpose.

“Come on, where is it?” Muttering in frustration, I dig through the pile of laundry next to my suitcase for my favorite lounge tee. This is what I get for letting this room get so messy, even after only two weeks of staying here. I can’t replace the right shirt and now my steak is going to burn. Giving up, I pull on a t-shirt from the top of the pile and head back to the kitchen. Walking down the hall, I can hear my steak sizzling on the stove over the music playing. Humming along, I turn the corner and my breath catches in my chest.

I freeze.

A man I’ve never seen before stands at the stove, spooning the butter over my steak after turning off the burner. His giant frame fills the expansive kitchen, his presence dominating the space. He’s definitely someone who can easily overpower me in a heartbeat.

Shit, what do I do?

I stand frozen, my heart racing as the surprise wears off. Time seems to slow as my limited options run through my brain on a loop. I’m tempted to turn around and go lock myself in the bathroom. But my phone is on the counter next to the stranger, and I’ll have no way of contacting help. Staying to confront the man isn’t my favorite idea either—dread has a painfully-tight knot forming in my stomach at just the thought of it. Either way, I’m screwed.

I’m standing here too long, and I can see the moment he senses me. His head turns, and our eyes lock—mine looking like a deer in headlights, I’m sure.

Shit.

Intense hazel eyes move over me, reading and processing, as he runs a hand over a dark, immaculately groomed beard. The sharp black suit covering his massive frame seems both confining and fitting as he moves around the space—like it’s a custom-tailored uniform he’s itching to be free of. He regards me for a moment while my brain lags on something to say.

“Who are you?” That’s the genius question I come up with.

Confrontation it is.

“I can ask you the same thing.” His deep voice is calm and collected. He reaches into the cabinet to the right of the stove to grab two plates, completely at ease.

“I don’t know what you want, but you need to leave. Right now.” There’s nothing I can do about his presence, and we both know it.

“Oh, do I?” His voice is edged with a challenge. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll call the police.” I’m bluffing. I have no way to call anyone, I’m just praying he doesn’t realize that. But the way his eyes glance at the phone next to him tells me he does.

“That would be a lot more threatening if I didn’t have your phone over here with me.” He leans his hip against the counter, crossing thick arms over a broad chest and tilting his head at me. “And considering I own this apartment, I’m pretty interested in what the police would say. But by all means, call them.” Moving my phone from the other side of the stove, he puts it back down and sends it sliding across the counter. It stops just inches from me, and I stare at the device blankly as I process what he just told me.

“You’re the owner of this apartment?” His crisp black suit does say money, so does the gold watch on his wrist. He’s a lot younger than I pictured, nowhere near the balding middle-aged man I figured lives here. Instead, he looks to be in his early thirties. And his thick head of dark brown hair is far from balding. How easily he’s been navigating the kitchen is also a clue, but that doesn’t mean he actually owns the place.

“I am. Which leaves the question; who are you?” His movements are relaxed and controlled as he plates the steak, green beans, and potatoes. It’s like he’s preparing to eat with an old friend instead of standing with a stranger in his own home—if he’s even telling me the truth.

He pauses for a moment to shrug off his suit jacket and drape it over the back of one of the island stools. Rolling the sleeves of his black dress shirt to his elbows reveals muscular forearms completely inked in full tattoo sleeves, ending cleanly at his wrists. Suddenly he doesn’t look like the same man I was just talking to a second ago. Like Clark Kent’s glasses, by removing the expensive suit coat of a businessman, he transforms. With his clean-cut professional facade gone, there’s an air of danger about him, the intricate tattoos hinting at a darker story.

Who is this man?

“I’m a travel nurse. One of the other nurses set me up to watch this apartment so he could take my place when I quit my contract,” I say, just stalling while I try to remember the name of the guy Tony said owns this place. Something Russo. It started with a C, I think.

Collin? No.

“Do you have a name, travel nurse?” He’s pouring two glasses of red wine, placing them with the plates on the island next to tall glasses of water. Next comes the silverware—a fork and a steak knife at each setting.

This is looking more like a date than a home invasion. Which one of us is doing the invading has yet to be determined. But it’s feeling more and more like it’s me by the second.

“Alexandra West,” I supply. “Lexie.” What was that name? Callum, that’s what it was.

Callum Russo.

“Can I see some sort of ID?”

He looks at me in consideration for a moment, his gaze moving over me as his lips lift in amusement. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

It’s not an absurd request for him to ask the same of me.

“Deal,” I agree.

He reaches into his discarded suit coat pocket, and I walk to where I put my handbag on the far end of the kitchen counter, giving him a wide radius as I pass. Pulling my ID from my wallet, I’m suddenly wishing I had a better license picture.

“I’ll trade you.” I offer him my card, and he hands me his.

There it is, printed in black and white by the state of New York. Callum Russo, with the penthouse as his listed address. I’ve never seen such an intense driver’s license photo before, he’s staring down the camera like he’s daring every person who looks at it to question him, something I doubt happens often. And that’s exactly what I did.

I glance up from his license to replace him watching me curiously. Callum Russo stares with the same analyzing intensity in real life as he does in his photo.

I guess that’s my answer, it’s really him. Too bad this license can’t also tell me if Callum is as dangerous as he looks—they don’t exactly have a background check printed on the back.

“This doesn’t look like you, Lexie West.” He’s commenting on my photo that’s literally a decade old. I know exactly what he’s looking at; the overly scrunched hair with curtain bangs flat-ironed into submission, round cheeks, and closed-mouth smile hiding a mouth full of metal braces. Overall, not my best look. My hair styling and skincare journey have really come a long way since then—it’s just unfortunate that particular phase has been immortalized in my identification photo. I’m not the type to get embarrassed, but I can feel the blush warming my cheeks anyway.

“Hey, don’t judge. I’m sixteen in that photo, that was ten years ago,” I say in my defense. “At least my photo doesn’t look like I’m threatening every person who asks for my ID,” I shoot back, the words leaving my mouth too fast for me to think better of them. Dammit, I’m teasing him like he’s the friend I was just on the phone with. I have a bad habit of being too comfortable around people I don’t actually know.

Luckily he cracks a small smile, apparently not offended in the least. The man is as devastating as he is intimidating, especially when he smiles. There’s a small scar on his right cheekbone, and I can tell that his nose has been broken more than once, adding character to otherwise perfectly masculine features. He’s tall, every bit the six-foot-four listed on his license. I have to tilt my head to look up at him, he stands a good foot taller than me since I’m only five-four. His presence matches his frame, filling the expansive kitchen until I feel crowded.

“I have that effect on people,” he admits. “You’re right, your picture certainly isn’t threatening.” The teasing edge in his tone laughs, whether at me or with me I’m not sure. Walking back to the place settings at the kitchen island, he pulls out a stool and motions for me to sit. Not sure that I’m comfortable sitting down to eat with this man, but I comply anyway.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I say in apology. I wait as he cuts into the meat, admiring how it slices like butter, the center tender and bright red in the perfect medium rare. That’s a beautiful steak if I do say so myself. As he chews he nods in what looks like appreciation.

“You’re not who I was expecting either,” he states before continuing. “I wasn’t supposed to be here, but there’s been a change of plans.”

“I’ll go pack, I can be gone in thirty minutes.”

“Don’t bother, you’re staying,” he states, the authority in his words leaving no room for argument. “I have some business to take care of, I’m only in the city for a few days.” Suddenly I’m curious what kind of business a man like this does. But the last thing I’m going to do is ask. That’s none of my business and I know how to mind my own.

“Ok,” I agree, not sure what else I can say. Taking a bite, I chew slowly as silence stretches between us.

Glancing over, my eyes catch his as he regards me. This man seems to stare a lot, but in a way I’m not used to. He’s not gawking or ogling. His gaze is intentional, almost analytical. It’s like there’s some sort of calculation going on in his brain and I’m part of the equation. Those ever-seeing hazel eyes seem to look into my very soul, reading me and tucking away that information for later use. He, however, shows very little of what he’s thinking.

“What hospital do you work at, Doc?”

“I’m an ER nurse,” I correct. “I spent eighteen weeks working at New York Presbyterian.”

“But you don’t work there now?” I shake my head, washing down a bite of steak with a sip of wine. This Cabernet Sauvignon is the perfect choice to pair with the meat.

“No, I took some time off.” I don’t need to mention that I’d planned to extend my contract to stay at New York Presbyterian for another thirteen weeks but begged to be let out of the obligation. Tony saved my ass from burning a few professional bridges when I was able to recommend him to my recruiter as my replacement. And all I had to do in return is stay in this penthouse for a few months? It was an easy deal.

“And another nurse set you up to stay here?” he’s more than just curious, he’s solving a puzzle. “Tony.” He supplies the nurse’s name, looking for confirmation.

“Yeah, Tony,” I nod. “He took a contract last minute, so he got everything set up for me to watch your place instead.”

Callum stares at the contents of his wineglass, processing and contemplating. Then he changes the subject.

“There will be people coming in and out while I’m here.” He takes a sip of his wine, obviously not the least bit uncomfortable in the situation we’ve found ourselves in. And why would he be? It’s his home, his wine, his say of what happens. I’m the one out of her element here; in a strange apartment, in a strange city, with a complete stranger. He’s got the power, and he knows it.

Something tells me this dynamic isn’t a one-off. Callum holds the power in most situations.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” I assure him. I plan on being seen as little as possible. But he shakes his head, hazel eyes meeting blue.

“Don’t worry about that. The place is still yours to use how you want.” Something shifts behind his eyes and the air around us turns more serious. “But from this moment on, you don’t answer the door. Not while I’m staying here. And my office is off limits.”

I blink at him a few times, absorbing his instructions and the ominous threats simmering just below the surface. Then I nod, forcing back my nerves before I respond.

“I’ll let you answer the door and avoid your office like the plague, promise.” Great, Lexie, now it sounds like you’re mocking him. My comment doesn’t seem to irritate him. In fact, he barely registers that I spoke at all. He just stares at me, still solving a puzzle only he can see.

Hopping down from the stool, I carry my dishes to the sink and give them a good rinse before loading them into the dishwasher. I can feel Callum’s presence behind me while I work, his tracking gaze giving me a complex. It’s too bad a stranger appeared unannounced on a night that I’m not dressed for company.

“I didn’t touch your bedroom.” I address him over my shoulder as I clean up the mess I made while cooking. This silence is killing me, I always compulsively need to fill it. “It didn’t feel right to take the primary suite, so I’m staying in the downstairs guest room.”

“Perfect.” He sounds distracted, and when I turn around he’s typing on his phone.

“I’m going to my room, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Doc.”

“I’m a nurse.” There’s definitely a dose of sass in my correction, and as I turn to leave the kitchen, I swear the corners of his lips quirk in a smug smile. Rolling my eyes, I’m heading to the guest room where I plan to read until my eyes close.

***

The clock tells me I’ve stalled as long as I can, it’s time to go to sleep. Lying in the darkness, I will unconsciousness to come before my demons make their nightly appearance. Anxiety washes over me, hot and itchy. The silence in the large bedroom is deafening as my thoughts wrestle for dominance.

Just one night, I can survive just one night in the dark.

The first face appears behind my eyes; curly blonde hair, wide brown eyes lit with pain, and two missing front teeth. She’s so little, with so much life left to experience. But the light is dimming from her eyes.

Wrenching my eyes open, I sit up abruptly and try to regulate my breathing. Heart still racing, I reach for the tv remote on the nightstand. I click on the same show I choose every night, the familiar opening sequence playing. Comforting voices fill the room as I lay back down and close my eyes.

“The best home bakers from across the country applied in the thousands. Just twelve have made it to our bubble. Every aspect of their baking skills will be tested. Everything they create will be judged.” Soothing English accents wrap around me, chasing away the shadows in my mind that threaten to swallow me. “Welcome to the Great British Baking Show.”