Westham Night and Day: Fallen Angel

Volume 1
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-3-7392-3253-9
Verlag: BoD E-Short
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 198 Seiten

Reihe: Night and Day

Futile and bereft - thus has been the tenor of Michael Clay's life since the death of his wife and little son in a horrific accident a year ago. The entrepreneur and multi-millionaire withdraws from the mainstream and, in the evenings, fills the void with alcohol. One night, the unexpected arrival in his apartment of Sophie, the sister of his neighbor, Eva, diverts Michael from his self-destructive course. He falls in love with the vivacious young woman, and at the same time, finds himself drawn to Eva, an extremely attractive, hard-as-nails businesswoman. The relationship with the sisters wrests Michael out of his depression. He quickly realizes, however, that behind their erotic games lurk dangerous chasms that threaten to lead him down a path of deadly crime.

Carla Westham is born on 4th of August in Landsberg/Lech in Germany. She is a selfmade millionaire and knows the world of capital and rich people very well. Her Hobbies are car racing and flying helicopters. Today she is living with her three kids and her husband in South Africa.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Westham, Carla

Leseproben

Chapter 1

He stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide open. The pale moonlight illuminated the elegant bedroom, highlighting the contours of the modern furnishings. He had cast the coverlet aside and his hands clutched the sheet; another night without sleep. His thoughts were fixated on all that he had lost. Rage despair, sorrow – the demons stalked him and deprived him of sleep night after night. The effect of the whiskey, which had at least allowed him a few hours’ sleep, had abated. But the night was not yet over, the alarm clock next to the bed showed that it was 2:45 am.

His head ached, he rubbed his eyes, and exasperated, he turned on his side, forcing himself upright with some effort. Numb, he looked out of the penthouse window. Chicago lay glistening at his feet, and the moon had disappeared behind a transient veil of wispy clouds. It was the middle of the night, and despite the fact that it had become seasonably warm -- announcing the arrival of spring – he shivered.

He stood up slowly and walked carefully toward the bathroom. He fumbled around uncertainly, searching for the light switch, and blinked at the sudden neon flash of the luminous mirror. A dull throbbing in his head provided a response.

Damn it, he realized in exasperation, I should stop this shit!

Every morning he was angered by the consequences of his bouts with alcohol, but as evening approached, whiskey again became his ally in the battle against loneliness and grief. No matter how good the high-proof alcohol had tasted last evening, today its stale traces in his mouth were disgusting. Reluctantly, he stepped in front of the mirror.

The face in the mirror belongs to Michael Clay, still very attractive, rugged, virile, and self-assured. But now a lightlessness reduced the sparkle in his gray eyes, his beard was bristly, the circles under his eyes gave away his urgent need for sleep, and above the bridge of his nose, a deep diagonal furrow had appeared, giving the impression that he was constantly lost in thought. His temples were graying, and from there a few fine gray strands were fighting their way to the top, through the wavy brown hair with copper highlights that casually fell across his forehead. His counterpart in the mirror looked earnestly into his face.

“Clay, you look like crap,” he mumbled, as he studied his red-rimmed eyes. Preoccupied, he ran his hand through his hair, pulled down his pajama bottoms and with a sigh, sat down on the toilet. Supporting his head in his hands, he waited patiently until his bladder was completely empty, pulled up his pants, and washed his hands. His movements were almost mechanical; he still felt the effects of the alcohol that his body had not yet absorbed in the last few hours.

He decided to get a beer out of the refrigerator; maybe he could still get a few hours of sleep before dawn. He had to face a demanding day ahead, with an appointment schedule filled to bursting. He pushed the door open, crossed the bedroom toward the hallway, and padded barefoot down the corridor toward the kitchen. He approached the fridge purposefully, without deigning to honor the whiskey bottle, standing half-full on the table in the living room, with even so much as a glance. He carefully opened the refrigerator door, expertly filled as always by Zoe, his long-time housekeeper. The inventory included a couple of beer bottles, and he reached for one of the small bottles gratefully. He glanced quickly across the array of meals that lay meticulously packed and precisely stored on the row of shelves. He swallowed, his stomach briefly rebelled, and he rejected the thought of having something to eat. The beer would be enough. The refrigerator door closed softly; reaching into the drawer to find the bottle opener was routine, the familiar pop of the bottle-top placated his stomach somewhat, and he held the cool, wet liquid to his lips until he had drained the bottle entirely. The tangy taste was just the right choice. With a deep burp he let the air escape from his stomach and wiped the remains of the foam from his mouth. Aah, that was good!

And as he was still leaning casually on the kitchen counter, he saw something: It was only a tiny reflection from the corner of his eye, but it didn’t escape him. In the dimmed, low-level illumination of the kitchen lights, he could make out a movement on the television screen that he hadn’t made. He was standing too far away. It was the reflection of a person who was crouched behind the bookcase in the living room, hiding.

Clay was startled; the fright caused a cramp in his stomach, and all at once he was stone-cold sober, his senses fighting to gain a footing in the fog of his thoughts.

Who is that? How did he get in here? A thief? Here on the 26th floor with all of the safety features in the building? That can’t be...

In disbelief, he tried to ascertain something about the person in the reflection. Apparently he thought that he had not been noticed and was well-hidden, so Clay had to act as if he hadn’t seen him not to make him nervous. As quietly as he could, he placed the bottle on top of the kitchen table, forced himself to breathe evenly and not move too quickly. His heart was beating in his throat, but he stepped calmly and unhurriedly toward the balcony. He hesitated a short moment; perhaps the crouching person was armed? He could awaken Theo, his bodyguard, first, and then they could overpower him together. But he rejected that thought, too, since he could get away in the meantime, in the same way that he got in here.

He had reached the bookcase that the intruder was using as his hiding place; slowing his steps, he flexed his muscles. Good that he had increased his attendance at his martial arts classes in the last months, intended to help diminish his rage, which still regularly got the better of him. This concentrated attention to his volatile emotions – and his limits -- helped him be himself for brief periods of time. Now his muscles and his senses responded as if he were pushing buttons -- on command.

Quick as lightning, he reached around the side of the bookcase, grabbed an arm and drew him backwards, towards himself. At the same time he pushed his left leg in front of his opponent’s knees and pulled him down across his thigh. Surprised by the leverage, the slender body fell, groaning, flat on the floor. With a practiced movement, Clay bent back the hand of the arm that he was clutching, in order to fold it all the way behind his opponent’s back. His adversary arched his upper body in pain. Skillfully, Clay placed his right knee on his lower vertebrae and wrapped his strong right arm around the intruder’s other limb.

The body under him twitched, emitting a piteous sound as he twisted the unnaturally angled arm upwards. It was a high-pitched moan, and he noticed immediately that it was a woman whom he had pressed against the floor so rudely, and whose upper arm he was twisting in such a way that the ball at the joint would be painfully removed from its socket.

“What are you doing here! Who are you and how did you get in?” he demanded.

“Please don’t hurt me, I haven’t done anything to you,” she whimpered in a high, panicked voice, from the depths of the living room carpet, and he felt a weak, desperate movement of the tortured body in an effort to shift the position of his knee on its back.  Presumably, his entire weight was pushing against it. Slowly it began to occur to him that he had been quite rough with the lady on the floor, but his temper hadn’t yet subsided.

“Answer me,” he gasped, and shifted his weight only a little.

“Please, Sir, I’m not a thief, I haven’t taken anything from you! Please let me go!” sobbed the young woman under him; in the meantime he had realized that she had nothing to counter his strength.

“Tell me your name,” he commanded her harshly.

“S …Sophie,” she replied hesitantly.

“And what are you doing here if you haven’t stolen anything?” His tone was icy; he was really angry. How did this person dare to break into his apartment in the middle of the night? He had had quite a shock.

“I saw the grand piano and wanted to come closer, to play it... ,” her voice became softer.

Surprised, Clay loosened his grip and allowed her painful arm to lower a bit.

“I live next door; our balcony borders on yours and I can climb over it without any problem; the door to your balcony was open, so I came inside ... please, Sir, I didn’t want to make any trouble; I allowed my curiosity to get the better of me!”

Clay’s glance wandered to the balcony, and indeed the door was open, the drapes rustling in the light breeze that constantly played around the edges of the façade up here on the 26th floor. Clay realized that the girl wasn’t dangerous. He let go of her arms and sat down on the floor next to her. Slowly and with a groan, she sat up and rubbed her bent arm. At the bruise where Clay had grasped it, her skin was red. Carefully, she rubbed the hurtful spot, and her arm hung down helplessly. “You hurt me,” Sophie pouted and fixedly looked him in the face.  She was amazingly pretty, very natural, with high cheekbones and a full, womanly mouth. The proportions were perfect, the hair shimmered like gold – fastened in a thick loose knot at the nape of her neck. A few curls played around the pale contours above the green-gold eyes. Her pupils were wide open, mirroring fear and shame in equal parts.

“You should be grateful that I didn’t break your neck,” he hissed; he still had difficulty curbing his anger. “That’s considered trespassing; I should really call the police.”

“No, please, no police; please don’t embarrass me. I’ll never do it...