by Tiffany Snow
“What happened? Are you okay?” He was inside in the blink of an eye. I was crying too hard to talk, so I just nodded. His lips thinned as he looked at me; then he carefully took the knife from the death grip I had on it, setting it aside. Wrapping his arms around me, he shushed me. “It’s all right.”
I huddled against his chest, tears leaking from my eyes that I knew would stain mascara on his shirt and I’d have to argue with the dry cleaners to have them get it out, but I didn’t care. His chin rested on the top of my head as he soothed me. I felt much better in his arms. Parker was tall and solidly built. Without my heels, the top of my head only reached his shoulder.
“You’re shaking,” he said, once my crying had devolved into sniffles. “Tell me what happened. I saw a man climb into the taxi with you. When you didn’t answer your phone, I drove over here.”
My phone. I’d forgotten to look and see who’d been calling me.
“He said he was with a client,” I said. “Your client. And that they valued their privacy. I’m supposed to tell you that they’re watching.” Leaning back, I looked up at him. “What does that mean? Do you know what he was talking about?”
The look on Parker’s face was grim. He produced a pocket square and wiped gently at my wet cheeks, dabbing the skin beneath my eyes. “Yeah. I do.”
When he said nothing more, I added, “He had a gun.”
Parker paused in his ministrations. “Did he hurt you?”
I shrugged. “Grabbed my arm. Just a few bruises.” I tried to brush it off, but the quaver in my voice betrayed me.
He muttered a curse under his breath, pulling away to inspect my arm, his fingers exceedingly gentle on the abused skin. His jaw locked tight and I knew him well enough to know he was furious.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “They won’t hurt you again.”
I nodded. “Okay.” My voice wasn’t that strong and I took a ragged breath. I didn’t know what was going on or what he planned to do, but I trusted Parker that if he said he’d take care of it, then he would.
Turning away, I crouched down on the floor and started picking up glass. Thankfully, the glass had been heavy so was just in a few big pieces rather than tiny shards. To my surprise, Parker helped, and a few minutes later it was cleaned up.
“Why don’t you go change,” he suggested, tossing the last of the glass into the garbage. “I’ll pour you another drink.”
That sounded wonderful and I didn’t argue. In my bedroom, I discarded the skirt and blouse, pulling on a pair of faded denim shorts and a White Sox T-shirt I’d had for years. I sighed when I took down my up-do, running a brush through my long hair. Not professional, but I didn’t care. My makeup had streaks so I washed it all off, feeling much better by the time I stepped back into my living room.
I noticed Parker had poured me another drink, and himself one, too. Glancing up, he caught sight of me. His gaze made a quick trip down my body and back up, but he didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what he’d expected me to change into, but it certainly wasn’t going to be another skirt and heels.
“Here you go,” he said, rounding the kitchen counter and handing me one of the glasses. “This will help.”
I took it from him and took a drink. The bourbon burned like fire and I coughed. “What did you do with my knife?” I asked, once I could speak without sounding three-packs-a-day.
“I put it back,” he said. “Let’s not answer the door with knives again, shall we? Odds are you’d only end up hurting yourself.”
I shrugged, heading to the couch where I sat, pulling my knees to my chest. “I didn’t have anything else.”
Parker followed, sitting closer than I thought he would have. “Do you own a gun?” he asked.
I looked at him askance. “Are you kidding? You know what a pain in the ass and all the crap you have to go through to own a gun in Chicago.” Which was why I hadn’t mentioned his having one to the cops. Parker would’ve gotten in big trouble having a handgun in the building.
We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and the bourbon no longer burned as I sipped it. I felt much better now, and was embarrassed for how I’d fallen apart earlier.
“Listen, I’m sorry about losing it,” I said, keeping my eyes on the amber fluid that remained in my glass. “It’s just that nothing like that’s ever happened to me before, and it scared me.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said.
“Yeah, but I always thought I was made of tougher stuff than that, and when it came down to it, it looks like I’m a big marshmallow.” So much for channeling my inner Sarah Connor. Badass I was not. I upended the glass, swallowing the last of the bourbon.
Reaching over, Parker took the empty glass from me, setting it on the coffee table. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “You’re a secretary, not a cop.”
“Executive administrative assistant,” I mumbled, automatically correcting him.
His lips curved upward ever so slightly as he looked at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His blue gaze was captivating, even at this hour. I decided I could get used to this Parker, more relaxed and approachable than he was at the office.
“My mistake,” he said seriously, though his eyes twinkled.
I smiled a little, too. “Let’s not have it happen again,” I said, raising an eyebrow in mock admonishment.
Parker didn’t reply, the smile lingering as he looked at me, and his gaze moved over my hair and all the way down to my pink-tipped toes before returning to meet my eyes. My arms were wrapped around my knees and I tightened my hold, my fingers itching to reach for him. He should really go. My defenses were way down and I was inches away from doing something I’d regret.
“Thanks for coming here,” I said. “For helping.”
He must have recognized the dismissal because he nodded. Tipping up his own glass, he finished off the bourbon and set it alongside mine on the table.
“I’ll be going then,” he said, getting to his feet. I hurried to copy him. “You’ll be all right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, nervously running my fingers through my hair. His eyes followed the movement. “So, you’ll take care of it? He won’t…come around again?”
At the mention of the guy, Parker’s face hardened and his eyes grew cold. “I’ll make sure of it. But if you see anything, if something scares you, call me, okay? I don’t care what time it is.”
“Okay.” No problem there. I had no desire to try and be the hero and deal with Mr. Gold Tooth on my own.
Parker nodded, as though satisfied I’d do as he said, then headed out the door. I watched him go, thinking how odd it seemed that, before last night, he’d never been to my apartment, and now he’d been here twice in as many days. Hurrying to the window, I saw him get into his car and drive away, and only then did it hit me that he must’ve been doing the exact same thing when I’d left his apartment earlier.
* * *
I slept until noon on Saturday and when I finally climbed out of bed, I felt much better than I had the night before. After brewing a cup of coffee with my Keurig, I checked my cell. I had a missed call and voice mail from a number I didn’t recognize. Curious, I listened to the message.
“Sage, it’s Ryker. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Hmm.
With everything else going on I had forgotten all about our date, and I couldn’t help the shiver of excitement the low growl of his voice in my ear produced. Now I just had six hours to kill before he got here.
Rarely did a Saturday go by that I didn’t hear from Parker, but it seemed he was giving me a break today. I should’ve been glad. Instead, I found I missed hearing his voice, even if it was just to ask me where I’d put a file or to tell me to schedule a conference call.
I changed my toe color to Blue My Mind and repainted my nails the pale neutral pink that was suited for the office. It’s not like I cou
ld have crazy nails on my hands, but with my toes I could do whatever I wanted.
I scrutinized my closet, trying to figure out exactly what to wear tonight. If he picked me up, did that mean another motorcycle ride? If so, then a skirt or dress was probably out. It’d have to be jeans or shorts.
Ryker had said I was a “bombshell.” I wanted to make him say that again, so I reached in the back of my closet, hauling out a pair of denim shorts that were so tight they looked painted on. I pulled them on over my black bikini panties, added a black bra, then dug in my closet again for a shirt.
I had a black chiffon blouse with elbow-length sleeves that was utterly see-through, but had a pocket over each breast, preserving a bit of modesty. After a moment of hesitation, I put it on, being sure to leave enough buttons undone to do justice to my cleavage. Victoria’s Secret models had nothing on me, thanks to their padded, add-two-sizes pushup Wonderbra.
My hair was down and I’d put curlers in earlier that I took out, using my fingers to separate the curls into waves. A pair of black heels with straps that wrapped around my ankles, a couple of long silver necklaces, and big silver hoop earrings completed my transformation from Goody Two-shoes secretary into Saturday-night-hottie. I hoped.
I transferred my wallet, keys, and cell into a smaller, black purse with a long, silver chain strap I could wear across my body. Again, thinking of the motorcycle. At this rate, I was going to be disappointed if he didn’t bring the damn thing.
I was debating the wisdom of having a drink to calm my nerves when I heard a knock on my door. Looked like Megan had been right. He’d had no problem finding out my address, or my cell number, come to think of it.
Glancing through the peephole, I caught my breath. It was him all right.
Pulling open the door, I couldn’t help the smile stretching across my face. He looked…mouthwatering.
Low-rise jeans that clung to his hips and legs, a navy T-shirt a tad on the small side that stretched to encase his chest and arms, and a black leather jacket over that. The glint of metal at his side beneath the jacket told me he had his weapon on him, which was hot. His mirrored aviators were hooked on the front of his shirt and he had the slightly scruffy jaw that said it had been over twenty-four hours since he’d shaved.
“I’m not late, am I?” he asked, his lips twisted in a half-smile. His gaze was taking me in head to toe the same way I was him.
“I think you know you’re not,” I replied. “Want to come in?”
I stepped back so he could come inside, taking a deep whiff of his cologne as he passed by me, so close the buttery leather of his jacket brushed my arm.
“This is a nice place,” he said, glancing around.
“Thanks. Can I get you a drink?” But he shook his head.
“I’m driving, but thanks.”
“Okay, well give me a second and I’ll be ready to go. Is this outfit all right for where we’re going?” I sat on the couch and reached for one of my heels, slipping it on and wrapping the leather strands around my ankle before fastening it. When Ryker didn’t immediately reply, I glanced up at him, but his gaze was fixed on my leg. I grinned. “Ahem.”
He jerked his gaze to mine and didn’t look even mildly abashed at having been caught staring. Instead, he grinned. “If not, we’ll go somewhere else, because you look smokin’ hot in that.”
Amazing what being called “smokin’ hot” did for a girl’s ego.
I wasn’t surprised to see the motorcycle parked outside.
“This messes up my hair, you know,” I complained as Ryker strapped a helmet to my head.
“Nah,” he said. A wicked grin curved his lips as he slid his sunglasses back on. “It gives you that ‘just fucked’ look. Pretty damn sexy, if you ask me.”
My jaw dropped in shock, but his grin only widened. He slung a leg over the motorcycle and reached for me. I closed my mouth with a snap, feeling my cheeks burning as I climbed on behind him.
I’d hoped my new look tonight would make me feel on the same level as Ryker, but he could still one-up me.
He drove us to a restaurant I’d never been to before, a little Italian place that seemed to be family-run. The hostess, an older woman in her sixties, greeted him by name and pressed a kiss to each cheek.
“It’s about time you show your face around here,” she said, admonishing him with a smile.
“I’ve been busy,” Ryker said. “But I’m here tonight, and look, I brought a date.” Taking my hand, he tugged me forward. “This is Sage. Sage, this is Dorothea.”
I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Dorothea waved away my hand, instead grasping my arms and planting a kiss on my cheek.
“Any friend of Dean’s is a friend of ours,” she said. “Come, let me show you to your table.”
It was a cozy place with little tables and booths situated in private alcoves with fake ivy tucked into the ceiling and around the wooden beams. Candles were lit on every table and the booth she showed us to was a round one. I sat, scooting around so there was room for Ryker, who discarded his jacket and slid in next to me.
“A bottle of wine?” Dorothea asked, handing us menus. “I’ll bring a bottle of Chianti,” she added, without waiting for Ryker to respond, “and some calamari”; then she was gone.
He turned to look at me. “Hope you like calamari,” he said, grinning. “We may get to order our own meals, but I doubt it. Dorothea usually has Roberto make me something, whatever’s fresh that day. It’s always amazing.”
I set down the menu. “Sounds good to me.”
And he was right. Dorothea came back with the wine and fresh, crisply fried calamari. She returned again with two plates while three men followed in her wake, each holding a skillet with a different dish of freshly made pasta, which they scooped onto our plates. She chattered the whole time, telling us what the dishes were and then shooing the men away and refilling our glasses.
“This is the best pasta I’ve ever had,” I said, twining long strands of angel hair around my fork.
“Thought it would be better than a salad at a cop bar,” Ryker said.
I laughed. “Definitely.” We’d polished off the better part of the bottle of wine and I was feeling tipsy and very relaxed. Ryker’s denim-clad thigh rested against my leg, his shoulder brushing against me as he ate. I caught myself more than once staring at his hands, large with calloused palms, his fingers deftly maneuvering the pasta. My mind drifted in the direction my hopping hormones were highly in favor of.
“So, I’m pretty sure you promised me the inside scoop on you and Parker,” I said, pushing the mental images away and taking another sip of wine.
“That I did,” Ryker replied, taking a drink from his own wineglass. “It’s not a pretty story. You sure you want to ruin the evening so soon, talking about that asshole?”
My eyes narrowed. “I told you—” I began.
“I know, I know. He’s your boss, don’t talk bad about him, yadda yadda yadda,” he interrupted. “Sorry. I won’t do it again, okay?”
“All right,” I grudgingly agreed. Parker hadn’t stooped to calling Ryker names, even though he had warned me away from him.
“Parker and I go way back,” Ryker said, pushing away his empty plate. He leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest, drawing my eye to his very nicely muscled biceps. “We grew up together, sort of, though we come from different backgrounds.”
I remembered what Parker had told me about him and Ryker on the opposite sides of the tracks, so to speak, but didn’t say anything. I wanted to know how Ryker characterized their relationship, now that I’d heard Parker’s side.
“Anyway, we were buddies up through high school, even joined the Marines together. But when we came back, he stole a girl from me, and that showed me what he was really made of, when it came right down to it.”
My eyes widened. Parker had said nothing about a girl.
“He stole a girl from you?” I repeated. “What do you m
ean?” I was pretty darn sure Parker wasn’t hiding a wife somewhere.
“Her name was Natalie,” he said. Ryker wasn’t looking at me now, instead staring at his empty wineglass as his fingers toyed with the stem. “She was sweet, and young, and way too damn trusting.”
“What happened to her?”
Now he glanced up at me, and the pain in his eyes made my breath catch.
“She died.”
Wow. Ryker had been right. Talk about putting a damper on the whole evening. Nothing like discussing a tragedy to bring the mood way down.
“I’m sorry.” I was at a loss as to know what else to say.
Ryker seemed to shake off his black mood, reaching to empty the rest of the wine into our glasses. “It is what it is,” he said with a shrug. “And it was years ago.”
While it may have been years ago, it certainly didn’t seem like he was over it. I wanted to know more details about what had happened, how Parker had “stolen” Natalie from him, but thought it would be insensitive of me to ask, so I kept my mouth shut.
Dorothea came back then and I gave an internal sigh of relief. Her chatter helped break the awkward silence. She set a plate of cannoli in front of us, and despite how full I was from the pasta, I reached for one. The crispy shell melted in my mouth.
“So why did you become a cop?” I asked, washing down the creamy ricotta with the last of my wine. Nothing got the conversation ball rolling again like asking a man to talk about himself.
“The idea of putting criminals behind bars appealed to me,” he said. “The neighborhood I grew up in was a rough one, and it always pissed me off how the gangs ran things and the cops just avoided getting involved. I didn’t want kids to have to go through what I did just to get to school each day.”
He seemed very matter-of-fact, like I should know what he was talking about, but I had no clue. My going to school had consisted of Schultz, our driver, taking me in the back of the Rolls-Royce to a private school my parents had paid out the nose for in tuition. We’d worn uniforms and our lunches were freshly made choices of things like tuna niçoise salad or roasted vegetables on ciabatta.