Capturing the Queen (Damaged Heroes Book 2)

by Sarah Andre

  “Is, uh, Sean around?” he asked. “I have a question about the wet bath.”

  “He went on an errand. Go ask Hannah.” Gretch hurried around him to her desk. The poignant music replayed in her head, the swelling sensation in her throat choking her. Like she needed these violins wrenching her heart all afternoon. She sat clumsily and eased off her high heels. Onscreen, her cursor blinked steadily on payroll hours worked. The NaraGoods invoice lay unpaid. Her phone screen was littered with messages from Brandon, each more obscene and aggressive than the last. Shit. She looked around the office, chewing off her lipstick. He truly hadn’t been this unbalanced Saturday night. She could spot those freaks a mile away.

  The guy could text all he wanted; she wasn’t going to feed into this. She turned the phone off, like she should have when Hannah had suggested it. When she picked up Sean’s timecard, her hand still trembled. It was because of the music. Shits like Brandon didn’t scare her.

  Walter’s door opened, and okay, she jumped. “I have some acquisition contracts,” he said briskly, laying files on her desk. “This is a priority.”

  Finally. The contents of the suitcase. Gretch could barely maintain the disinterested smile until he closed himself back in his office. She snatched the top file and rifled through. “Holy Christ in a cradle.” A damaged Quran whose pages were all gold leaf. Worth three-point-five mil. This must have been what was in the suitcase.

  She set aside the file and opened the second one. Inside was the inventory list she’d seen on his desk, but retyped. The revised copy had no Arabic scribbled in the margins, and the total at the bottom was not circled, nor did it add up to a hundred thousand dollars. It had been changed to sixty million.

  8

  Sean returned just before three, stiff with the need to let loose on a punching bag. Or his brother’s face. What a shitty, worthless afternoon.

  While a technician had scrutinized the wooden box, Sean had pointed out artifacts he recognized on the video file. Margo and Jace made turkey sandwiches for the group, then Jace loudly announced Sean’s veganism and produced a small salad with sardonic flourish. Although Margo studied Jace with something close to disgust, when she glanced Sean’s way, her expression mirrored that of most women who spent time around him in his four brothers’ presence: curiosity and pity.

  Sean shouldn’t care. He’d never apologized for his sorry existence among his testosterone-overloaded brothers and had no intentions of starting now, but that kindhearted glance sure got old. And Margo hadn’t known he was a freak until Jace had once again messed everything up.

  In the end, the bugging–tracking device was just a simple, exquisitely carved box from Afghanistan, now ruined. Sean had insisted on collecting the remnants to restore it, then suffered the indignity of their smirks and eye rolls.

  By the time he walked into the quiet, temperature- and humidity-controlled interior that smelled of turpentine, paints—and Gretch—he was fed up with the FBI and anything to do with black market smuggling.

  Fortunately, Gretch was on the phone. “Oh, Mr. Adyton, you’re such a flirt,” she said. Though she snapped her fingers to get Sean’s attention—seriously, had that ever worked on a guy?—he headed straight for the sanctuary of his lab. Turning in, he stopped short. His stool, his MP3 player, and his earbuds were all askew. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyeing the Picasso and tools. Untouched. Who’d been in here, rearranging his private property? He ground his teeth as he rolled the stool back into the proper position and gathered up his music. Thrusting in his buds, he pushed play, and Turiddu sang his first tenor note. Sean’s jaw sagged. The perp had messed with the MP3! Listened to the entirety of Sean’s favorite piece. Before the FBI fiasco, he’d purposely stopped the opera in that exact place so he could look forward to coming back to the Intermezzo.

  “Sonofabitch!” He ripped out the buds and strode to the wet bath area. Dane, goggled, was bent over the container where distilled water solution was loosening the backing on a van Eyck.

  “Hey, man,” Sean said, coming to a halt. “Were you in my cubicle?”

  Dane glanced up. “I looked for you, but Hannah answered my question.”

  Sean studied the Plexiglas partition that separated the wet bath area from the other restorer, Anna. He frowned. Should he ask her? People claimed he overreacted to others touching his things, but they were his. And his privacy was his. And today his dignity had taken a beating too. He cranked his neck until he heard a pop. Fuck it. He had too much work to finish. “Thanks.” Sean double-knocked on the partition and spun on his heel.

  “Gretch was leaving when I got there, if that means anything,” Dane called.

  Sean threw another rough “thanks” over his shoulder, although the hairs on his neck pricked. Gretch? How often did she snoop through his stuff? He’d never noticed it before, and he could easily identify even a half-centimeter shift of his possessions.

  He slumped on the stool and glanced at his book bag under the desk. That hadn’t moved. He rifled through it and shoved half a protein bar in his mouth. He might look like a bitty-side-salad dweeb, but his metabolism burned like the sun. His low glucose level was probably feeding this seething irritation.

  “I covered for you.”

  He swiveled on the wheels.

  Gretch rested an arm along the top of his cubicle, half her hourglass curves still hidden behind the gray polyester-blend siding. “Walter and Hannah have no clue you ditched work.”

  His mouth was too stuffed to form words, so he leisurely kept chewing. She got off on men stumbling over themselves for her—flattering her, opening doors, no doubt carrying her groceries…and responding instantly.

  If Jace crammed half a protein bar into his mouth, he’d give her a goofy grin, point a finger at his cheek, and chew faster. God forbid she should be kept waiting for Sean’s blathering gratitude at not telling the bosses he’d been late. Well, fuck that.

  “You chew weird,” she remarked, and then he did speed up before she could pick him apart further. There were enough abnormal things about him without adding chewing to the freaking list.

  He swallowed the half-eaten bolus, which was so large he swallowed a second time to clear his esophagus. Given the Heimlich maneuver or Gretch’s manicure, he’d be on the losing end of that decision. When the bulk of the protein bar safely passed his airway, Sean leaned an elbow behind him on the counter. It touched his MP3 player. “Why were you listening to my music?”

  A rosy flush bloomed under her makeup. Crazy strange. Gretch didn’t get embarrassed. “I came to give you a message, but when you weren’t here, naturally I had to check and see if you listened to disco.”

  “Naturally.” He poured contempt into the word and stared into her lying brown eyes. “However, there was no message. You knew I wasn’t here—you saw me leave with my brother.”

  She blushed harder. It reminded him of Hannah. “What was that?” she asked abruptly, nodding to his player.

  Her interest was uncharted territory. What was she setting him up for now? “A one-act opera composed by Pietro Muscagni in eighteen ninety-nine.”

  “An opera? I didn’t hear any screeching voices.”

  She was a cool drink of water, he’d give her that. Sean unwrapped the other half of his bar. “You heard the intermezzo. The opera’s equivalent to an intermission. It’s usually instrumental.”

  “It was ethereal.”

  He grunted, because again, he’d anticipated ridicule. And her description was apt. Who knew she could discern a magnificent intermezzo piece?

  “Maybe, if it ever comes to town…” She splayed the back of her hand, studying her fingernails.

  The ghost of the thick bolus stuck in his throat. Was she going to ask him out? Through buzzing ears, he faintly heard, “…you’ll give me a heads-up.”

  He nodded like a yanked marionette. Sure. Give her the heads-up so she could ask Jace out, or that preppie shit from Saturday night. “Gotta work,” he said, but she stayed there,
hypnotized by her nails. What was with her today? She hated being dismissed. At this point she should be halfway back to her desk, tossing a caustic remark over her shoulder.

  “I was wondering if…after work you could…uh…” She cleared her throat, the flush now bright red. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She was going to ask him out after all. He stared hard at her mouth, willing the words to come. Go to dinner with me? Catch a movie? Play the whole opera?

  She frowned at him like his face was saying something entirely different. Was he scowling? He tried to rearrange his features, but Gretch’s glossy lips formed a perfect arc of displeasure. “Oh, never mind. You’re such an oddball.”

  Long after the judgmental clip-clip of her high heels faded, he stared at the spot where she’d stood. What had he done wrong?

  Hours later, Sean rolled up his earbuds and tucked them into the smallest compartment of his drawer organizer. He stood and stretched his lats, appreciating the finished Picasso for a moment. This was why he’d gotten into the career. It was like the soot of the fire had never blackened this exquisite painting.

  He carefully packaged the canvas and placed it in the finished cubbyhole, then carried back the piece-of-crap painting no longer slotted for a senior center. It was heavier than the Picasso and yellowed with age, although even that resembled a static saffron shade. Sean squinted at the sprawled signature on the canvas. Salvatore. Never heard of him. Tomorrow would be a bitch—there’d be no sense of accomplishment intricately restoring something to the same ugly state.

  He logged into his computer, his stomach growling fiercely for more than the protein bar and the leftover quinoa he’d found in the break room refrigerator hours ago. Paging down to the bottom of the listed Wickham art, he checked the Picasso as completed, tallied the total hours, and emailed it to Walter. Sean made a mental note to hurry through the piece of shit tomorrow. Even restored, it wasn’t worth a dime, and Harrison Wickham wouldn’t appreciate a large restoration bill.

  He skimmed the few emails in his inbox, mostly office memos from Hannah. One of her subject lines—Thank You—brought him up short, and he clicked it open.

  I’m never sure where you and Gretch stand with each other, but I appreciate you agreeing to see her home tonight. If she mentioned just walking her to the El station, ignore her. Someone’s given her the creeps enough for her to swallow her pride and ask you for help. She needs it ALL the way to her front doorstep.

  Have to use email, since she’s expecting me to say this in person and is guarding your hallway like a samurai warrior.

  Thanks again, see you tomorrow. –H

  The grumbling in his stomach turned to roiling as he glanced at his watch. A quarter to nine. Shit. Gretch had been gathering the courage to ask for his help, and because he couldn’t pull off a normal expression, she’d put herself in a potentially dangerous situation.

  He concentrated on the moment out front today when Jace had been grinning, thumbs already typing her name. Gretch had arched her neck, touched her earring and said… 555— Sean screwed his eyes shut… 3014.

  He snapped out of his trance and punched the numbers into the company phone, his heart pounding like a bass drum. Please let her be home safe. Nothing would sound better right now than some sarcastic comment about his audacity to call her this late. To call her at all.

  But it didn’t even ring. The call went straight to voicemail.

  9

  Nine o’clock. Who would call so late? Gretch snatched the landline before Dwayne awoke from his snoring sprawl on the faux-velvet sofa. She glanced at the caller ID and murmured a greeting as she slipped into the kitchen.

  “Oh my God,” Hannah exclaimed. “You’re all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You didn’t ask Sean to walk you home.”

  Gretch winced at the accusing tone. “I was your personal trainer for six years, Hannah. I’m strong enough to defend myself.”

  “In a minidress and stilettos? What if that creep had been lurking nearby?” Hannah sounded so worried that guilt wormed into Gretch’s defenses.

  “I told you I never give out my real last name or address to new pickups,” she replied. “I lie about where I work on my alias’s social media pages, and I left during rush hour while it was still bright daylight.”

  The silence on the line lasted long enough for her to hear her own words. She winced.

  “Honestly, Gretch, that’s a bit sick.”

  You have no idea. She inserted a carefree laugh. “Girl’s gotta have some excitement in her life.”

  “Well, it’s come around to bite you in the ass.”

  Gretch stiffened. “Has it? Because I’m home safe.”

  Hannah made a sound, half sigh, half exasperation. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Gretch rested her forehead on the wall by the phone mount. “I appreciate your concern, sweetie, but I’m in total control.” Always.

  Hannah’s second sigh mixed disagreement with surrender. “Okay. Let me call Sean. He’s still at the office, worried sick.”

  Gretch jerked upright, a tingle of alarm zipping through her. “Sean?”

  “When you gave me the thumbs-up, I emailed him my thanks. He just got around to reading it, and your cell phone isn’t on.”

  Of course her phone wasn’t on. She didn’t want to field sicko texts from Brandon. “The battery’s dead,” she lied. She just had to ignore her phone for a few days until Brandon moved on. Problem solved.

  “Listen,” Hannah said, “the self-defense course Sean teaches? You’re going to find out when it is and go.”

  Sean wearing the black belt of a martial arts master? All buff and in command? Giving combat demonstrations and instructing her? Oh, hell no! “Says who?” she demanded.

  “Says your boss. You lied to me during work hours.”

  Gretch rolled her eyes. “Giving you the thumbs-up is not telling a lie. I’m not doing anything that involves Sean.”

  “And when I call him back, I’m giving him your address,” Hannah said, as if Gretch hadn’t spoken. “He’ll be on your doorstep at eight to escort you to work.” She hung up while Gretch was halfway through shrieking a profanity.

  Dwayne grunted awake in the next room. “Another mouse?” he called out gruffly.

  “No.” Gretch peered around just in case, then slunk back into the living room. Should she update him on what a creep Brandon had turned out to be? No. Just one more friend who’d freak out unnecessarily. “Hannah,” Gretch said, replacing the phone in its charger cradle. “Treating me like a goddamn child.”

  Dwayne sat up with the prolonged groan people with weak core muscles emitted. “It’s about time someone treated you like a child,” he mumbled. “You constantly act like one.”

  Gretch grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. She hadn’t had a childhood—literally didn’t know what “acting like a child” meant. She slumped into the club chair adjacent to the sofa. “I don’t need people bossing me around or protecting me, damn it.”

  Dwayne cocked his head. “I’d give anything to have that confidence.”

  Confidence. Sean in white pajamas and a black belt. Gretch hugged a throw pillow. She had to get out of going to that class, period. And the humiliation of Sean—Sean!—escorting her tomorrow. Maybe she’d get up super early and give him the slip. When he showed up, Dwayne could tell him she’d already gone in to work. She plumped the pillow with her fist and threw it aside.

  No. Hannah would never forgive her.

  Sean pressed the Allen/Collins buzzer outside the apartment building, then jammed his clammy hands in his windbreaker and rotated on the step. The aromas of coffee, bacon, and Dolgo crabapple blossoms permeated the cool morning. Sheathed newspapers lay scattered around his feet in a disorganized mess. He nudged one with his toe until it was perpendicular to the step, started in on the next one, then whistled out a breath. Calm the fuck down. This isn’t a date. He tore his eyes from th
e disorder and glanced around.

  Gretch’s refurbished neighborhood was in a good location, close enough to downtown but still holding a quiet, suburban feel. Spring buds bloomed along the boulevard. Down at the corner, a blue awning boasted a mom-and-pop grocery store.

  After what seemed like a pointedly rude delay, the outer door opened with a faint squeak, and he braced himself for Gretch’s caustic greeting. An obese African-American stood with a hand on his hip, looking him up and down in that clichéd effeminate way. Irish Spring and a dense knockoff cologne overpowered the air. Sean swallowed his cough.

  “Please tell me I didn’t haul my fat ass all the way down here so you can hand me a religious pamphlet.”

  This was her housemate? The call button did say Allen/Collins. “I—uh—I’m here for Gretch?” Why had he said it like a question? He cleared his throat. “She’s expecting me.” Hopefully. What if Hannah hadn’t notified her?

  The man’s brows rose to comical height. “She’s never brought a man home before.” He studied Sean again, lips pursed. “And you sure don’t fit her type.”

  Right back at you. Sean shifted his weight. “I’m a colleague. Sean Quinn? I’m taking her to work?” For the love of God, why was he saying everything like he disbelieved it himself?

  “Oh.” Collins’ face cleared. “Well, come on up.”

  “I’ll wait here.”

  A slow smile spread, and black eyes twinkled. “Naw. This’ll be fun. I’m Dwayne Collins, her long-suffering housemate.” They shook hands, and Collins held the door wider.