Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  He looks up in surprise, and I smirk at him before getting out of the car and coming around to the front.

  “What happened to your car, India?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then what’s this?” he asks, looking it over with a critical eye. This is a dark green, far-from-new Land Rover.

  “You don’t like it.”

  “No, it’s a great car. But you don’t like this.”

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s not my car.” I hold out the key to him.

  “This is for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You bought me a car.”

  “Well, honestly, Crispin, it was more like salvaging it. They were about to put it on the scrap heap.”

  That’s not remotely true. Matty had to look high and low for this stupid thing, and it wasn’t inexpensive. Not for a car almost as old as I am anyway.

  “Why’d you get me a car? I’m here for five days. I know you don’t like to share, but this is a little much. Even for you.”

  I glare at him and then look away. The truth is I hadn’t minded him driving my car when he was here, dropping me off and picking me up. Actually, I’d liked it. “I thought you might…come back. Sometime. And I really don’t like sharing.”

  I hope he can see my gift for what it is: an invitation to be a part of my life here. When I look at him again, I can tell he’s holding back his amusement. He swallows it, and when he speaks, his tone is all sincerity. “I love it. Thank you.”

  Taking the key, he puts his other arm around my waist. He pulls me into him, and at first I stiffen. We’re in public. But he came all the way here because I asked him to, accepted several (what must seem to him) extravagant gifts, and did it all without giving me a hard time. Well, much of one. So I put my arms around his neck and kiss him. I’m so glad he’s here.

  I’m blushing when I pull away, I know it. There’s no way my face is this hot on the inside and maintaining ice princess pale on the outside. I cover it by opening the passenger-side door and climbing up. “Come on. You’re making me dinner, and I’m hungry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says irreverently, shutting my door.

  *

  When Crispin and I step into the ballroom two days later, my face is frozen in a semblance of a smile. We’ve been stopped several times by people on our way in—a few surprised colleagues from JVA and some other industry people Jack’s insisted on introducing me to in the past.

  We’re late because Crispin hadn’t been able to keep his hands off me at various stages while I’d been getting dressed and ready. I’d built in extra time for sexcapades, but I hadn’t quite anticipated the level of his ardor. The final count had been three: once in my cramped shower, once bent over the bathroom counter with my triple strand of pearls wound around his fist after he’d taken my solid hairbrush to my ass, and once against the door to my apartment with my dress rucked up around my waist and my hands tied behind my back with his hastily removed bow tie.

  I glance at him and the damn thing’s still askew. That’s okay. No one’s paying much attention to it, nor should they. Crispin cleans up very well, as I might’ve expected, and I’d place bets we’re the most handsome couple here. I’ve spent a lot of my life wearing black and red, so tonight I went for something different: a spring green evening gown that brings out my eyes and calls attention instead of deflecting it. It feels like starting over.

  My fingers dig into his arm as we cross the room and a good thing, too. We’ve made it halfway to the table when we’re almost bowled over by Lucy, looking lovely in a yellow ball gown.

  “Ms. Burke! Our tables are over here.”

  She’s pointing in the direction we’d been heading, where half the office is in attendance.

  “Thank you, Lucy.”

  She stands there, and I wonder if she’s going to escort us to our seats. But she doesn’t budge; she’s planted in front of us like a larger-than-life sunflower. Her eyes bug, she clears her throat, and her head twitches. Ah, introductions.

  “Lucy, this is my date, Cris Ardmore. Cris, this is my assistant, Lucy.”

  Crispin offers her a hand, and she titters like a schoolgirl as she takes it. Jeez, this is so going to his head.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Lucy. Anyone who can keep this woman in caffeine deserves a medal.”

  “Th-thank you, Mr. Ardmore. It’s nice to meet you, too. I—” She looks to me for help. The polite thing would be to say, I’ve heard so much about you, but she’s heard nothing.

  She’s rescued by Crispin. “Please call me Cris.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “It’s okay, Lucy,” I assure her.

  “She might be your boss, but I’m not. I bet we could commiserate about what a task mistress she is.”

  I scowl at Crispin and feel my color start to rise. Christ, this was a terrible idea. I tug him along, and Lucy leads us to our tables where I introduce him around. From the looks of incredulity he gets, I’m surprised they don’t give him a goddamn standing ovation. Am I really that hard to take?

  Letting Crispin manage the glad-handing since they seem to like him better anyhow, I search the room for Jack and find him at the bar, chatting up a woman maybe a third of his age in a slinky sky-blue dress. She twists a lock of chestnut hair around a manicured finger and flirts back, eventually brave enough to stroke his arm through his tuxedo sleeve. Good for you, Future-Ex-Mrs. Jack Valentine.

  Jack catches my eye, and I offer a wave. His eyes get big, and his mouth drops open as he points at Crispin. I roll my eyes and nod. Jack says a hasty goodbye to the poor girl before he struts over to our table, straightening his bow tie and brushing non-existent lint from his jacket. I feel like I’ve brought my prom date home to meet my dad.

  Jack’s arrival parts the sea of admirers gathered around Crispin. “You must be the infamous Mr. Ardmore. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He pumps Crispin’s hand too many times, and I want to hiss at him to stop trying so damn hard. Poor Jack’s actual daughter.

  “Mr. Valentine, the pleasure’s mine. India speaks very highly of you.”

  It’s precisely the right thing to say. Jack beams like he’s been asked to judge the Miss San Diego beauty pageant. They yammer at each other for a while, and finally it’s time to sit because dinner’s about to be served. I maneuver us between Evans and Lucy and hope they’ll be cool. I should be so lucky.

  *

  The final course has been cleared away, and I think my face has almost returned to its natural shade of pale, with only rosy cheeks to show for my frayed nerves. I’m sipping my wine and listening to Jack wax poetic about what he’d like to do with the shit-for-brains administrators we’re working with in the Lincoln city planning department.

  “If you cracked open their heads and shook out the contents, you’d end up with tropical fruit salad. I swear to god.”

  I exchange a glance with Crispin who, after several hours of listening to Jack, is impervious to all but the most disgusting of his rantings. Crispin leans over to me and says, “Now I know why you and Jack get along so well.”

  “I thought it was my dazzling intellect, scintillating personality, and stunning good looks.”

  “No, that’s why we get along so well. Although I have noticed Jack and every other guy in this room checking you out.”

  “They’re not checking me out. I’m old news, and they know better than to talk to me. They’re checking you out. The man who brought the hellcat to heel.”

  His eyebrow arches, his filthy mind probably picturing the same thing as mine. Me, naked and on my knees, following him at a crawl. God, how I’d rather be doing that than sitting here. “They have no idea, do they?”

  “Um, no.” No, they don’t. If they had any idea what was going to happen when we get home tonight… My face flames.

  “Well then, I’d like to show off my trophy.”

  He stands and offers me his hand. Oh no.

  “I don’t dance.”


  He frowns. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t.”

  “It’s true. She never dances,” Lucy pipes up.

  Crispin’s curls shift as he tips his head. “But you’ve never brought a date either. First time for everything.”

  I shake my head and dig in my heels. I know he has no way of knowing, but I look like a freshly caught fish flopping on the deck of a trawler when I dance. “I’m terrible.”

  Please, Crispin, take no for an answer. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in close until his rough cheek grazes my smooth one and rests his hands on my shoulders. “Did you ever think maybe you never had the right partner?”

  My heart bursts open like a zinnia, vibrant pink with a center of pure gold. I brush the side of his neck above his shirt collar, threading my fingers into his charmingly unruly hair. “That is a distinct possibility.”

  He leans back with a hopeful smile that makes him look young and eager. “So you’ll try?”

  “Just promise me you won’t let me look like an arthropod on speed.”

  “Promise.”

  His thumbs stroke the bare skin of my shoulders, and I squeeze my eyes closed in a bid to slow my erratic breath. When his hand circles my wrist, my heart beats more steadily. Crispin would never humiliate me; it’s not his style. I tug, and his fingers twine through mine, pulling me to stand. I let him steer me to the dance floor and wait for the mortification to begin. But it doesn’t.

  The band is playing a Billie Holiday song of all things. Crispin holds me close, his arms a cage that not only holds me in, but keeps everyone else out. He starts slow, purposeful steps, and I’m able to read the signals he presses into my back with his fingertips, the turn of his shoulders, the slight tips of his head. Turns out Crispin is an excellent dancer and a better lead. I relax enough to take my eyes from his and lay my head against his chest, letting go and trusting him enough to let him guide me through the sea of black-tie splendor.

  The singer is crooning about how you never know when love will come along, and I squeeze Crispin’s hand. The slow, steady beat of his heart echoes the jazz not-quite standard, and by the end of the song, I’m left breathless. Not because we’ve been moving fast—despite Crispin’s mad skills, slow is all I can manage—but because I’ve enjoyed myself on a dance floor for the first time in memory. I fling my arms around his neck in thanks, forgetting where I am, who’s watching. And when I remember, I realize I don’t give a flying fuck. Let them point manicured claws and stare as this beautiful man holds me flush against him and presses a kiss to my lips. I’ve found my anchor, and I don’t want to ever let go.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‡

  Crispin went home last night, and I was a royal terror this morning at the gym because I missed him already. Twelve hours without him and I’d disintegrated. I was also kind of testy because this whole personal growth thing is exhausting. It’s almost as if Crispin’s given me solid emotional ground to stand on by telling me he’ll love me no matter what, and because of that I’ve been able to inch further and further out onto this sickeningly intimate cliff. It’s enervating, and sometimes I’m tempted to behave so badly he’ll give up on me. Being loved can be agonizing, and the effort involved has put me in a foul mood. Luckily Adam didn’t seem to notice and sweated the grouchiness right out of me.

  After I’ve toweled off from my standard at-work shower, I throw on a black pencil skirt and royal blue sleeveless blouse and twist up my hair. No time for a blow-dry today. There’s a hot cup of coffee waiting on my desk and a note.

  Mr. Valentine asked me to rearrange your schedule for this afternoon. Check your calendar.

  Strange. I pull up my schedule, and the entire afternoon has been blocked off. All it says is, Meeting with Mr. Valentine.

  I poke my head out the door. “Lucy, do you know what this is about?”

  “No, Ms. Burke. Mr. Valentine didn’t say.”

  “Did he seem mad?” I doubt it because Lucy would be in tears, or at least red-eyed, if Jack had yelled at her.

  “No, he seemed…happy.” Her eyes go wide, and her brows go up. Happy Jack is concerning. I’m certainly more comfortable when he’s a raving lunatic.

  “Okay.”

  I go back to work, sipping on the caffeinated mug of deliciousness Lucy’s provided. I’m going to ask Jack to give her a raise this review cycle. I do some work on the Chicago project and meet with Evans, who’s got things well under control. He reddens like a ripe strawberry at the end of our talk when I say, “You’ve done some good work on this project, Evans.”

  “Thanks. I learned from the best.”

  I’m about to agree that Jack is amazing, but Evans doesn’t work with Jack one-on-one at all. He’s talking about me. Something like pleasure nudges at my ribs. “Thank you. Get back to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It looks like we’ll be able to wrap up this project in the next two months or so, and Evans should be able to take care of it with minimal supervision from me. It doesn’t bother me much to go to Chicago anymore. Nothing bad has happened there, and my phobia of crossing the Mississippi has receded. It’s actually brought on some homesickness.

  It’s not often I miss Manhattan, but when I do, I miss it more than I miss my sister, my parents. The city was always kind to me, providing endless diversions to distract me from the misery of my family, pulsing with life to make up for the stifling oppression of my apartment, offering millions of possibilities when I felt backed into one.

  I gather up my tablet and head to Jack’s office, picking up the fresh cup of coffee waiting for me on Lucy’s desk as I pass by. “Thank you, Lucy.”

  “Of course, Ms. Burke. And I’ll have those numbers for Mr. Wu ready by four.”

  “Perfect.”

  She smiles under my praise, and I traipse down the hall, in no great hurry. Jack’s door is open, and I swing into his office.

  “Jack, you’re wonderful, in a loathsome sort of way…” The Girl Friday impression dies on my lips as a man stands up from his seat in front of Jack’s desk. He’s handsome, his coloring reminding me briefly, painfully, of Rey’s. He looks familiar, but I can’t place from where.

  “India, this is David Garcia.”

  Mr. Garcia is holding out a hand, and as I take it, my neurons make the leap. “You’re a long way from home, Mr. Garcia.”

  His face breaks into a broad smile. “I am. I’m hoping you’ll make the trip worth my while. I’m here for you.”

  “For me?” Thoughts start racing around my head like ponies on the gun. David Garcia is the commissioner of the New York City Department of Transportation and has been for some twenty years. I grew up hearing his guffaw of a voice on the PA system on the subway and seeing him stand behind the mayor during press conferences. He’s a New York City public service legend—and he’s standing in my boss’s office, telling me he’s here for me.

  Am I the only one who fangirl-flails over public officials? Probably.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Ms. Burke.”

  I look to Jack, hoping he’ll fill me in before I stick my foot in my mouth.

  “India, shut the door and have a seat. I think you’ll be interested in what Mr. Garcia has to say.”

  I do as I’ve been told, and when I settle myself, Mr. Garcia begins to speak.

  “Large sums of money are being siphoned off various accounts at the MTA. Whoever’s behind this isn’t dumb. They never take too much at one time, and they rotate accounts so the numbers aren’t too far off. For a while we were convinced they were accounting errors, but then the numbers got bigger, like they wanted to be caught.”

  “Or maybe they’ve gotten bolder because they haven’t been caught,” I say, my mind starting to work. “Maybe they’ll get sloppy.”

  “If only.” David shakes his head in frustration. “I’ve had someone on the case and they’ve been working to follow the money trail, but it keeps going cold before we can catch the bastard. I heard about
the work you did in LA. I know the bookkeeping is different, but you’ve got smarts. Mr. Valentine says you’re a quick learner, and I’m at a loss. I need your help.”

  David Garcia, one of my role models, needs my help? This is incredible.

  “Of course. I’d be thrilled. You’ve done so much for the city. I’d love to work with you. But there must be someone else—closer, more familiar with your situation—who’d be a better fit?”

  Jack shoots me a look and a deep V forms between his brows. If David Garcia wants to hire us, I’m not to argue.

  “There are,” Mr. Garcia concedes, “but I don’t want someone familiar. I want someone who can think outside the usual parameters because whoever’s behind this is. None of my people have been able to crack it. And I don’t want anyone tainted by New York politics. You know how things can get when unions are involved.”

  I do. “The unions are involved?”

  “The few clues we have are pointing toward yes, but my gut says no. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “As soon as Jack’s got a contract drawn up, I’m happy to take a look. If you could give me the contact information for the key people and get me remote access to your systems, I’ll get started.”

  “I had a different idea.”

  *

  Two hours later, I’m leaving Jack’s office, cocky and cool on the outside, but a hot mess of misery on the inside.

  I will be on a plane to New York on Sunday, and my hire as the department’s deputy commissioner will be announced at a Monday press conference. The whole thing is a ruse, of course. I’m not leaving my job, and we’ll be paid for this the same as any of our other contracts. But David, as he’s asked me to call him, thinks being a “legitimate” employee will make it easier to suss out what’s going on. The position is open in reality, but they’ve elected not to fill it for budgetary reasons, so they have the rare luxury of pretending to bring in a new deputy. I’d be a daring, but not absurd, hire.

  Manhattan. Home. I haven’t been to New York for almost four years. The idea of going back is at once intoxicating and terrifying. If it weren’t so fucking public, I might be able to muster more excitement. As it is, my eagerness to walk the streets of my hometown is smothered under panic.