by Liz Maverick
The next day, late morning, Jane took Rochester on a very long walk to the Upper West Side to see Nana. Nana fussed over the dog, who found a nice spot on the small Sarouk carpet in the tiny living room and went to sleep. Jane put down a bunch of pee pads under Rochester’s rump, took off her coat, and hung it on the peg while Nana shuffled off to light the tiny burner in the galley kitchen. “Brought you something I think you’re gonna like,” Jane said. “It’s a new series. Book one.”
“I do like knowing there’s more to come,” Nana said, sticking a kettle on the stove and turning on the gas.
Jane smiled and leaned down to scratch Rochester behind the ears. “It’s called Under the Kilt. A comedy.”
“You think?” Nana asked.
Jane got up and stuck her head around the corner of the kitchen and glared at her grandma. “You sassing me, Nana?”
“Of course, darling.”
Jane didn’t want to watch the part where Nana’s fingers shook so hard it was tough for her to pour milk into the tiny china pitcher without spilling, so she focused on taking her thank-you-Nick-Dawes haul out of the reusable grocery sack and lining it up on the kitchen counter.
“So this is exciting,” Jane said. “I was running errands in the Flatiron over the weekend, and some company was giving out entire boxes of cookies as a sample. Can you believe that? I don’t want to think about how much that cost.”
“What brand?” Nana asked.
“I don’t know,” Jane said. “Some French-sounding thing.”
“You were given an entire box of cookies for free and you didn’t look at the brand?”
“I guess I don’t remember. Here.” She pointed at the box.
Nana shook her head and then went to retrieve the teacups from the china cabinet. She set them on the small, round tulip table made up with tatted white placemats and matching luncheon napkins. She put her hand on her hip. “That’s terrible marketing.”
Jane grinned. Nana used to be the head secretary in an advertising agency on Madison Avenue. Worked there for years until she was forced to retire—without any decent benefits. She was a tough broad and whip smart. Over time, she’d had a couple of affairs with some of the men in the office, but either they never asked for more, or she turned them down. Jane had never asked what it was like to be an unwed mother in those days, and no one ever spoke about who Nana’s baby daddy was. If Jane thought it was weird she had no idea who her grandfather was, her father certainly never acted like he had a problem with it. Maybe it was one of the reasons why her dad had such a disjointed view of family. Maybe it was why he thought nothing of disappearing on his own daughter . . .
The kettle whistled, and while Nana plated some cookies, Jane went back into the kitchen and poured the water through the strainer into a teapot and then set the kitchen timer for four minutes. “So, I started a new job.”
“You didn’t tell me you were looking for a new job,” Nana said, suspicion all over her face.
Oops. Did I seriously forget to mention that? Or did I purposely forget to mention that because, well, Mr. Dawes.
“That little shit,” Nana added, clearly referring to Jane’s ex.
“Yeah, right? Bill is a little shit,” Jane said, with her mouth full of lemon cookie.
Nana snickered, and Jane got that pang she’d started getting over the last couple of years since she finally had to acknowledge Nana’s hair turning white, and Nana’s shuffling gait, and Nana’s tremors. Her eyes filled with tears, thinking that this was the good stuff: Nana alive and laughing at the table over a cup of tea. And someday in the not-so-distant future she wouldn’t have this anymore. And she’d be alone.
“Are you all right, Jane?”
Jane looked down to where Nana’s hand gripped hers. “I love you, Nana,” she whispered.
“You’ll find someone,” Nana said, misunderstanding and understanding all at once. “I love you too. Now. Tell me about this new job.”
“It’s a short-term thing, but I couldn’t resist. I’m house-sitting for a rich guy, who’s basically given me carte blanche to buy whatever I need while I’m there for a month.”
“Fifth Avenue?” Nana asked, her eyes alight, ready for a fantasy like the ones she read about in books.
Jane hated to disappoint her. “Financial District. But you should see the view.”
“Why does everybody always say that?” Nana mused.
“No, seriously. Water, Woolworth, wow!”
Nana moved the conversation right back to where she wanted it: “Was it handled through an assistant, or did you meet the man?”
“I got it through a friend, but I interviewed with him personally. He’s . . . he’s . . .”
Nana got that stern look on her face. “Your boss. And probably another little shit. Tell me he’s way too old for you or at least unappealing.”
“Um.” Oh, crap. Was she blushing?
“Oh, Jane, darling. Not again. Those men take advantage of you. Your looks, you know. You’re so beautiful, even when you’re not trying. I know you imagine your weight is off-putting, but in my day, we didn’t consider it a liability. In my day, you’d be considered the perfect size and shape. And don’t they say that men still like a little booty?”
Jane winced. “Nana. Booty? Dear lord. Okay, um, let’s focus on the job. Believe me when I say that what happened at my last job is not going to happen at this job. I’m going to fulfill my responsibilities and spend his money and leave when it’s done without looking back.”
Nana nodded.
“By the way. This boss might be just another shit, but he’s definitely not little.” She made big hand gestures to approximate the span of Nick Dawes’s shoulders.
Nana’s eyes widened, and they both burst into peals of laughter.
Jane spent the day with Nana, made them bacon and eggs for dinner (and pulled a ziplock bag of designer kibble from her purse to give to Rochester), and didn’t get back to the penthouse until the evening.
As soon as he felt her unhook his leash, Rochester padded off to lie in front of the fireplace. The fish tank burbled quietly in a darkness punctuated only by the blue and green lights operating the tank’s equipment—and the tiny red lights of Nick Dawes’s surveillance cameras.
Staring up at the one pointed at the fish tank, Jane flailed her arm around for the wall switch and finally made contact. She hadn’t fully gotten used to all the cameras and wondered why her boss thought he needed so many, particularly when he wasn’t living there. He’d said he was involved with dangerous people, but that didn’t really tell a story. Were the dangerous people the Hudson Kings? Or some other group entirely?
Well, it didn’t matter, did it? He’d warned her and assured her that the dangerous people only cared about him, and then she’d taken the job. And just seeing Nana so comfortable in her home made it all worthwhile.
Jane forced her thoughts from going down the what-if paths regarding Nana’s health, but they somehow ended up going down the what-if paths regarding Mr. Dawes. Hence, the decision on a lark to sleep naked in order to fully enjoy Mr. Dawes’s high-quality linens.
She was in bed with the sheets up to her chin reading a book on her phone app when the call came in. God help her, but her heart thumped something fierce, and she automatically glanced at the camera when she answered.
“Hello, Mr. Dawes, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m calling to confirm that you don’t have any additional questions.”
From where she was lying in Mr. Dawes’s bed, Jane looked up at the fancy chandelier that looked something like Baccarat had exploded all over a classic mid-century sputnik light. “Any questions?” she repeated.
Do you actually live here when you’re not dodging dangerous people? Do you have feelings? Can you tell from my voice that I’m naked in your bed?
What happens when I run out of mosquito larvae?
“No, sir, I don’t have any questions. Do you?”
There was a long silen
ce. “I forgot to mention when you were over here that I need to stop by. Pick something up.”
Jane blinked. “Oh. I didn’t expect . . . I didn’t think . . . we didn’t really talk about—” I’m buck naked, dude. Although, if you’re going to start coming over, I’ll have to rethink that.
“If it’s an inconvenience, I can come another time,” he said.
“It’s your house, sir. Come on over.” I can make some hors d’oeuvres and stare at your fabulous teeth while you eat. “I can step out of the house, if you prefer.”
“That’s not necessary.” He sounded annoyed.
“You’re paying me a lot,” Jane said.
“Are you doing a good job?” he asked.
“Of course,” Jane said. Now she was annoyed. “Feel free to come see for yourself.”
“I’ll see you in ten minutes,” Nick said. Click.
Jane sighed. Then she tossed the phone aside and hurried to get dressed.
CHAPTER 11
Nick was now in the habit of keeping his movement around town private and unpredictable. Instead of calling a car service, he picked a random route leading away from the Armory and hopped on a subway. He spent the ride staring at Jane’s contact information on his cell phone. He’d replaced “Fish Sitter” with “Jane MacGregor” and was thinking about what a great voice she had. A ballsy, smoky voice that stuck in your head like a song.
Missy and Dex had done the background check on her. He trusted them completely, so he hadn’t bothered reading her resume in any detail, since there wouldn’t be anything on it that was more important than taking the measure of the woman in person. Now that he’d taken her measure, he was curious.
Curious enough to not completely forget about her once he’d hired her. Curious enough to call her more than was technically necessary. Curious enough to want to see her again in person if only to take stock of how well he’d done making snap judgments about her in the short amount of time that he’d known her.
Curious enough to investigate what about Shane getting to drive Jane home after Puppygate irked him so badly. She’d just sort of walked back into the conference room while he and Rochester were resting on the floor, reclaimed the dog, said she was leaving, and apologized profusely for thinking the worst of him.
He’d been struck by the desire to say all sorts of things that shouldn’t be occurring to him. Things like “Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
Nick got off the subway and jogged up the steps to ground level.
Maybe he wanted to see her in person again because if he’d pegged her right, he already liked her. So he wanted to know that he’d pegged her right; she didn’t seem fussy or high maintenance or unsure. She seemed comfortable with herself and wasn’t sneaking self-deprecating references about her looks or her weight into random sentences every chance she got, like the women he used to party with on Wall Street. He liked that she wasn’t being precious about his house and about his things. That she’d got down to work, found what she needed, and identified what was missing (whatever she needed a spatula for), and seemed entirely competent. And though he couldn’t believe he was actually thinking this, he also liked that she couldn’t quite hide that she didn’t take her fancy new boss too seriously.
Jane would have impressed Jemilla too. Jemilla would have loved her. He could almost see Ms. Johnson sitting next to him in the library, the tip of her pencil beating a rhythm against the desk as she reviewed his homework, her head nodding every time she saw an answer she liked. Listen to your gut, she always said. Make good choices. Be someone you’d admire. She was like a living, breathing motivational poster for getting out of a bad life and becoming a good man. Jemilla would have pegged Jane as a good choice. For whatever that was worth.
It’s worth a lot, and you know it.
Nick stared up at the night sky, looking for stars, but he didn’t see any. And all the empty sky did was remind him that heading back to the penthouse wasn’t just for fun. He really did need the safety-deposit key, because everything he needed to disappear was ready to go in the box at the bank. And he might need to do it. He hated the idea, because it meant leaving the guys, the only people who truly cared about him and made him feel like he had family. But maybe he wouldn’t have to break ties with the Hudson Kings for good. Maybe he could stay involved like those shadow figures Rothgar stationed out in foreign countries, ready to be awakened with a phone call . . . Jesus, Nick, listen to yourself. This is getting bleak. Can’t you just solve the problem? Figure out how to make Sokolov smile again?
If you did, maybe you’d finally get your life together, settle down . . . keep your word, and become the man you promised Jemilla you would be. For some crazy reason that thought U-turned his brain right back to Bianchi’s, to the table where he sat across from Jane MacGregor. Funny how the scene in his head looked more like a date than an interview.
Maybe if he hadn’t been walking down the street like some hero in a rom-com, with his suit coat slung over one shoulder and a big, dumb grin on his face because of some girl he barely knew . . .
Maybe he would have been more alert.
Because it was a total surprise to be tackled into a side street that had no light except for what was glinting off the reflective tape of a yellow DEAD END sign.
Nick’s shoulder slammed into a Dumpster, as the full weight of a body took him like a blocking shield at football practice.
Nick grunted, the only sound he could make with this guy’s palm pressing up under his chin. Then he feinted back, surprising his assailant by not resisting, and the guy stumbled into him, the broken contact giving them both a little space and revealing that this guy was not a guy at all.
In the moment before the second attack, he caught a glimpse of eyes the color of honey, wide and long lashed like a manga character. He knew those eyes. And he knew the exact shade of pink that dusted the owner’s golden-brown skin when she got pissed off, because even though they’d spoken about ten words to each other, he’d been on another freelance gig with her before Sokolov’s. Two thoughts entered his brain as his oxygen exited. First, they were going to add a few more words to the glossary. Second, oh, shit, he was about to let his ass get kicked by Krista Lawrence.
Law, freelance thief and professional distraction, was on him like a fucking spider, doing some ninja thing to his jugular, but doing it slow. This meant she didn’t want to kill him. She either had a particular message to send from Sokolov himself or she needed Nick to have enough oxygen to process a conversation about Sokolov’s money.
Nick knew exactly what to do to break her neck before she broke his, but he wasn’t about to take out a fellow merc unless there were no other options. There was also something in him, something he’d have to analyze a lot later, that felt like he deserved this. “Talk,” was all he managed to say, given the expert placement of her fingers on his neck.
“It’s bad enough,” Law said, as Nick began to see black spots in his vision. “I worked hard to get that gig. I’m still building my reputation. You have no idea. I have to work so much harder than the rest of you. I don’t know who’s talking. Maybe Tristan, that shitty little desk jockey. Maybe Maks. But someone’s talking, and now word is out about how messed up Sokolov’s mission got, and now nobody wants to hire me just when things were finally picking up. You need to fix this.”
“Would it be wrong,” Nick said, gasping, “to mention that you smell good?”
“Are you even trying?” Law’s furious voice spat. A fist circled over his face. “Take some fucking responsibility and find the money, Nick.” The black spots came together like the swirl of a lava lamp, and he was . . .
Nick came to with his face pressed against the side of a building that smelled like piss. He spat out pieces of dirt stuck to his mouth where he’d drooled or bled or whatever was happening. It wasn’t clear what sort of damage had been done. Or who had done it. Nick sorted some of his thoughts and remembered Law. He’d planned to track her; guess s
he got to him first. Grunting against the pain, Nick sat up, leaned against the building, and stared up at the sky. This time, between the buildings he could see a small patch of midnight blue with a single twinkling star. Try as he might, his eyes could not make out any others in the dark city sky. And staring at that star, Nick had the unpleasant sensation of being a big fucking disappointment.
Man, this was pathetic.
After the fog in his brain cleared a little, he rewound the exchange with Law. It was not okay, what he’d said, dismissing her like a sexist shit just two seconds after she’d said it was just that sort of thing that was keeping her down. Like he was laughing at her. Not even defending himself much or trying to get her to stop. Why’d you do that, Nick? Because I wanted her to hit me. I deserved it.
Jemilla Johnson would not be impressed by this. Not one bit. She’d say, “I did not spend all that time saving you from your environment only to have you undermine yourself all on your own.” She’d stand there with her hands on her hips and one eye squinting. The thought made him smile in spite of the pain it brought to his heart . . . and in spite of the pain in his head.
Nick climbed to his feet and brushed off his clothes as best he could, and then he staggered to the penthouse.
CHAPTER 12
Jane was in the kitchen when she heard the distinct sound of someone moving around in the apartment. She froze, one hand on her phone, on which she was reading her book, and the other hand gripping an oatmeal cookie. She slowly put down both, but didn’t get up for fear of scraping the legs of the barstool across the floor.
The intruder did not share Jane’s concerns. He or she was barreling around in the foyer like a drunken sailor. Oh. Huh. “Mr. Dawes?” she called, reaching over to open the kitchen drawer where the pristine Wüsthofs were stored, just in case she was wrong.
After a pause, Mr. Dawes stumbled into the kitchen. Jane sucked in a breath. He’d looked terrible that day in the Armory, rolling around on the floor with Rochester, but now, somehow, he looked worse. If Nick Dawes could look like shit, he’d look like this. In addition to the cuts and bruises from his last escapade, he now also had a swollen eye, a cut on his mouth that had bled some, and a face that had apparently been rubbed in dirt. Holy hell.