He shrugged. “It could be. I’m apparently supposed to be ready to take pictures. But…” He trailed off. “Again, I don’t get it. I really don’t get it.”
“Don’t try. And if it is political intrigue, you know what to do?”
He laughed. Klein was serious, and so was he. He didn’t expect whatever Caroline Crosby had up her sleeve to land him in jail, but if he did, he had an ace up his sleeve. “Call you to bail me out.”
Klein nodded grudgingly. “I’ll keep my phone on.”
FOUR: TUESDAY EVENING
C aroline wished there was some kind of stairway to walk down because the dress she’d chosen was killer, as were the heels. She was there to be noticed and way too many people at this party celebrating Deborah’s sister’s film were happy to oblige her. Which was why she agreed to show up in the first place.
Max was the other. Could she trust him to see her, and maybe the truth about her when everybody at this party saw the gold dress and outrageous heels she wore? If she could, maybe she could tell him about the notebook, ask him to help her to figure out what to do with it. Because she was out of ideas, especially when she was under such scrutiny.
“Whoever it is you’re waiting for, he really isn’t worth the trouble.”
Relief, desire and concern all merged into one at the sound of his voice. She met his eyes, and then she took in the rest of him. It was a wondrous vision; this man in a suit that was made to fit his body. It was actually drool inducing. She couldn’t help herself and the fact that she had to reach for a napkin was probably the most embarrassing thing she’d ever had to do.
“You know—” the depth of his voice curled her toes, “—you’re not the only one.”
She laughed as she watched him take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his mouth. It was comical and yet the thing she needed to relax.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
He nodded. “Whatever reason you asked me, I’m glad too.”
She reached out, grabbed a glass of wine from a tray. “Can’t a girl just ask a hot guy to be her arm candy for an event?”
He took a beer from an ice bucket and clinked her glass. “She can ask any guy she wants,” he replied. “Her prerogative.”
“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ somewhere in that minefield of a question?”
He laughed, and she loved the sound of it. “Maybe because when a girl could ask any guy she wants to, and asks in the most unconventional way possible, the guy might have questions.”
She nodded. It had been a while since she’d let herself be around a guy with a brain. “True enough. Let’s mingle.” And with a breath she wasn’t sure she needed, she grabbed his free arm and led him into the crowd.
MAX WAS BEING TESTED. He knew it. Caroline Crosby had an agenda. As he’d told Klein, there was something going on in the brain that everybody around her ignored. Her older sister tried to act smart, and her older brother made the kind of dick moves that deserved to be shoved down a toilet.
But Caroline? Caroline was smart enough to ignore the nonsense, orchestrate her own life and be herself as a general rule. Here, and with him, it was if she allowed herself to get drawn into things that mattered to her. And the fact that she was letting him see that? Well, that was a test if he’d ever seen one.
“So, Max, what brings you here?”
The question was a softball, asked by someone who had been introduced as the film’s director, but there was focus behind it. He shrugged, trying to remember the contents of the brochure he’d skimmed on the way in.
“I’m fascinated by the subject matter,” he said. “Not to mention, anybody who can be creative in this particular era deserves a.my undying gratitude and b. my support.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caroline nod. She liked his answer, and that was enough. But as they walked towards the next group of people, she looked at him. “You’re good at this.”
He shrugged. “It’s not a question of being good at ‘this.’ It’s…seeing people and their wants and not just the event, if that makes sense.”
She put her glass down on the nearest table, drained as it was, and looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Well of course,” she said. “I mean that’s …decency.”
He shook his head. “Not just decency.” He put his empty beer bottle down next to her glass and pointed. “I know a lot of these people,” he said softly, loud enough so that only she could hear. “I know they’re all good people, searching for something to believe in. And I like that. I like the fact you brought me here to the premiere party for a movie about resistance. I like that.”
She nodded, and suddenly she seemed guarded. Maybe he’d said too much; was it too much to admit her friend’s movie was about the importance of standing up to what you believe in during difficult times?
“I… okay,” she finally said. “I like that too. And I like that you get it.”
Simple. “That’s good, I guess? “
She nodded, took his hand and continued walking around. They stopped to chat with people she knew, some that he knew. Some were good, some weren’t, but the latter didn’t deserve as much conversation as the former. Finally, the party started winding down, and she let him lead her out the door.
The air in the Courthouse area of Arlington had a bite to it when it wasn’t fighting with the fire outside the restaurant. “That was nice,” he said as they headed outside. “Do you need this?” He tugged on his jacket.
She rolled her eyes at him. “I like that you think I need to cover up.”
“I’m feeling the chill,” he said. “And you’re wearing less than I am.”
“But you’re also from Southern Virginia. I’m from New Jersey. This is nothing.”
“I’m a SoVa boy, true, but I spend a lot of my time on ice. So.”
“Hockey rinks don’t come close to New Jersey winters, and I know you spent four years in Connecticut. Which doesn’t count.”
He stepped back a little and stared at her. “What don’t you know about me? What do you want to know about me?”
She didn’t answer him, though. “Tomorrow. The Spy Museum. Tux, please. There’s an exhibit opening. Join me.” This time, she ran a finger along his cheekbone, her touch burning his skin. “And maybe, I might tell you what I want.”
As he watched her walk away, full of confidence and courage, he knew he’d follow her into whatever battle she was preparing, no matter what the cost.
FIVE: WEDNESDAY
M ax was being tested. He knew that down to the soles of his shoes. But for what, he wasn’t yet sure. It was somehow related to resistance; hence the movie. Subversive resistance? Overt resistance? Did she want to organize a protest? Did she want to attend a protest with him?
So many angles and ideas ran through his mind, none of which he could deal with fully considering the amount of work to do on that Wednesday morning. There were second stage revisions on the presentation he’d started on Monday, followed by the briefing paper his boss wanted him to put together on an Israeli children’s hospital and their revolutionary techniques for dealing with trauma.
“I figure,” Chana Levinson said as she dropped off the introductory information, “you can do this justice.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Mmm.”
“Yep. It might be useful to reference Pack related stuff.”
Parker’s Pack started as one family’s work, a foundation for parents of terminally ill children turned into a foundation large enough and broad enough to lobby congress in favor of research, universal health care and other related causes. He’d started there as a twelve-year-old, doing a Bar Mitzvah project. It became the reason he followed his older brother into government service instead of a career in professional hockey.
It was also the reason he started Hockey For Hope. Now it was why his boss had barged into his office, asking him to write a briefing paper on Hadassah Hospital’s methods of dealing with children’s trauma.
“Not a problem,” he
replied.
“I still don’t know why you’re here and not there,” she said, though not the first time. “Not that I’m not very well aware of how lucky I am.”
“Because it was time to stand up in public and work for Jewish causes,” he said. “As times get more difficult, fewer people want to. So I decided it was time to be the change I wanted to see.”
She nodded, smiled back at him. “A decision I benefit from every single day you’re here. Especially when you write gorgeous briefing papers on difficult subjects.”
He laughed and got to work, burying himself in the paper until he had to leave (including a very brief falafel for lunch). He had to leave at a sane hour to get to the gala.
Gala, of course, meant he needed a tuxedo. He thought he had one, and on the entire commute home, he found himself praying that the dry cleaner’s didn’t lose his pants like they’d done to a friend. By the time he walked into his apartment, he found himself hoping the tux fit.
Thankfully, his pants were there and all it still fit, even though it took twice as long as it probably should have for him to tie the bowtie.
As he ran out the door, he remembered the museum wasn’t far from Verizon Center, so he took the metro and walked the last few blocks. For once in his life, the time he’d budgeted for transport actually worked out, and when he walked into the museum, she was waiting.
Her dress was red, gorgeous, and showed her curves. She took his breath away.
She was speaking, but her words didn’t register, not completely. All he could see was her, how radiant she was. Of course whatever she said required a response so he smiled—that was all he could manage.
Then when he had words, they were about her. “You’re stunning,”
She smiled back at him. “You still didn’t answer my question. Are you ready to change the world? ”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“Then let’s do this.”
CAROLINE WAS SURPRISED she managed to go through the exhibit without shaking. It was about the similarities between journalists and spies, and the techniques they have in common. How famous journalists like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein used tools developed from years of espionage to break important stories, and the important partnership between journalists and spies.
“Changing the world, and you brought me here, hmm?”
She nodded, leaned into his touch, let his fingers rest on the skin of her bare back. His touch burned her in a way that kept her grounded. “So,” she whispered. “Can I trust you?”
She held her breath, her heart pounding against her chest. He didn’t answer immediately; she’d blame the champagne or the crowded room, the sudden questions thrown their way by the gaggle of reporters covering the event. They knew they’d be seen but she didn’t realize how obvious it would be.
He put his arm around her, but she stepped away wanting to shield him from whatever fallout they would get.
She saw a smirk in his eyes, the understanding there as clear as if he’d answered, though she wished he had.
“Are you dating? What will your father think? Is dating him a response to the extreme policies of your father’s administration? What does your family think?”
The reporters continued to throw questions her way. Question after question as if she was in a batting cage. There were so many of them doing their jobs on a night they expected to relax. But there she was, there they were, and so they asked.
She smiled and waved, while Max put his arm around her again. Caroline wondered what he was thinking as he leaned in. “Do you like pie?”
She leaned back against him, wondering why it was suddenly important for him to know her dessert preferences. And yet, she answered anyway. “Yes. But what does that have to do with this?”
“Everything.”
He said some words to the reporters. None of which she was able to comprehend as his hands and body went to work, leading her in and out of crevices, through secret entrances in the building’s massive layout that normally functioned as the exhibit path. “This will get us through the building and out to an exit,” he told her nonchalantly. “And to pie.”
“Our crusade will be fueled by pie?”
He laughed, and she was starting to love the sound of it.
“I’M HERE A LOT,” he said as he hustled her through the streets of the city, “so they’ll see me first.”
“Because of hockey?” she asked.
“That too, though I play over at Kettler. No. It’s our post-services destination. Long service, we need pie afterwards. Especially on a Saturday morning.” He paused, waiting for her reaction. And there was none. No words, no movements, no sign of anything. The tension suddenly got thick, tighter
“What?” she asked. “You expected me to say something? React…in a certain way?”
He didn’t say anything. He figured what he expected was obvious. Everyone thought her family were anti-Semites, as well as being homophobes and racists.
She shook her head, rolled her eyes at him. “Of all the things you’ve heard about me, that’s the one you believe?”
“You asked me if I could trust you, you’ve been testing me for two days,” he replied. “No, probably since we first met. Which is understandable, considering you live your life under a microscope. Especially if you’re …testing me for the thing I think you’re testing me for…”
He paused, trying to sort out his words. “Anyway, because of the way things are going, externally and what we’ve been talking the most about at work these days, I feel…weird. Strange, even. So I guess I’m asking, and yes I know it’s strange that I’m asking you here. On the street, outside a pie shop, but …before we go into whatever it is you’re testing me for, I want to know. Why me?”
“So there’s a term that’s been thrown around a lot recently,” she began, slowly, her focus palpably on him. “It’s lost a lot of it’s meaning because people are using it as an insult, as a way of describing what they feel is the worst of society. But these people, they don’t know what it means. They don’t see it happening every single day, people fighting for good, using what they have to make the world a better place. And for me, when I think of that term, when I think of whose face should be placed above it in the dictionary as an illustration of the best of what that term really means? I think of you. And if anybody can help me feel better about society, about the possibility of what we can become? It’s a true social justice warrior like you.”
There was no air. He could barely breathe at the look of pure, unadulterated admiration in her eyes. He didn’t know how to handle it.
So he kissed her.
She kissed him back without pause, meeting force with force, her tongue in his mouth, the taste of champagne and strawberries on her breath. The feel of her, this moment was perfect, bright in the darkness. It was perfect, the feel of his hands in her hair the…
The shock of realizing he was on a public street kissing Caroline Crosby. He pulled back, fighting the magnetic pull of her to save both of them. He realized when this was over, when the cloak of espionage no longer hung over them, they’d need a private room or something. And he’d need his hands on her body.
But when he pulled back, she could see the surprise that quickly faded away on her face. So he put his arm around her, somehow communicating that he wasn’t breaking away from the kiss, but from the moment. From the timing.
Then with his free hand, he gestured towards the door, steps away from where they stood. “Pie?” he asked.
She pursed her lips, as if she was tasting the kiss again, settled back into his hold and followed him into the shop.
CAROLINE WASN’T sure which rattled her more: the feel of Max’s mouth on hers, or the amazing aromas that hit her the second she walked into the shop.
As usual, she braced herself for the questions, the dirty looks followed by the recognition and the fake smiles that meant they’d have to actually do something for her. But they didn’t come. The people behind
the counter looked at her—of course they did, they’d be horrible practitioners of customer service otherwise—but she wasn’t the center of their attention like she was expecting. That honor belonged to Max.
In fact, all they offered her was a two-second smile before they noticed him. Out of the corner of her eye, she witnessed the exchange, his arm still around her shoulders. To them, he was a regular, a familiar face. One of the people behind the counter blushed as they asked him questions.
It seemed that no question was off limits. They asked about his hockey league and any number of people who came with him for lunch after services, and anything else that randomly came to them. Eventually, someone dressed in a different color apron than the two people behind the counter arrived, pointing out that the line had gotten longer.
“Maybe Mr. Wilcox and his...guest would want privacy?” was what had to be the manager said, half focusing on her in a way that made her turn around. She could barely keep the shock from slamming her jaw into the floor as she saw the expressions on the faces of those in line. Anger, and annoyance and…
“Yes,” she heard Max say, his touch keeping her back on earth. “Thank you. I think we’d appreciate it.”
There were nods and whispers and guarded expressions from the staff, keys being jangled and discussion as to who was going to lead them. Frenetic energy was all over the place, and yet in that moment, Max’s hand started to trace up and down her shoulders and down them, along the back of her neck, a brush of his fingers searing her skin, breaking through the fear.
“Follow me,” a member of the staff said.
Max nodded and she followed him around to the back of the shop, to a door right next to the bathroom. It was a room empty of people but full of things, a microwave, a long table, and bags.
That was when she realized the magnanimity of what the staff were doing; they were giving up their breakroom and access to their personal belongings, for her. For them.
Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series) Page 23