I peek around the corner again. This time I catch sight of a group of men moving toward the end of the building where I’m halfway hidden. One tall and slender, the other two built like refrigerator boxes with legs. Comic book criminals if I’ve ever seen any. I chance one more glance to confirm. They are most definitely headed in my direction. Well, bantha fodder. What am I going to do now?
Scanning the wall isn’t much help. It’s a metal building with windows higher up. But it’s dark. Maybe I can just suck in my tummy and stand in the shadows and hope they don’t turn the corner? I channel “Grecian Urn” with all my might, as if every warehouse has a sparkle-clad statuary that I’m blending into. My heartbeat accelerates to a slow gallop. This is probably why it’s a bad idea for me to be here.
And then I see it. The little cove of a door along the wall, shrouded in inky darkness. It’s a perfect hiding spot, thank the stars above.
Not one second too soon, I skitter on tiptoes to the doorway, and just as I catch the barest glimpse of the men round the corner, I step back into the alcove and let the shadows swallow me.
I land against something softer than a building, something that gives an audible grunt when I step on its foot. That something slips a hand around my face, covering my mouth, muffling my scream.
“You are in big trouble,” a voice growls in my ear. My pulse beats so wildly, my head swims. I scrabble at the hand trapping my mouth and attempt to bite it at the same time. I am rewarded with another grunt and a slight lessening of the pressure. I squirm and wiggle, trying to get even a fraction of an inch of space to maneuver.
I was at a wedding once where a drunk bridesmaid accidentally drove her stiletto heel clear through another girl’s foot on the dance floor. I might not make it all the way through the arch of the foot beneath mine, but I’m hoping if I replicate the move, I’ll cause him enough pain that he lets me go.
I gather my strength, lift my foot, approximate the location of my captor’s limb, and do a quick countdown in my head. Three, two . . .
I catch the slightest scent of cinnamon.
“Matteo?” Only there’s a hand over my mouth, so it comes out “Mmm-mmm-ohmmmm?”
“Shhhh.” I recognize the voice this time. “I’m going to let go. Don’t scream, okay?”
I nod against his hand, and it drops from my mouth. He shifts me slightly to the side like we’re hugging, and we melt into the alcove together, my heart hammering for several reasons. Most pressing is definitely the footfalls I hear on the pavement maybe twenty feet to our left. What if they are looking specifically for this door? The other reason is definitely Matteo’s proximity. We’re pressed together from thigh to shoulder. It’s better than I imagined.
Matteo seems to have the same thought and shifts his body against me. My cheek presses against a hard material under his jacket. It’s Kevlar, unless I miss my mark. I love a man in uniform—well, costume. I’m thinking now of expanding that admiration into hot space-cop tropes. The point still stands that Matteo is in Kevlar, and here I am parading around in pleather. I’ve really misread the situation’s danger level.
Footfalls approach, and Matteo lifts his hand to his side. It’s hovering just above where I assume his holstered firearm is. I hold my breath as we watch the group of three men walk past the alcove without even a glance. They’re talking about their next delivery and joking quietly about mundane things. Drug smugglers wouldn’t be telling dirty jokes, would they? They’d be searching every nook and cranny for cops. I almost give a mirthless laugh; right now they’d definitely find one.
They continue along the street, and I can feel Matteo relax a little bit. He takes a half step back, allowing me to right myself from the uncomfortable angle I’ve been standing in pressed into the corner.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“I’m out here looking for you since I knew that you’d be here.” He doesn’t bat an eye. A foregone conclusion that I’d risk my own neck. “I should ask you the same question. Why are you here?” He sounds mad. I glance up at him, and his face is carefully blank. Professional Detective Kildaire at my service.
“I went for a pleasure stroll? At night? In a crime-infested neighborhood?”
“And what was your plan if you happened upon an unsavory character?”
“Who says I haven’t come across one? I had a plan.” He’s still basically blocking my body in the alcove, though I can’t hear anyone else. His nearness intoxicates me. I can’t control my breathing. I feel half-panicky, half-giddy, like I’m on the best and fastest ride at the carnival.
“You did bite me,” he says, his voice close to my ear. Less mad this time. I hear a faint tone of amusement.
“That was part one. This was part two.” I place the heel of my stiletto where I assume the arch of his foot is and jump half my weight onto it. “Only harder than that. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve seen a stiletto go straight through a foot.”
A strangled noise escapes his lips, half pain, half laugh. Matteo scoots back in surprise, eyes wide as he looks down at me. “Only you would use fashion as a weapon, Michael-Grace Martin. You are singularly the most infuriatingly fascinating person I’ve ever met.”
I chance a look up at his face because I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused. What I find there takes my breath away. He’s looking at me . . . really looking at me. I’m hyperaware of our close proximity, the darkness of the alcove, the racing of my heart, and the mere inches that separate our lips.
“You are compromising my case.” His voice is husky. I hardly hear his words because I’m too entranced by his five-o’clock shadow and the movement of his full bottom lip. Once the words do register, I’m not sure if he means I’m compromising him by our close proximity or the case by the fact that I’m chasing down criminals on my own when I should have been letting the police handle it.
He leans an inch closer, and I can sense the war within him. The inevitable gravitational pull our lips have against the sense that this is a very, very bad idea.
WWJD—What Would Janeway Do? She’d probably have a diplomatic answer. Screw her. Diplomacy is overrated. What would Han do? He’d kiss the girl. So that’s exactly what I do. I reach out, slide my hands up his jacket, twine them around his neck, run my fingers through the slight curls at his nape, and pull his lips to mine.
The world bursts into color as my lips meet his. He’s not hesitant to follow my lead. It goes beyond chaste first kiss. Instantaneously searing, the product of two people who have been dancing around this contact for weeks. I’ve never had one simple kiss undo me in milliseconds. His hand wraps around my waist and pulls me to him, firmly, possessively, the buckles on the Kevlar digging into my own chest. I want the vest off. I wish I felt his heart pounding against mine. I want more.
The sky behind my eyelids bursts a brilliant and ferocious orange and magenta. Thunder rolls across the sky. I’m breathless and flying through the stars, my body alight with a fire that stems from the point where my body meets Matteo’s.
That is, until I realize that the fireworks and thunder aren’t just in my head. They’ve actually happened.
Matteo and I jump apart, realization dawning at the same moment.
“W-what was that?” My voice shakes as I draw a deep gasping breath. Maybe because I’d just had the most intense first kiss of my entire life in the alcove of a warehouse? Or because things are exploding and the man I was just kissing is already holding a gun?
Matteo grazes my cheek with one hand. “You stay here, okay?” His gaze lingers on my lips for just a moment. He leans in, brushes my lips ever so briefly with his, then dashes out of the alcove, while I’m a little slower on the uptake. My brain still fights with the intense wave of lust that crashed through me, my head still spinning from the kiss, but my eyes are searching the street outside, looking for danger. And my ears are straining to put a label on the rolling, thundering noise I heard.
With one good mental slap, I’m back o
n my feet, all senses firing together. I don’t want to stay here all by myself while someone’s bombing the neighborhood. I feel vulnerable and alone without Matteo’s solid mass beside me. He’s already sprinting up the street, and I follow at a safe distance, constantly glancing behind me to make sure I’m not being followed. A plume of smoke and fire rises above the warehouse district. What looks like an explosion only a few blocks away.
Other people are running up the street now, but they don’t seem to be chasing either one of us. The fireball in the sky even draws the crew loading the crates. I don’t have much time to scan the faces because I’m already sprinting up the street after Matteo. Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip beats a staccato in my head as I run. One errant rock and I’d have road rash.
“What’s going on?” I wheeze as I flop to a stop next to Matteo’s dark sedan. He’s already halfway inside, the key in the ignition, the radio in his hand.
“Jesus, MG. Do you ever listen to me?” He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, then seems to shrug it off. Bigger fish and all that. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’m listening to the scanner.”
I fall quiet. Well, as quiet as an out-of-shape girl who hates running—much less in stilettos—can be. Which isn’t very.
The fire’s intensity already diminishes, though enough of it still burns for me to see clouds of smoke filling the sky. Even here I can smell the faint hints of burning wood and an acrid smell that reminds me of fireworks.
Matteo says a string of gibberish into the radio, letters and numbers that mean nothing to me. Matteo looks concerned. No, he looks pissed. A garbled response immediately, and somewhere in the distance a chorus of sirens lifts into the cloudy night.
“Get in.” Matteo reaches over and pushes the passenger door open.
“I—what?”
“Get in the car, MG. Please.” All business. “I need to respond to this. I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not leaving an unarmed civilian here alone.”
So now I’m not Michael-Grace. I’m hardly even MG. I’m an “unarmed civilian” he needs to protect.
His face softens. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not here. I need to know you’re safe. Get in, please.”
I cross quickly in front of the car, slide in the passenger side, and the car lurches forward before I even have the door shut. I glance over. Matteo clicks his seat belt, and I do the same. There is zero conversation as we speed along the street. At each stop he flips a switch for his lights and we fly through the intersection. A mess of static and different voices fills the radio. Some must be dispatch, and some are officers responding to the scene we are headed toward.
I catch a word I recognize among the gibberish. “Did they just say Marvelous?”
Matteo’s face is grim, focused on the road as he drives. “Yes. There’s been an explosion and a fire. While I was requesting backup at the warehouse and talking with the Coast Guard and . . .” He trails off, and I know he’s reliving our kiss. My stomach drops through the floor of the car. “While I did all of that,” he continues, “we guessed wrong. Not only were those guys loading crates into the warehouse; we missed the Golden Arrow. We chose the wrong lead, and it literally blew up in our faces.”
We. At least we are still a team in his mind.
“What do you mean?” I rock violently from side to side as we fishtail into a parking lot filled with police cruisers and a firetruck. The sign that just flashed by my window confirms my suspicion.
“I mean”—Matteo throws the car into park and is halfway out the door before he turns to me—“the Golden Arrow just blew up Marvelous Printing.”
He shuts his door with a slam, and my mouth falls open. How could he possibly know that? I start to open my door when I see it.
I know how he knows.
The fire inside the building has all but burned out, but on the lawn, just off the quiet commercial street where Marvelous Printing resides, there’s a fire still burning. Artfully drawn with some sort of long-lasting fuel and set aflame, an arrow burns bright in the darkness.
CHAPTER 19
The smell of acrid smoke stings my nose and eyes the moment I’m out of the car. “Oh my God, it’s a golden arrow.”
“No. Absolutely not. MG, you get back in that car right now, and that’s an order.” He returns to where I stand outside the car, reaches behind me, and reopens the door to the sedan.
I cross my arms. I want to see this building. I want to know what’s going on. This is my case too, dammit. And my friends are suspects, and Rideout thinks it’s me, and someone killed my boss’s father over it.
I swear a vein is about to explode in Matteo’s head. He grits his teeth, looks swiftly around, then reaches for me. He drags me forward two steps until we’re so close, I can smell his soap again, even over the scent of fireworks in the air. My heartbeat races wildly, thinking he’s going to kiss me, right here, in front of everyone. Instead, he leans his forehead against mine, takes a deep breath, and speaks very quietly. “Michael-Grace, for the love of all that is good, will you please get in the car? I need all of my attention focused on figuring out what’s going on, and I can’t do that if I’m worried about you.” He cuts off my argument before I can even make it. “I’m not saying you’re not capable. I’m saying this is my job. You are not trained for a crime scene, and there may be other explosions. This case is important to you. I get that. But right now I need to make sure you’re not complicating things further and that you’re safe, okay?”
I snap my mouth shut. His sweetness sops up my usual vinegar, and my hackles lower. Fire crews make their way across the parking lot and cautiously into the building. It wouldn’t be just my neck I’d be risking. If someone had to come looking for me, it’d be their neck too. It would be Matteo’s neck I’d be risking. Without another word, I slide into the car and let Matteo close the door behind me.
He jogs off into the smoke, and I feel a twinge deep down in my stomach. Guilt? Over kissing him? Anxiety for his safety? Worry that our feelings are a complication to this case? Fear that I won’t get a repeat of the singular most amazing kiss I’ve had in all my years on this planet?
I sit and listen to the radio, which chatters incessantly. There are so many buttons, I wouldn’t even know how to turn it down. A few minutes later, Agent Sosa and Detective Rideout arrive.
My phone buzzes, and I jump. I guess I’m a little on edge watching all these police milling around. It’s Lawrence. I look at the time and groan. It’s already well past midnight. And rather than sitting at IHOP with Ryan and Lawrence, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of an undercover cop car listening to static about 10-30s and Code 10s.
Just checking on you. I hope your hot date is going well! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Xoxo.
I chuckle. That wouldn’t leave much off the table. I bite my thumbnail, then reply, You have no idea. I’m safe and sound, call you tomorrow. We need to talk first thing. My anxiety reappears full force. I got lucky diverting Matteo tonight.
Almost immediately the dots appear that show me L is typing back. It can’t be going that well if you replied to my text. Get back to that hunk of man, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
If only it were that easy. I tuck the phone away, lean my head back against the seat, and close my eyes. Guilt over sharing Lawrence’s journal with the police and Casey Junior has me sinking in my seat. I broke my promise; now L is a suspect. If there’s a dirty cop involved, Lawrence going in for questioning could be trouble. There’s a murderer on the loose who could kill him for his journals. Or for that matter, kill me for putting it all together. Solving this case could very well mean saving my friend’s life. Or my own.
An idea starts to form, a way to protect Lawrence. I sigh and stare at the ceiling of the car. If I execute the plan, it will mean lying yet again to Matteo and the police. I’m caught in the perfect storm of lies, truth, and thirty-year-old ghosts.
After what seems an eternity, Matteo climbs back int
o the car. I stifle a yawn, rub my eyes, and sit up from my seat a bit. He appraises me for a full beat in the relative dark of the car, but even so, I can tell his eyes are bloodshot from the smoke. He’s brought the smell of burning campfire into the car with him. “Were you asleep?” he asks.
Despite being bloodshot, his eyes soften as they take in my appearance. That odd sense of familiarity passes over me—the feeling I’ve known this man for much longer than I have. Like he’s seen me half-asleep in my Wonder Woman pajamas for a lifetime and still thinks I’m adorable. It’s the first time I’ve given credence to past lives; maybe Matteo was more to me in another universe too.
“Mmmm, maybe dozed off a little.” I sit up straight, wiggling my toes. I’d taken off my shoes in an effort to sit more comfortably, and now I regret it. “What’s the word?”
He shimmies out of his jacket, then awkwardly out of the Kevlar vest. The shirt beneath is filthy, pressed to his chest with sweat and soot. One yank has the button-down shirt pulled over his head, leaving him in nothing but his slacks and a white T-shirt that clings to his shoulders. I’m suddenly very awake. Yum.
He tosses those in the back seat, then reaches forward, cranks the engine, and begins driving.
“The explosion was well contained in the front lobby. A lot of flash but not much structural damage. It looks like it was meant to attract attention rather than destroy the building.”
“Like fireworks.” I remember the acrid smell that wafted our direction.
The look he gives me is odd. “Yes . . . exactly like fireworks. How did you know that?”
The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 1) Page 19