“I totally get it, Kir. You shouldn’t have to live anywhere a man got killed. Talk about PTSD.”
She nodded. “It was almost like Carlo was still there some nights, lurking around.”
“Like a ghost?”
Kirsten tossed her thick brown hair over her shoulder. “Don’t know if I believe in ghosts. But the living room did seem kind of creepy, a little colder than the rest of the apartment.”
“Weird.” Sophie met her eyes. “You sure you didn’t see a little weasely guy with slicked-back hair sneaking around?”
Kirsten smiled. “Strutting around with his black cowboy boots, thinking he’s God’s gift to women?”
Sophie giggled. “Carlo the Cocky Ghost.”
“What a narcissist. His gun was probably way bigger than his peen.” When their laughter died down, Kirsten added, “Not that I should complain. He’s the only man I’ve had back to my apartment in a year.”
Sophie cackled then exhaled. “Ah. Glad we can laugh about it six months later.”
“I’m glad you live just one floor down from me now.”
“And you’re much closer to DePaul here too. How’re you liking your new position, Dr. Holland?”
“It’s fun working with college students again.” She smiled. “Thanks for helping me get the job.”
Sophie shrugged. “Hey, all I did was tell you about the opening at the counseling center. You did the rest.”
“It’s a great place to get my supervised hours before the licensing exam.” She groaned. “I don’t know how I’ll ever pass that sucker. Is the exam really as bad as they say?”
Sophie took a sip of wine. “Not really. You just have to study their materials and take all the pretests, which are much harder than the real thing. You only need a seventy to pass, by the way.”
“Didn’t you score like a ninety?”
Sophie blushed, taking another sip. She’d scored a ninety-one.
“Whatever—I know you did well. No wonder Anita’s so proud of you.”
Sophie looked down. Not that it matters after losing my license.
“How’s teaching going?” Kirsten’s voice had softened.
“Good. And the research project’s coming along well.”
“I thought you hated research!”
Sophie tilted her head. “Well, it’s not as fun as counseling, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Well, I keep sticking my foot in my mouth, reminding you about your lost career. Thanks for the wine.” She stood. “I should hang some pictures before it gets too late to bang on the walls.”
Sophie stood and took her glass.
“Speaking of banging, when’s McSailor getting home?” Kirsten’s smirk was the size of Texas.
Sophie had to smile. “Crude. You’re crude, roomie.”
“And you love me for it.”
“I guess.” Sophie set the glasses on the counter and hugged her friend. “Grant should be home in a few hours.” A yawn came on. “This wine’s made me sleepy. I hope I can stay up and wait for him.”
“Tell him I said hi. I’ll be down to annoy you both tomorrow.”
“Let us know if you need any help with that banging.”
Kirsten laughed. “Will do. Later, tater!”
***
Lurching awake on the sofa, Sophie scanned the darkened apartment. All was quiet except for the rasp of her breaths as she tried to orient herself. Then there was the noise that must have stirred her from sleep—a scratching at the door. She heard a slight clink of metal, the crunch of a key jamming into the lock, and harsh cursing from the hallway.
Was a Barberi thug trying to break into the apartment? She was fully awake now.
Soundlessly she crept toward the front door, halting at the clang of keys dropping on the hallway carpet. More swearing ensued, and her heart leaped to her throat. She was almost to the peephole when a soft chuckle floated through the door. Relief flooded her. She’d recognize that sound anywhere.
Yanking open the door, she had to look down to find Grant crouching at her feet, groping for the fallen keys.
“What’s your problem?” she hissed, trying not to disturb the neighbors.
It took him five seconds to look up at her with glassy eyes and a goofy grin. Clutching his keys, he woozily stood, swaying on his feet.
Her mouth popped open. “You’re drunk!”
“Hóla, Bonita.” His smile broadened.
So much for not waking the neighbors.
He fumbled for her hand and pressed her flush to his chest. “The door—” she cried, hearing it click shut and locked behind her.
“I have keys!” he proudly announced.
She rolled her eyes. “A lot of good they did you before.”
He nuzzled her nose, smiling dreamily, and she caught a whiff of Eau de Tequila. The low hallway light reflected in his dazzling eyes, which shone with mischief.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why were you drinking? I thought—”
He interrupted her with a scorching kiss, which made her bones wobble.
He followed his masterpiece by cupping her breasts in his hands. He skimmed his lips across her jaw, softly licking the skin near her ear. “You thought?” he prompted. He wasn’t slurring quite as badly as his first tequila bender.
“Hmmm…I thought…I thought…what was I thinking?”
He grabbed both her hands, and she found herself moving in step with him, ballroom dancing in the hallway. Naturally he started singing Sinatra in his deep baritone, crooning about the kick of champagne.
Feeling déjà vu from the bridge of the cruise ship, she closed her eyes and swayed along with him. Here we go again. She let him twirl her, and, despite her consternation, a giggle escaped.
He tucked her close, his hand resting on the small of her back, humming a tune about liquor not affecting him at all.
I beg to differ. “So who were you drinking with, naughty McSailor?”
“No one as sexy as you,” he cooed in her ear. The humming resumed, and his hand traveled south, caressing her bottom.
A zing of energy sparked from his touch, and she attempted to stay focused. “And what did she look like?”
Halting the two-step, he looked into her eyes, a smile floating across his flushed face. “Jealous, Bonnie?”
“You better not be doing body shots with anyone else.”
He seemed to find this amusing, snorting loudly. “I doubt my drinking buddies would let me get that close.”
“Drinking buddies?”
They turned to their left when a neighbor’s door swung open, revealing a glaring woman with bed-head and an intricate neck tattoo peeking out from under her robe. “Could you take it inside?”
He maintained his jovial grin, letting go of Sophie and approaching 7B. “Aw, don’t be mad, ma’am.” He kneeled and gently took the woman’s hand, then planted a kiss. “I do apologize—jusss having a good time out here on the dance floor.”
Sophie watched the woman teeter on the edge of fear and enthrallment, here in the hallway at two a.m.
“I’m sorry for all the noise,” Sophie said, stepping closer. “He had a bit too much to drink, and it’s time for me to put him to bed.”
“I like the sound of that,” Grant said, looking up at her but still holding the woman’s hand. “But I was jusss about to offer our lovely neighbor here a dance.”
The woman blushed. “Um, I have to go to work kind of early…”
“Mick,” Sophie hissed, tugging at his arm. “Time for bed, honey.”
Hearing his undercover name seemed to compel him to action. He stood, darted nervous glances down the hallway, then aimed a beseeching look at the woman. “I apologize, ma’am.”
Relieved he’d returned to his senses, Sophie pulled him toward their door. “Sorry for waking you up!”
The woman watched her reach into Grant’s pocket for the keys. “Quite a charmer you got there.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said, smiling as she unlocke
d the door. She pushed the charmer into their apartment and watched him weave his way to the sofa. She supposed she should be angry at him for flirting with their neighbor, but she loved his completely carefree demeanor. It was so uncharacteristic.
He wiggled out of his long navy coat and tossed it toward a kitchen chair, missing his mark by a full coat-length. Very un-Grant-like. Not bothering to pick it up, he continued stumbling toward the sofa, humming Sinatra. Definitely not like Grant. When he began unbuttoning his shirt, she held her breath. Slowly his sculpted back came into view, his ropy muscles lean and taut. With a body like that, he had no business being so modest all the time, and she reveled in the show. He wadded up the shirt and tossed it to the corner.
“Whoa, sailor!” She waltzed into the room, picking up his coat and laying it neatly on the chair. “You taking off your pants too?”
He spun around and placed a finger on his lips with an exaggerated “Shh! They’ll hear.”
“Who will hear?”
“The po-po.” He gestured to the discarded shirt. “They’ll be listening for sssure tonight.”
She frowned. The feds were okay with him turning off the mic when he was safe at home, but apparently manipulating the small recorder was beyond his skill set at the moment.
She reached up to trace the alcove of muscle above his collarbone. “Why are they definitely listening tonight?”
He shivered from her touch, then latched onto her hips and slid his cool hands beneath her fuzzy pajama shirt.
Squeaking, she jumped. “Your hands are freezing!”
“Bonnie, it’s cold outside,” he sang, abruptly sliding his hands up under her arms and lifting her like a pairs figure skater.
From above she watched his shoulder muscles flex and ripple, holding her weight. Her eyes locked on his as he slowly lowered her, and her legs snaked around his waist. She crossed her ankles behind his back, sat in his cupped hands, and ran her fingertips across his angular shoulder blades. “Let’s warm up, then.”
His mouth met hers, sucking and kissing, a contact buzz flowing from his mouth to her brain. He carried her into the bedroom, keeping his lips molded to hers, and gently set her on the bed. He frowned, eyeing her fleece pajamas. “I miss summer.”
“You miss warm weather?”
He shook his head. “I miss easy-access silk nighties.”
She giggled. “Here, I’ll help you, drunk boy.” Her pajama top was history in seconds, and she scowled at him just standing there. “Work on your pants, McSailor.”
His eyes focused. “Yes, ma’am.”
They didn’t stay naked for long before they were both under the covers, pressing skin on skin to warm themselves.
His fingertips skimmed her back. “I wanted to do this the first time I got drunk on tequila.”
“Me too.” She smiled. “But I didn’t want to take advantage of you in your inebriated state.”
“You can ravage me any time, you vixen.”
She giggled. “So you’re not too drunk to give consent?”
“Lay your hands on me, Bonnie.”
“Yes, sir.”
***
Lying on her back a little while later, Sophie searched for the right words. “Well, that was, um…unfortunate.”
He groaned, rolling over and turning away from her.
“Grant, it happens sometimes.”
He turned back to face her, indignant. “Not to me!”
She tried not to laugh. “I guess you’ve never done it drunk before.”
His lips parted with wonder. “Ohhh.” His head fell back on the pillow. “So that’s the problem. Phew.”
She snuggled up to him, kissing his forehead. “Don’t worry, your manhood’s still intact. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Even your girlfriends? I know how you ladies talk.”
“Not even Kirsten.”
“Oh, Kirsten. Sorry I wasn’t home tonight to help. Did she get moved in okay?”
“Yes. So are you going to tell me who you were drinking with?”
He bolted upright. “The Russians!”
“What?”
“Crap, I gotta call in. They’re probably furious with me.” He leaped out of bed and yanked open the bureau drawer, hunting for the hidden cell phone. When he located it, his face fell. “Five missed calls. It was on vibrate. Oh, no.”
She watched him, infected by his contagious anxiety.
He dialed the number and closed his eyes, waiting for the call to connect. “It’s me.”
“What was the first thing you were supposed to do when you made contact?”
She heard Lucas Bounter’s shouted words through the phone ten feet away, and she grabbed her robe to give Grant some privacy. She left him standing in the bedroom naked. “Call in, sir,” he said as she closed the door.
A few minutes later she leaned on the kitchen counter, stirring sugar into two cups of herbal tea, when Grant emerged from the bedroom. A worried look had replaced his exuberance.
“Bounter didn’t sound happy.”
“He’s not.” Grant had pulled on some navy blue sweatpants. “I messed up big time.”
She set the steaming cups on their small dining table. “What do you mean? Isn’t it a good thing you made contact?”
He hunted for his discarded shirt, locating the crumpled ball near the corner. He set the button microphone to the off position and slid into the shirt, buttoning it as he joined her at the table. “They didn’t expect it to happen like that…the Russians inviting me back to their place right after meeting me.”
Her spoon paused mid-stir.
“I’m fine, Sophie.”
“Is he mad you went with them?”
“No. Everything went like clockwork at first. I hinted around I was looking for a game, and they took me to West Town for poker. I somehow won the first hand but then got in over my head, just like we planned.”
“How much did you lose?”
He shrugged. “Five grand…and then some.”
“I thought you only carried five thousand.”
“The plan was to get in debt to them from the start.”
Her heart thumped, and she scampered off her chair. “But they could’ve killed you!”
“Relax, Soph. The mic has GPS, and the feds were right outside, listening in.” He reached for her hand, but she began to pace.
“They were right outside…so they could collect your body after you were killed?”
“It’s not like that. The Russians need me.”
She paused, turning to him. “Why?”
“I shouldn’t go into the specifics.” He took a sip of tea, and she sensed he was stalling. “The less you know, the better.”
“I don’t like this.” She resumed treading her carpet track.
His voice sounded nervous. “Come sit down. I’m getting dizzy watching you pace like that.”
“The tequila’s making you dizzy. I thought you weren’t going to drink again.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” She turned to look at him, wondering what he meant. “I can get away with water at Capone’s, but there’s no way I can refuse drinks from a host.”
She eyed him. “You don’t seem all that drunk right now.”
“Getting chewed out by the FBI sobered me up right quick. Besides me not calling in right away, they’re not too impressed with me.”
Her hands rested on her hips. “What’d you do this time?”
“Well, for one, I shouldn’t have woken up Tattoo. Shouldn’t draw attention to myself like that.”
She squinted. “Who’s Tattoo?”
“The neighbor?”
“Oh! Seven-B.” She snickered.
“At least you remembered to call me Mick. Agent Bounter said to tell you good job. You did much better than I did.”
“What’s that mean?”
Biting his lower lip, he admitted, “I let the Russians drive me home.”
“Did they hurt you?” She approached the table and sank in
to her chair.
He shook his head.
“Why would he care about them driving you home then?”
He met her gaze. “Because now they know where I live.” He winced. “I was supposed to relocate before that happened.”
“Relocate? You were going to move out?”
“I had to. I can’t risk them finding you. It’s why I asked Kirsten to move in, to be close to you when I left. Agent Bounter has a place set up in Streeterville for me.”
“You never told me that! No, Grant. You live with me—I won’t let you go.”
“Relax. He told me I’m not moving out now.”
“Good.”
He rubbed his cropped hair, looking down and sighing loudly. Eventually he looked back up at her, his eyes full of guilt. “I’m not moving now.” There was a pregnant pause. “You are.”
“What?” She shot up out of the chair.
This time Grant got up too, taking her hand. “I’m sorry, Sophie, but I can’t have you anywhere near them.”
She felt her face get hot, and she yanked her hand free. “There’s no way I’m moving! You’re going out there every night, risking your life, and I won’t get to see you when you get home? Make sure you’re okay? No. That’s not happening.”
“It’s not like you have a say in this. The FBI will make you move.”
“Like hell they will! They can’t make me do anything…I don’t work for them.”
“Bonnie, please.” He gently clasped her arms to stop her wild gesturing. “You know what happened when the Mafia got to you last time.” His fingers grazed over the bullet wound above her left elbow. “I’ll never forgive myself for that. Let me get you out of the next bullet’s path. I’m begging you. I’d take a bullet for you, but please, don’t take another for me. I can’t deal with it.”
She exhaled. “Did you know we’d have to live apart all along?”
“I had a pretty good idea. I asked them how we could keep you out of the action this time.”
“Do you think it would’ve been a good idea to communicate this to me earlier?”
He looked down. “You’re right. Dr. Hayes wouldn’t be happy with my communication skills right now.” He looked back up at her. “I’m sorry.”
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 6