I spent the rest of the day trying to ignore him. We were stuck in this house together. I hated not being able to leave on my own accord. New York was starting to look really good. I could buy some time out of town, hoping this investigation and search for the Sgambatis wrapped up while I was gone. And my life could keep moving forward, uninterrupted.
At one point I was sketching in a notebook in the living room while an opera blasted through my phone's tinny speakers. I was so engrossed in what I was doing, I didn't notice Connor standing in front of me, arms crossed and a deathly scowl on his face.
"What is that music?"
"Its Puccini."
"You don't have headphones? I can't think with this shit on."
"No, I don't have headphones," I snapped.
"You can borrow mine." He walked away and returned a minute later, tossing the earbuds to me.
"Put your own headphones in!"
He froze, and turned around, walking slowly until he was in front of me. He leaned down, caging me in when he rested both hands on the sofa cushions by my legs. Connor usually kept his emotions locked away, but this time I could tell he was annoyed and pissed at my sassiness. "Use the fucking headphones or turn it off. I'm on phone calls all day." Electricity buzzed between us. He was inches away, and despite him being so pissy, my eyes kept darting to his mouth. Then I would remember not to do it, I'd make eye contact with him, and look at his mouth again. The man turned my blood to boiling and I was still attracted to him.
Fifteen
When I was little, I was used to long stretches of time on my own. The foster parents always seemed busy with work and occupied with the other kids. I kept to myself and used my time alone to draw. I could usually get my hands on a pad of paper and pencil and I'd draw anything back then. A barn. Birds in the trees. A small boat in a pond. It wasn't until high school that I learned other mediums. When the teacher brought out acrylic paint, I felt at home. I stayed after school because I didn't have any supplies or a place to work. Those afternoons in that classroom, dusty from clay and smelling of chalk, were some of my most peaceful, cherished memories. I felt like I'd found a piece of myself; my purpose on this planet. For a few hours, life in a temporary home was forgotten and, in its place, my art. I created a thing of beauty. I won a small contest for high school seniors in Birmingham, and for the first time, there was a sense of direction in my life, and I never wanted to lose that feeling I had when it was just me and my paintbrush.
I knew it was stupid. Connor's warnings rang in my head, now that (most) of my anger had subsided. He was trying to protect me. The nightmares still came, running and cowering in a reckless game of hide and seek. I'd worked too hard and hated the idea of other people running my life. I wasn't letting anyone box me in, not the Sgambatis or even Connor. I decided to go to New York, regardless of Connor's warnings. I had little to lose. I'd worked hard to make this happen, and here I finally was. To be in the New York art scene was too big of an opportunity to pass up...even if it meant risking everything.
Early the next morning, filled with trepidation, I jogged to a waiting Uber. Part of me was waiting for one of the Sgambatis to jump out from behind a bush and grab me. I was certain I would set off the alarm when I left the house and was pleasantly surprised when I opened the door without a sound. I spent the car ride wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans and checking the window behind me for Connor. But the silent, menacing darkness was all that was there. At four in the morning, Charleston slumbered, and I was sneaking away to New York City.
I paid the Uber, dragged my suitcase inside the terminal and located airline check-in.
Charleston International was empty. Most counters were still closed, with a few bleary-eyed desk agents waking up their computers. A few other travelers made their way to the check-in area and security. Other than maintenance staff, it was vacant. I gave a stiff smile to a woman behind the counter and handed her my flight information and ID.
My stomach started rolling when she picked up the phone and wouldn't meet my eyes. "Is there a problem?" I asked, drumming my fingers impatiently on the counter.
"Just a moment, ma'am," She resumed typing on her computer as if that was more important than a customer in front of her.
"Am I checked in?"
"Ma'am," her tone irritated, "I told you to wait a moment."
Minutes ticked by.
I sighed, my nerves mounting. This never happened in the movies. Never having flown before, I wasn't familiar with the process of getting to one's plane. I could do nothing but wait.
Other travelers were depositing their baggage and entering security without any hiccups. I shifted impatiently while taking in my surroundings.
A strong hand gripped my arm. "Ma'am, please come with me." A tall man in a TSA uniform was peering at me, unsmiling.
Startled, I looked at the desk agent as she focused intensely on that computer of hers. "Who are you?" I wrenched my arm out of his grasp.
"Miss, please come this way," he said again in a stronger tone.
"I have a flight to catch."
"You're not getting on that plane. This way." He jerked his head in the opposite direction.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"You can come with me quietly or we can do this another way," the man said in a low voice. He put his hand on his hip, drawing my attention to the holster.
"This is illegal. I'll scream."
"You scream and you'll make this more painful than it has to be." He pulled me along, making it difficult to stay on my feet while holding a suitcase.
"Stop touching me!"
The man maneuvered me down several long hallways, refusing to answer any of my other questions. My irritation and fear rose not that he was not acknowledging me save for his firm grip on my arm dragging me along.
Finally, he pushed an exit door and we stepped outside onto a private tarmac, noticing the sleek white private jets. The man pulled me along to a plane with the familiar logo of Palmetto Industries painted on the side.
I stumbled up the stairs behind the officer and onto the plane, my irritation shifting to full blown anger at the face that greeted me.
Sixteen
Connor was sitting calmly in one of the leather seats, tapping furiously on his phone. As I boarded, he put down his cell and stood up. He was dressed in jeans and a dark tan tshirt, with his trademark leather jacket on over it. The hard expression on his face told me how pissed he was.
"So glad you could make it," he said sarcastically. He moved to take my suitcase from me and I stepped out of his reach. He snagged my wrist and pulled me in closer to him so that we were toe to toe and I had to look up at him. "What the fuck were you thinking!" He growled.
"I'm going to New York! I told you this last night!" I was so mad I couldn't see straight. He thought he could jump in and make these rules on my life? This was a big day for me and I'd be damned if he thought I would sit quietly at his house just because it was safe.
"Do you listen to anything I tell you? Has it occurred to you that I'm watching out for your safety? Trying to keep you alive?" The brown tshirt he was wearing did everything to highlight how big he was, raw muscle and hard ridges. His chest was a wide plane of muscle that I wanted to continue admiring. Instead, I stared at his shoulder instead and clenched my teeth.
"It’s worth the risk," I muttered.
"Not to me it’s not," he shot back. "Sit down." He gestured to a captain’s chair behind me. "I'll be back in a minute and we'll finish this." This time I let him take my suitcase and I sank into the chair, shoving my purse at my feet.
I watched him at the front of the plane, speaking to the pilot and flight attendant. The plane was sleek and refined, scented with leather and flowers. The creamy white leather was the softest I'd ever touched. The cabin was decorated in white with tasteful light brown touches throughout. There was a row of four captains' chairs, a pair on each side of the plane, and a curved sofa on the left side. The right featured a be
nch with a table. In the back of the plane was a bar. An honest to God counter with three bar stools. Never in my life did I think I would be flying in a private plane. But holy shit, this was nice.
The sound of the flight attendant laughing snapped my attention back to the front of the plane, where she had her hand on Connor's arm. He nodded briefly at her and walked back to the seat next to me.
"We're cleared for take-off in a few minutes. Buckle your seatbelt," he ordered.
"Please tell me what is going on," I said to him in a low voice. "I've been manhandled onto this stupid aircraft, and now you're here. I'm guessing this plane isn't yours, but who knows."
"You know, getting out of Charleston for a few days isn't the worst idea in the world," he replied. "We're just going to do it my way."
"I know you had something to do with that --that man--bringing me here. What the hell is that? You scared me half to death back there; why didn't you bring this up to me last night when we were talking?"
He bent lower, his breath brushing my ear. "We weren't talking last night. We were arguing, Alabama. I knew you were going to go anyways, I'd rather be in charge of the whole thing than be chasing you."
"If you hadn't followed, you wouldn't be chasing," I shot back.
"And you end up dead?" He hissed in my ear.
Connor steered me toward the cushioned leather while he took the adjacent chair.
"Where did you get the plane?"
He grinned mischievously. "Beats commercial, huh?"
"I wouldn't know because I've never flown. Seriously, how?" I prodded him.
"An old buddy of mine owed me a favor. Letting you fly commercial and alone was too easily traceable."
"Oh. I hadn't thought of that," I admitted.
"Obviously."
The pilot interrupted, introduced himself, gave Connor a rundown of the flight plan, explaining that we'd be taking off shortly. Connor nodded back at the pilot, giving his consent to proceed.
The granola bar I'd wolfed down earlier was bouncing in my stomach like an energetic child in a waiting room. Flying should be a piece of cake. I'd survived worse, right?
Um, no. I was terrified to take-off, the lack of control slipping through my fingers. Survival had always depended on controlling my surroundings. Flying in a plane, with Connor taking over those details, did nothing to control my nerves. I untied the scarf around my neck and draped it around me like a cape. What did people do on planes besides gripping the armrests and willing the plane to stay in the air? I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as the massive machine rolled beneath us. "How did you find me?" I asked, keeping my eyes firmly shut. Perhaps talking would make this part go faster.
"I knew last night you were going to go no matter what I told you. This morning you set off a silent alarm when you left. I've been two steps ahead of you the whole time."
"You're such a bastard," I muttered. I gave up trying to understand how he'd orchestrated the plane and the rest of it.
We didn't speak again until we were in the air. By then my heart rate had slowed and my breathing steadied.
"You really haven't flown before, have you?" Connor's deep voice interrupted my thoughts.
"I wouldn't lie about it," I snapped, opening my eyes to see Connor studying me with a frown on his face. Instead of mocking me, he was holding out a drink for me. A spiked one.
"Here. This will help."
I gladly accepted the Bloody Mary. "Thanks," I mumbled, now feeling a little bad for snapping at him when he was giving me this kindness.
"Is take-off that bad for you?" He took the seat next to me, a cup of coffee in his hand.
"I just like to be in control." The drink was strong. Just what I needed to get me through this interminable flight.
"Well, about this." Connor took a bracing sip of his coffee. "I canceled all your appointments and reservations you made through Nina. They're traceable. We'll stay with a contact of mine, another agent I work with occasionally, and set the meeting up with Campo in a another location, something public."
"Wait--you've been in touch with Campo?" I screeched.
"Well, not me directly, my colleague. The FBI."
I groaned. Great. "I can't wait to get rid of you," I grumbled, rolling my eyes. He was infuriating, taking over my entire life.
"It's the safest way, just to have our bases covered."
"Fine." I couldn't complain too much. A tiny part of me was relieved that Connor was here, and if that meant he assumed some of the details for the sake of staying alive, fine. Maybe feeling safe, rather than in control, wouldn't be so bad. It was unfamiliar, but maybe I should take it.
✽✽✽
I was sulking and pouty but I couldn't shake the annoyance coursing through me. I survived the rest of the plane ride, mainly because of the Bloody Mary and deep breathing exercises. And after Connor revealed he'd taken over the trip and rearranged my appointment, I exchanged anxiety for anger. I was picturing ways to channel my frustration with him. From a slow and painful death or just beating him up. All pure fantasy, of course.
New York was freezing in the winter, and the icy air stinging my face reminded me we were no longer in Charleston. Everyone around me was wrapped up in down coats, faces obscured by hats and scarves as they raced down city streets. There was so much to see, from the iconic honking yellow cabs to immense neon signs and massive buildings everywhere. Once the plane landed, Connor led the way off the tarmac to a car waiting close by and rattled off an address that didn't mean anything to me. He left me alone for most of the car ride to fidget in my seat and continue to watch the city fly by.
"Is it what you thought it would be?" His voice brought my out of my thoughts and I turned to look at him, sprawled out in his seat and one arm slung across the back of our seats.
"More than."
"Welcome to New York, country girl." Connor returned to his phone, tapping the screen and an actual smile on his face.
My eyes returned to studying buildings whose tops disappeared in the sky, and cars and buses bobbing and weaving through a maze of traffic.
With little to no conversation, we arrived at our mysterious destination. I hadn't asked where his colleague lived and didn't think he would tell me even if I did. I was through engaging with him.
Standing on the curb, I resented how well he fared during the two hour flight. Connor looked just as crisp and freshly groomed as he had at take-off. As winter encircled us, he didn't even look cold. I, on the other hand, was freezing and dreaded discovering the state of my appearance. The only suitable clothing I found that morning was a lightweight wool coat, knee-high boots, jeans and a sweater. My hair looked like I'd been through a wind-tunnel. My teeth chattered against the cold and my nose was running.
Ugh. Men had it so easy.
He grabbed my suitcase and gestured for me to proceed up the brick stairs. He unlocked the door and we climbed another set of stairs before arriving at a second-floor apartment. Unlocking the apartment door, we stepped into a sparse, chic space. It felt odd entering a stranger’s home without their presence.
It was tiny and simply furnished with a single sofa, coffee table and chest of drawers propping up a TV in the main room. The entire space was too small to consider a living room. While it was certainly bare, it was also sleek and modern. The apartment contained two bedrooms which I discerned from the closed off room and the guest room featuring a single futon. I rolled my suitcase to the living space. More buildings climbed into the sky above the second-floor view, giving me a clear view into its adjacent windows.
Remembering I needed to call Nina, I went in search of my purse, finding it on a small table in the entryway. I powered my phone on and began scrolling through my contacts for Nina's name. The next thing I knew, Connor's fingers were wrapped around my wrist and my phone was gone.
"You have to do this my way," he told me in a voice that was deadly serious. "You can't let anyone know where you are, that I'm here
with you. No details. No phones."
He was invading my personal space, having that same effect on me again, hyper aware of the teeny tiny distance separating us. A microscopic movement and I would be pressed up against him. His gaze searched mine, his fingers digging into my skin.
"What about Nina?" I whispered. "She's waiting to hear from me."
"I could give two shits about Nina."
I glared back at him, both of us unmoving and refusing to break eye contact.
After a few seconds, he relented, shoving his phone in my palm. "Text her from mine. Do not call her, or anyone else," he muttered, releasing me.
"Ten-four, GI Joe," I muttered. I followed his directions, despite my sarcasm, then handed him his phone.
He moved into the kitchen, rooting through the cabinets one by one, stopping and peering, then sighing and slamming the cabinet door before moving on to the next one. I leaned against the sofa back and eyed him curiously. "Since you hijacked my plans, what's the new time and meeting place?"
"Campo's getting briefed as we speak. We'll meet him at the 21 Club at six o'clock tonight."
"What does getting briefed mean?" I asked warily. "You do realize this is like an interview for me? I don't want to scare him off."
"My team is entirely professional. They'll simply explain this as a security measure."
"I can't wait to get rid of you," I groused for the second time that day. I'd just have to hope none of this scared Alexander Campo from representing my work in his gallery.
With some time to kill before the meeting, rather than fighting with Connor, I freshened up. I had enough to worry about. Like the fact that I had to bring a print portfolio to the meeting, instead of displaying my work on a website.
I had been nervous about meeting Alexander Campo alone. Now with Connor and his secret agent spy friends, I didn't want to give them a front row seat to my amateur hour. Hopefully, this would be a show of success and not a crash and burn.
Despite my protests, I felt relieved to have him in the city with me. The threat of the Sgambatis was both intangible and terrifyingly real, and yet Connor's presence made me nervous. I couldn't think straight when he was near. I felt like a sad cliché--small town girl in the big city for the first time with a dream in her pocket and a silly crush on a man that made her feel warring emotions simultaneously. I couldn’t deny my attraction to him. He had the unique ability to make me so mad I could spit. But I also trusted him. Felt safe with him.
The Art of Murder Page 10
