by Sarah Andre
“I’ll get this. I owe you.”
He almost said for what? He’d caused her nothing but problems this week. And every time he’d tried to make it up to her, he just made things worse. If only he knew how to be normal. “Thanks,” he said—and meant it, but it came out clipped and sullen.
She shook her head with an I-give-up expression and dropped a credit card on the bill. In seconds, the fidgety waitress rang it up and returned. Gretch signed, and Sean’s heart thawed at the extravagant tip she left. Once again her prickly exterior hid a softer, decent side. Naturally, she noticed him peering at the bill and slid out of the booth with frosty displeasure. “I need to stop at the ladies’ room.”
“I’ll wait outside.” He shouldered the door open and sucked in air like he’d been exhumed from a caved-in coalmine. He shoved his fists in his pockets and stared at the curb. If it hadn’t been clear enough last night that they didn’t belong together, this meal was the fat lady singing. He shouldn’t have asked her to lunch, hadn’t meant to stare at the tip she left. It was socially unacceptable. Why did he do shit like this? And now, ladies and gentlemen on the El, I give you another silent freeze-out back to work…
A door chimed, the recognition of it like a two-by-four to the head. “That’s him.”
Sean pivoted, teeth clenched at his idiocy. Johnny stood just outside the art store with a morbidly obese, gray-haired man in a brown pinstriped suit. The man’s beady black eyes held no humor. No humanity. Oh shit.
As sensei, he hammered home mindfulness to his students. Awareness of their surroundings, the threat level. What a fucking bonehead to have been so distracted by Gretch that he’d overlooked the obvious. Johnny hadn’t gotten any contact information, so he’d be damn frantic to find Sean again. And here Sean stood, waiting to be found. His heart beat erratically.
“Sal Donatello,” the older man said, unfastening the button of his suit. “My son tells me you know where my painting is.”
Damn, damn, damn. “No, sir. I can’t get hold of my friend.”
There was no question the obese man was mob. High up in the hierarchy, too. Small potatoes didn’t hang the world’s most famous stolen painting behind the register disguised as crap. They stored it in a locked vault with high-tech sensors.
Without breaking eye contact, Sal jerked his head, and Johnny scrambled to open the door. The chimes jingled merrily again. Sal gestured magnanimously. “Come tell me all about your friend. You see, I’m very eager for that painting to be returned.”
Sean shifted his weight. Please don’t come out right now, Gretch. “I can’t help you, sir. I only saw a cell phone picture of it. Months ago. I stopped by to see if there were other paintings by that artist—you, I mean. It was exquisite.” He raised his palms. “I don’t want any problems.”
Sal smiled, a lizard-like flash. With a sleight-of-hand motion, he opened the right side of his blazer, where the handle of a menacing Sig Sauer glinted. He nodded to the door. “Inside.”
Sean’s combat composure emerged like the flipside of a coin. He could take these guys. Could definitely unarm Sal before the man blinked. The sequence whirled through Sean’s head: pivot left, roundhouse kick to Johnny’s skull, reverse pivot, uppercut to Sal’s chin, unarm him as the man went down. “Sorry,” he said, breathing in a feral sense of serenity. “I’m late for work.”
The door behind him whooshed open; Chinese odors wafted out. “Thanks for waiting,” Gretch said. “Sorry I ruined lunch.”
Sal’s tiny eyes widened, eating up her beauty head to toe. His smile broadened to a real one, which, ironically, was way more intimidating and deadly. Shifting his gaze to Sean, he placed a hand lightly near his unbuttoned blazer, message crystal clear. On some level, he must’ve known Sean wouldn’t give in without a fight, but he was also confident Sean wouldn’t dare risk anything now, with Gretch mere inches from a stray bullet.
Sal nodded to where his son still held the door open. “It’s your boyfriend who ruined lunch, miss. Please step inside.”
23
Gretch glanced from Sean to the obese man in the expensive but hideous suit. Tension crackled between them, while the hipster holding the shop door open gaped at all three of them. All she’d done was freshen her lipstick. What the hell had happened out here?
“She’s not going anywhere.” Sean’s calm voice was the emphatic tenor from the dojo. The slouch who’d hopscotched through her brutally unforgiveable behavior at lunch was nowhere to be seen. His profile was chiseled steel, his posture formidable. The smoldering alpha metamorphosis sent a deep shudder through her.
He reached over and clasped her hand. His long, artistic fingers were warm, his grip firm, but after her conduct, this was the last thing she deserved. With a mild tug he eased her behind him. What the hell?
“We’re leaving,” he said to the two men.
Shaking his head, the older man reached into his suit jacket.
“Don’t. You will get hurt.” Sean’s gaze stayed locked on the fat man, although he nudged her further away.
A few yards behind the fat man, a young powerwalking woman wheeled a baby stroller toward them. She slowed, shooting an annoyed expression at the cluster of people blocking the sidewalk. Gretch glanced at the three men, who were in a glaring standoff. Here was her chance.
“Let me help you,” she called to the woman in her trainer’s bark. Both the man and hipster turned on instinct.
Sean dropped her hand. “Run.”
He lunged forward, striking the older man’s chin with an upward sweep of his palm. The blow slammed the man against the glass door.
Sean grabbed something from the man’s jacket and whirled in reverse, kicking the hipster in the head. Gretch gaped at the graceful blur of fury. The boy sank to his knees, bleeding from the nose and mouth.
“I said run!” Sean snarled without looking at her, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in front of the dazed and wobbly fat man. The woman wheeled the stroller in a tight one-eighty and careened away. The baby began to wail.
“Jesus,” Gretch muttered. “What in the hell is going on?”
“Goddamn it, Gretch!”
There was no way she was leaving Sean behind. No way in hell she was running in heels. She spun around, scanning the four streets of the intersection for a cop car or—
“Taxi!”
The cab pulled up, and she darted for the door. Before she got one foot in, Sean shoved her from behind, hard. She flew across the seat and banged her temple on the window. “Ouch!”
He slid in, slammed the door, and shouted, “Go,” to the startled driver.
Wheels screeched as the sedan peeled out. Sean gave Moore and Morrow’s address in his sensei tone. Gretch righted herself and yanked down her hem. She was oddly out of breath. Blocks whirled past.
She glanced right, immediately clamping her lips to hold back the shriek. Sean held a gun in his lap, loosely, like it was a toy. Except for a muscle working along his jaw, and a thin sheen of perspiration coating his temple, he was typical, laidback Sean, watching the scenery out the front window. His breathing was even, while here she was, fighting not to hyperventilate.
“Where did that come from?” Her voice sounded thick, like she was thirsty.
Although he didn’t look over, a ghost of a grin appeared. “Abracadabra.”
“What the hell, Sean,” she whispered. “What just happened?”
He leaned forward and stuck the gun into the back of his jeans. After he flipped the shirt over the bulk, he studied her. His usual sad-puppy brown eyes were dark espresso and deadly. It was incredibly compelling—hotter than anything she’d ever seen. “Attempted robbery.”
Gretch opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her fingers trembled, and she wiped her palms on her dress. Everything was okay. He’d saved their asses, asses she didn’t even know needed saving. Her warrior. “You did good,” she said lightly.
“Thanks. And just for future reference, besides yelling ‘run,’
is there a magic word that’ll get you to actually move?”
She crossed her left leg and tapped the toe of her Michael Kors on his sturdy knee. “No sneakers.” She shrugged in fake helplessness.
He grinned in that lopsided way, his eyes twinkling crescents. Such a darling look. The surge of attraction knocked the breath back out of her. She reached for his hand, still welcoming and protective, and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
His grin faded. He shook his head. “Don’t. I did something so brain-dead stupid you almost got hurt.”
Why he called exploding into a ninja and disarming a man stupid was beyond her, but she sat back and reveled in their safety, cherished the security his clasped hand brought her.
This was the palm that had brushed her breasts last night. She stroked it tentatively with the pad of her thumb. Callused and capable. Maybe the usual abhorrence wouldn’t rear up if she knew it was coming. If she knew it came from him.
Maybe she could figure out a way to get him to kiss her in that all-consuming way again, until she was reeling with lust like last night. Only this time she wouldn’t do her dog-and-pony show, tied to all the sick memories of powerlessness and horror. Just kissing until she was giddy, then try something new. Strictly over her clothes.
Hope radiated through her. God, to be normal! To enjoy sex and feel cherished by a man’s touch… Butterflies pirouetted around her belly.
The taxi pulled to a stop outside of Moore and Morrow.
“What are you doing tonight?” Gretch asked, unable to hide the huskiness, the optimism.
“Karate class.” The promptness of his answer was a guy on autopilot. He hadn’t caught the innuendo, the dolt. He paid the driver, got out, and helped her to the sidewalk.
“What I meant was—”she raised her voice because he was already closing in on the door, “—can I treat you to dinner afterward, since I ruined lunch?”
“You paid for lunch, Gretch. We’re square.”
She slapped her hands on her hips. For Pete’s sake. “I’m asking you out.”
He swung around and gaped at her as if she’d confessed to being a two-headed alien.
She blushed, her defenses ramming a rod up her spine. “Please tell me you’ve been asked out by a woman before.”
He blinked a couple of times and seemed to gather himself. “Yeah,” he said, walking backward to the door and opening it for her. “But they weren’t you.”
His words sent her butterflies into a tizzy. She breezed by him and quickly sat behind her desk. The physical barrier brought a semblance of relief. “Okay.” Get it together! “Stop by my place at eight.”
“Eight thirty.” He cocked his head. “Maybe you should go with me—”
She held up a hand. “No need. Hip-width stance, grab their arm, shift, pull. Got it.”
“Come demonstrate.” He gestured, sensei demeanor intact.
She snorted, remembering the downward dog fiasco. “I’ve maxed my quota of humiliating myself in front of you.” Especially last night. The office suddenly felt stifling and airless. She flicked her pen in the direction of the lab. “Go on.”
“I’ll ask Dane to accompany you after work. You shouldn’t be walking anywhere alone.”
“Enough with treating me like a princess.”
His face broke into that lopsided grin, and the butterflies revved up to Mach 2. “Confess,” he said in a low voice. “Your birthday-candle wish is to be a princess for real, right?”
Responding intelligibly was beyond her. This guy was white hot when he put effort into being outgoing. Even those quirky, sloping eyebrows, like he questioned everything, were becoming endearing.
Then he ruined it with that weird knock-twice thing and strode off.
“Freak,” she said softly, unable to hold back the smile. She brought up her email with surprisingly shaky fingers. The third email down was a response to her request for the Quran provenance. She downloaded the attachment and studied the timeline. Way too tidy. Absolutely a fake. If she hadn’t known anything about researching an artifact’s history, this would pass as legitimate, but provenances were rarely able to prove ownership without decades or centuries of gaps. She forwarded it on to Margo, her email brisk and professional. If this was the stuff the FBI did, she could so hold her own.
24
Sean grinned all the way down the hall. Sure, his face was on a bunch of security cameras in and outside of Sal Donatello’s store. Sure, Gretch still needed a bodyguard because of his errors, but she’d asked him out. He barely felt the tile beneath his feet.
Stopping by Dane’s desk, he asked the favor, and the man’s eyes brightened; whose wouldn’t at spending that much time with Gretch? Sean swallowed the surge of jealousy and walked to his cubicle, burying the Sig Sauer in his book bag. He reached for the phone, the thrill of finding the painting resurfacing. Time to update Jace about the Vermeer, and how it was connected to the mob. His brother’s curt voicemail message started, and Sean blew out an impatient breath.
“Yeah. It’s me,” he said. “I’ve found a painting that’ll make you look real good. It comes with a Sig Sauer and a story you’ll be telling for years. You’ll probably want to stop by instead of just calling back.” He hung up, grinning. This was it. All he’d ever wanted from his earliest memories. The respect of an older brother.
He drummed his palms on the desk, too adrenalized to get back to the intricate restoration. He should probably tell Hannah and Walter too. They would shit knowing the Vermeer had been stored here since October.
Both calls went unanswered. Seriously. The news of the century. Sean shook his head and phoned Gretch. Once again she answered like a normal person, which was mildly disappointing. Her snark kept him on his toes.
“Where are the bosses?” he asked.
“Out on a sales call. Why?”
“Need to show them something.” If he stood up, they’d be talking face to face. A hall length away, but still. Their relationship was on the brink of something new. She’d asked him to dinner; he should stand up and smile as he spoke, right? Would that be flirting? Cloying? Creepy?
“They’ll be back at three thirty,” Gretch said in a perfunctory voice.
He rose to a crouch before he heard the distinct hang-up. “So. That happened,” he muttered, face in flames, slumping on his stool. No big deal. A heroic afternoon loomed once Jace, Walter, and Hannah shared in his find.
Sean stuck in earbuds, chose Yo-Yo Ma’s interpretation of Bach’s Six Unaccompanied Suites, and picked up his tools, humming. Life sure had a way of turning around on a guy.
Hours later, while focusing on the exacting intricacies required to repair the Quran, his inherent pessimism crept back like an insidious fog. Jace hadn’t stopped by—so much for the epic unveiling. And every moment that passed brought another explanation for Gretch’s oddly affectionate behavior in the taxi. The joke about the sneakers. The slender fingers wound in his. Their repartee had felt so natural at the time, but now it was filtered through years of insecurity. Hell, she’d hung up when he’d been about to stand up and smile; that wasn’t the action of a woman attracted to him.
That stuff in the taxi had to have been his imagination, because Jace was her type. And tonight… He’d read too much into her invitation. Obviously misunderstood the beguiling vulnerability in her eyes. Women who breezed through life with looks and personalities like hers didn’t gravitate to OCD introverts who preferred the arts to human interaction. Last night was a fluke. Besides, as much as Sean wanted her, he didn’t want to be responsible for her meltdown again. He’d eat the meal, picking from areas around his plate in no particular pattern, and call it a night. The perceived magical moments in the taxi would have to suffice.
He adjusted his earbuds and gently picked up a sheet of gold leaf with wide, padded tweezers. Should he have told her about Donatello and the significant threat they’d faced? No. Why worry her? Sure, the mob probably had security photos of them by now, and were undoubtedly scouring the c
ity for any information on them or the stolen painting, but this was Chicago. The third-largest city in the nation. Neither he nor Gretch lived or worked anywhere near West Milwaukee. He’d only touched the outside door handle—no way could they lift his fingerprints from others. Hadn’t given his name or business card. Even if the mobster had gone next door and—
Oh shit!
Sean jerked spastically, lurching the tweezers. The gold leaf fluttered to the floor. Gretch paid for lunch with a credit card. He’d spent hours mooning over the taxi ride instead of the single, minuscule detail that had probably outed them within minutes.
Sean wiped a hand over his mouth, heart hammering. All Sal Donatello had to do was describe her and get her name off the receipt. It would take seconds to trace her social media accounts, where she’d probably listed Moore and Morrow under occupation. No one in this office was safe. What a fuck-head move to attempt this quasi-FBI role this morning. He should’ve redialed Jace over and over until the butthead answered.
Sean jumped up and squinted down the hall. Dane chatted animatedly to Gretch as she gathered her things. Her imperial displeasure at the escort was written all over her face, which the man failed to notice.
“Hold up,” Sean called. “Don’t leave yet.”
Sucking in a terrified breath, he pressed Jace’s number. The life-and-death call landed once again in his brother’s voicemail. Muttering an oath, he texted sos and shared his location. Again. Twice in three days. Couldn’t get wimpier than that.
He gestured again for Gretch and Dane to wait, then scurried around cleaning up his cubicle. Sure, the secure world they all took for granted was about to fall down in an Armageddon blaze at their feet, but that was no excuse to leave his workstation in disarray. He’d obsess over it all evening. Hate for it to be his dying thought.
Sean hurried down the hall and sidled up to Dane. “On second thought, I’ve got time before my class to escort her.”