The next morning, after breakfast, he drove Lyman to the hardware store in the Bentley to pick up some parts for GRAMPA. Driving the huge vintage car and wearing a black chauffeur’s cap, it was impossible not to feel like an extra from The Great Gatsby. At least Lyman didn’t expect him to wear jodhpurs and knee-length boots.
When they arrived home, a van marked North Suburban Security was parked in front of the house.
Lyman peered out the window as they drove past on the way to the garage. “Oh, good. They’re early. I decided it was time to upgrade the security system.”
Since Nick didn’t believe in telepathy, he wondered where the idea had come from. Lyman Prescott was one of the least practical men he’d ever met.
He found excuses to surreptitiously monitor the installers’ work, but it wasn’t easy. Every time he turned around, Zoë Hargrove seemed to be in the room or passing by outside. By their third encounter, his internal radar was blaring. Her presence couldn’t be coincidence, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t because she found him irresistible. The time had come to flush her out.
That evening, true to her word, she served schnitzel with spaetzle. Marian and Lyman carried on as if Wolfgang Puck himself was in the kitchen, and Zoë basked in their praise, shooting Nick triumphant little glances between bites. He had to admit it wasn’t bad, but given his choice, he’d rather have his mother’s stuffed manicotti any day.
After dinner, Marian went into the living room with her husband in tow for her usual evening fare of sitcoms and crime dramas. Nick remained at the kitchen table, pretending to read Lyman’s discarded newspaper while he waited for an opening. Zoë, however, continued to clean up the leftovers and load the dishwasher as if he were invisible. After ten minutes, he tossed the paper aside and sauntered over to stand beside her at the sink. She had a heavy cast iron skillet in her hands and was up to her elbows in suds.
Her brow furrowed as she scrubbed hard at a bit of stubborn residue. “What do you want?”
“Just to see if you need any help.”
She blew out a puff of air that ruffled her bangs. “I don’t need any help, but you’re welcome to dry if you want. Grab a towel.”
He snagged a towel off the handle of the oven and picked up a pot from the dish drainer. “Dinner was pretty good tonight.”
“Overwhelming praise, indeed.” Her words were clipped and tight.
That didn’t go over too well. If he was going to get her where he wanted her, he’d have to do better. “You look tired.”
“Gee, thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.”
Nick shook his head. He’d never been glib around women, but even he usually did better than that. If his mother were here, she’d whack him in the back of the head with a wooden spoon. “What I meant to say was you’ve had a busy day. I wondered if you’d like to put your feet up and watch a movie with me tonight after Lyman and Marian turn in. My sister gave me the new Jason Statham action flick for my birthday.”
She hesitated. “The Prescotts’ bedroom is right above the living room. The sound might disturb them.”
“My apartment has a small sitting room with a TV and DVD player.”
“I don’t know. You’re right—I am tired.”
She was waffling. Time to dangle the ultimate carrot. “There’s also a microwave…and I have popcorn.”
Her eyes sparked, and the corners of her mouth tipped up. “Popcorn?”
He nodded. “With real butter.”
Her smile broadened. “Count me in. I’ll be over around nine-thirty.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Chapter Six
A band of anxiety tightened around Zoë’s stomach as Nick’s broad back disappeared through the kitchen door. She had just agreed to a—what, a date?—with a man she barely knew and almost certainly didn’t like, despite his dimple. Alone together in his apartment. What on Earth had possessed her?
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him— not exactly—and she was confident she could take care of herself. But something about Nick Rosetti had set her on edge from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. Maybe it was the hint of menace in the solid strength beneath his black suit or the bold suspicion in his dark eyes. Who knew? Yet here she was, about to spend the evening with the man. Why? What kind of woman allowed herself to be seduced by the mere mention of buttered popcorn?
After she finished her kitchen chores, she went to her room to freshen up. Nick was right about one thing—it had been a long day. She splashed water on her face then regarded herself in the mirror. He was right about another thing too—she did look tired. Her ankle ached, and it showed. A little blush and a fresh swipe of mascara were the best she could do. He could like it or lump it.
As she left the house, she set the alarm and locked the back door. A blaring light caught her by surprise when she stepped onto the back porch—one of the new security lights. She was pleased Lyman had wasted no time acting on her advice. She was far from an expert, and her boss probably would have made numerous high-tech, state-of-the-art recommendations, but at least the estate was safer tonight than it had been yesterday.
Her confidence slipped a notch as she crossed the courtyard. She’d picked apart her response to Nick’s invitation but hadn’t stopped to question why he’d made it. Was this his way of offering an olive branch, or did he have some ulterior motive? She was about to find out.
She climbed the exterior staircase to the second floor of the garage, squared her shoulders, and gave the door a sharp rap.
He opened the door with a smile. The ends of his dark hair were still damp and trying to curl. “Come on in.”
She stepped into a small living room with a low, steeply-pitched ceiling. The sofa and TV sat across from each other, tucked under the eaves. She shot a questioning glance at Nick, who stood under the highest point in the center of the room.
He replied with a half-grin and a shrug. “You get used to it. I’ve only hit my head three times this week. You should see the bedroom. I had to pull the bed out several feet from the wall so I could sit up without knocking myself out.”
She bit back a smile at the mental picture. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Here’s the movie I thought we could watch.” He tossed her a small, flat DVD case.
It was an undemanding film with a glamorous European setting and lots of martial arts action—one of her favorite genres and the perfect way to relax after a long day.
She handed it back. “This looks great. I love these movies. The villains are villainous, and the heroes are invincible.”
“Yeah, too bad it’s not like that in real life.” Nick popped the case open and set the disc in the player. “Have a seat.” He gestured toward the old brown corduroy sofa. “I’ll throw the popcorn in. Do you want a beer?”
He was so casual—almost too casual. She’d be better off with all her wits intact. “Not tonight, thanks. Do you have anything else?”
He squatted in front of the dorm-sized refrigerator and opened the door. “Root beer and cola.”
“Diet?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I hate diet soda. That stuff will kill you. I’d love a root beer. I haven’t had one since I was a kid.”
He rose, popped the cap off the bottle, and handed it to her. “You’re in for a treat. This is made locally by a boutique brew pub in Lincoln Park.”
She tipped the bottle and took a swig. The dark, spicy flavor filled her mouth as the bubbles tickled her nose. “Mmm. You’re right. It’s delicious.”
In a few minutes the hot, buttery scent of popcorn filled the small space. Nick joined her on the sofa, settling the bowl between them. Then he propped his feet on the battered wooden coffee table and pushed a button on the remote.
Zoë tossed a handful of popcorn into her mouth and settled back as the film opened with a fast, expensive black sports car careening around the hairpin turns of a corniche on the Riviera. Within minutes the hero was showing
off his considerable martial arts skills by thrashing a slew of lesser-skilled bad guys.
Nick took a long swallow from his beer bottle. “I like a good action flick, but I always wonder why none of those goons ever pulls a gun.”
She drew back and regarded him with mock distain. “I bet you love movies that are nothing but heavy weapons fire and explosions.”
He grinned. “Some of my favorites.”
“But there’s so much more skill involved in martial arts. Look at his moves.” She pointed to the screen with her bottle as the hero flew through the air and took out a pair of opponents with simultaneous kicks to the jaw. “It’s almost like ballet—violent ballet, maybe—but it’s an art form.”
Nick tilted his head and ran his gaze over her body. “You look like a ballet dancer. Did you dance as a kid?”
She tried to brush aside the nervous flutter in her stomach with a laugh. “Not unless you consider a pitchfork a dance partner.”
His questioning gaze prodded her to elaborate.
She munched a kernel of popcorn and pondered how much to tell him. Her entire life didn’t have to remain secret, but one question could easily lead to another, and lies always came back to bite you. She decided to give him enough to satisfy his immediate curiosity, but no more. “I grew up on a farm in Iowa.”
His brows rose. “I never would have taken you for a farm girl.” His gaze zeroed in on her shoes.
“I wore different boots then.”
“You must have.”
They watched a few more minutes of the movie, including a wild car chase and the introduction of a slinky Asian heroine with fast hands and faster feet.
Nick finished his beer, set the bottle on the coffee table, and stretched his arm across the back of the sofa. “So if you didn’t dance as a kid, you must have started—what was it you said, taekwondo?”
She’d learned taekwondo in the service, but he didn’t need to know that. She saw no reason to raise unnecessary red flags, and eight years as an MP was an unlikely background for a personal chef. She shook her head. “No, that came later, but I was always a scrappy kid—I had no choice, growing up with five older brothers.”
“You have five older brothers? “
“Yep. Adam, Benjamin, Charlie, Dan, and Eddie. Do you see a pattern there? My mom really wanted a girl, so she kept trying. She named me Zoë to let the world know she was done.” She sighed and took another pull from her root beer. “Sometimes I think she wishes she’d stopped at five.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. So much for revealing as little as possible. But there was something about the casual atmosphere—the shabby little sofa, the root beer, the popcorn, and the movie—that had lulled her into lowering her guard, if only for a moment.
Then it occurred to her that Nick had arranged everything about the evening with a purpose. He’d slipped his questions into the conversation so naturally. If she hadn’t caught herself, she might have spilled her entire life’s story by the end of the movie. But then he used to be a police detective. For all she knew, he was still a detective. One thing was certain—he was a skilled interrogator. If she wanted to maintain her cover, she’d have to watch every word she uttered in his presence.
“I’m sure your mom is proud of you.”
She tuned back in at Nick’s subtle probe. This time he was trying to draw a response from her without asking an overt question. She refused to take the bait.
“Look at that kick.” She pointed to one of the villains on the television screen. “His form is so sloppy. I don’t know what the stunt coordinator was thinking.”
Her attempt at deflection worked.
Nick turned his attention back to the film. “He looks okay to me.”
Zoë snatched the remote from the coffee table and backed the picture up to the beginning of the fight scene. “Look at the angle of his leg.” She hopped off the couch, crossed the room, and touched the television screen with her finger. “Here, see. His center of gravity is all wrong. He’s off balance. His kick wouldn’t have enough force to knock a feather off Jason Statham’s shoulder, much less drop him to the ground.”
The dimple appeared in Nick’s cheek. “You really take your action flicks seriously, don’t you?”
She straightened her spine. “I appreciate accuracy. Come here, and I’ll show you.”
“I don’t think—”
Her lips parted in a mocking smile. “Chicken.”
Something sparked in his eyes, and he hauled himself up from the sofa. “Okay, you win. But I don’t think this is a good idea. I probably outweigh you by sixty pounds.”
She grinned. “At least.”
This should be fun. If she’d learned one thing dealing with brothers, it was that men were simple creatures. When faced with a challenge, especially from a woman, they let their egos—not to mention other parts—overrule their brains. And after all the grief Nick had given her over the past few days, she was looking forward to dumping him on his backside.
“Now come after me,” she said, beckoning with her hands.
“How?”
Zoë shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Any way you want.”
“This room’s too small.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
He shrugged. “Okay, but if you break the TV, you’re buying a new one.”
“Deal.”
As she expected, he lunged toward her with both arms outstretched, and she knocked them aside with one swift kick.
“You’re fast.” He dipped his head in acknowledgement.
A surge of confidence made her bolder. “Try it again. Come on.”
This time when he stepped forward, one hand shot out, latched onto her wrist, and jerked her toward him before she had time to react. When she hit the solid wall of muscle, a deep chuckle rumbled through his chest. She clenched her teeth. The arrogant ass was laughing at her. She’d show him!
She raised her foot to bring her heel down on his arch, but he must have anticipated her move. He shifted his weight, brought one foot behind her ankle, and knocked her off balance, sending them both to the floor. Hard.
He’d somehow managed to slip both arms behind her back to cushion the fall, but his weight still forced the air from her lungs in a whoosh when he landed on top of her. She lay still for a moment, stunned. She couldn’t move. His big body pinned her to the floor, trapping her arms between them, and his face loomed inches above hers. As she struggled for air, her breath came in short, sharp pants.
He pushed up a couple of inches, easing the pressure on her chest. “Are you okay?”
Good question. She drew a full breath and stared into the depths of his coffee-colored eyes, where concern mingled with something more dangerous. As she started to nod, his head descended toward hers.
He’s going to kiss me.
An unexpected thrill zipped through her.
What the—? We barely know each other. Do I even want to kiss him?
Before she could make up her mind, Nick’s warm mouth touched hers. His kiss began with a teasing nip of her lower lip.
Not bad. Maybe even a little fun.
She decided to reserve judgement.
But the second his lips became more insistent, the old panic rose in her throat, determined to drag her back to the time and place she’d fought so hard to escape. Suddenly, she was eighteen again—terrified and woozy from her first beer—crushed beneath the weight of a boy she’d known all her life and never feared…until that moment. His hot breath filled her lungs, suffocating her, and his hands were everywhere, squeezing and pawing.
Raw instinct took over. Her brain zeroed in on one clear thought—she had to free herself. She had to escape. Now.
She forced her hands up between their bodies and shoved against Nick’s shoulders with every ounce of strength she possessed. As soon as her arms were free, she jammed the point of her left elbow into the inside of his right, knocking him off balance, and rolled out fr
om under his body.
Once she was out of reach, her breathing slowed, and her head began to clear. She was safe. She was not eighteen. It was not graduation night. She was not lying in the stubbly grass behind the Halvorsen’s barn. And Jeremy was nowhere in sight.
Damn. That memory hadn’t slipped through her defenses in years. Had it really been so long since she’d kissed a man that she’d forgotten to keep her guard up?
She sat up and forced herself to face Nick. He must think she was crazy, or worse.
He had pushed up and rocked back onto his heels and was rubbing his right elbow. “Why the hell did you do that?”
Part of her wanted to apologize or explain, but she quashed it immediately. No way was she opening that door to him. Her scars were none of his business. She rammed the ugly memories back into the dark recesses of her subconscious where they belonged, determined to lock them up and throw away the key.
Her heart still pounded as the adrenaline rush subsided. “You were crushing me. You weigh as much as my grandpa’s brindle bull.”
“I doubt that.” He rose and extended a hand, but she ignored it and clambered to her feet on her own. As soon as she shifted her weight to her injured ankle, a sharp jab of pain brought a rush of tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
He eyed her closely. “Where did that move come from? It didn’t look like any martial art I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s not. I’ve learned to improvise over the years.”
“Like when you’re flat on your back under your opponent.” One corner of his mouth tipped up with classic, testosterone-fueled smugness. “They probably don’t teach that in the dojo.”
Her stomach tightened at his graphic description, but the echo of her earlier fear faded quickly, leaving only a residue of prickly irritation. “You didn’t need to flatten me, you know.” She bent to brush her pants with both hands. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was just demonstrating the correct technique.”
“For what? Knocking me on my butt?”
“No, although I admit if things had gone right, that would have been the end result.”
Boiling Point (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 2) Page 8