by Sarah Andre
Sean slid by and hesitated in the small foyer. Collins pointed to a tiny, ancient elevator with a sliding grate. There was no way that thing would hold them both. “I’ll take the stairs,” Sean said. “What apartment?”
“Five A.”
He nodded and bolted up the steps two at a time. At the turn he spotted Collins still in the foyer watching with that peculiar smile. Like, given the eager sprint up the stairs, the man didn’t believe Sean was just a coworker. But it wasn’t eagerness. It was basic physics: burning off nervous energy.
Sean turned the corner and bolted up flight after flight until he was on the right floor. By the grinding squeal, the elevator was still ascending, and Sean waited politely, heart trip-hammering. He glanced at the brass 5A. Such an ordinary white door with a metal peephole and black-soled scuff marks at the bottom. Probably made by someone with their arms full of grocery bags. Someone impatient. Goosebumps raised the hairs along his arm to stiff attention.
She was in there. Maybe it was his imagination, or the heightened sense that always happened around Gretch, but her peppery perfume was unmistakable from here.
Collins squeezed out of the elevator and lifted an eyebrow. “Damn. You’re not even out of breath.”
Sean shrugged. The climb actually felt good. He rolled his shoulders and followed Collins into the apartment. Yep. Mingling with her housemate’s robust scents were Gretch’s perfume, hyacinth soap, oatmeal, cinnamon, and coffee.
“Your Ladyship,” Collins called. “Your princely escort has arrived.”
Sean sucked in a breath. “Uh…”
“I hope you left him in the foyer,” came a muffled reply amid the rapid click-click of heels. A door opened at the end of the narrow hallway and there she was, in an azure silk blouse and black miniskirt that squeezed her without mercy. Sean’s heart thumped painfully behind his Adam’s apple.
“Oh,” she said with a shaky inhale, glancing at Collins. “You didn’t.” She waved haphazardly, like shooing a fly. “Get yourself a cup of coffee, Sean, I’ll be right there.” The door slammed shut.
Collins’ smile was as shiny as a toothpaste commercial. “Well, well, well.”
“We’re not dating,” Sean said so fast it sounded like one word.
“Yes, I see that, darling. And I’ll raise you a: not yet.” Collins cocked his head. “What do you take in your coffee?”
“I—I’ll just wait outside.”
“Don’t be a fool. This is our chance to dish on the queen. Believe me, she’s in there shitting bricks, and I want to know why.”
So did Sean. And he liked the way Collins referred to her in royal terms.
Sean followed him into the kitchen, but something about this reminded him of the few awkward dates he’d experienced as a teenager. What to talk about while he waited? What to do with his hands? He folded his arms. No. As his brothers enjoyed pointing out, now he looked like he was pouting. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Yeah, that worked. He leaned against the counter, confidence growing. “What do you do?” he asked, almost high-fiving himself at how causally that came out.
“Banking. Customer due diligence.”
Finance, sports, legalese, and the mechanical workings of engines. Sean never had a response to these subjects. He nodded thoughtfully.
“So.” Collins prolonged the word as he poured coffee into a mug stenciled with She Who Must Be Obeyed in garnet and gold. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Couple years. Ever since I began working for Moore and Morrow. How about you two?” It wasn’t curiosity as much as Sean instinctively redirected any subject away from himself. Hell, the details of his life bored even him.
“Oh, honey, I’ve known her since the fourth grade.” Collins handed him the steaming mug. “Her mama chased a man here from California. I’ll never forget the sight of that little girl showin’ up in class. Little blond pigtails and a don’t-fuck-with-me expression—teacher had no idea she was coming either.”
“What was she like as a kid?” Sean sipped the coffee, which blistered his lips, but it was better than gawking at the surprising gossip.
“The same ice queen she is now, only on a miniature scale.”
“How do you live with that?” Maybe he could pick up some tips.
Collins snorted. “That act is like the tippy-top of the iceberg.” He flicked a hand. “There are channels and floes and thousand-foot waterfalls underneath all that snippy PMS shit.”
Right. Sean rubbed the back of his neck, squinting. “Channels and flows and waterfalls of what?”
Collins laughed, belly and chins shaking with mirth. “I like you, Sean Quinn. I’m beginning to understand the door slam.”
“No, seriously.” Sean’s heart beat way faster than after the five-floor sprint. He was standing at the precipice of a huge secret. “Tell me what she’s like underneath.”
Collin sobered and shifted his weight, wincing. “She’s incredibly protective of the suffering and downtrodden.” He gestured with his mug. “Take me, for instance. I was bullied and beaten every day of my childhood, and you should’ve seen how fierce she’d get. Like this little girl had an invisible Wonder Woman costume.” He waved his other hand toward the window. “Now she volunteers at a women’s shelter Wednesdays, and a crisis line on Sundays. Spends every Thanksgiving and Christmas working a soup kitchen—first one there, last one to leave. And before she buys groceries, she stops by Mrs. Ferguson’s next door to see what she needs. The poor dear has macular degeneration and is legally blind.”
Sean nodded because speech was beyond him. For sure this wasn’t Gretch-from-the-office. Although she had recruited the office staff to support Hannah at her apartment eviction meeting last October. That had been damn decent.
Collins air-toasted him. “And she’d kill me if she knew I told you all that.”
As if on cue, a door opened and Gretch’s assertive footsteps drew close. Sean thanked Collins for the coffee, pouring the rest down the drain. He’d have rinsed the mug out, except the man was beside him in an instant, reaching for it.
“Don’t keep her waiting over something stupid like that,” Collins warned Sean under his breath.
Sean’s universe righted itself. Yes, that was the Gretch he knew.
He nodded his thanks and met her in the hall, masking any hint of how her nearness and that spicy scent wrecked him. “Ready?” he asked, opening the front door. She wiggled her fingers at her housemate and sailed on by without responding.
Collins grinned in undisguised glee. Glad someone’s enjoying this. The man held out an open tin of cinnamon mints. “Here. Just in case you get lucky.”
Sean took one. “By lucky, I assume you mean I spontaneously drop dead and the medical examiner appreciates my fresh breath?”
Collins chuckled. “Or lucky as in: you man up, handsome.” The door shut in Sean’s flaming face. He inhaled unsteadily and turned. Gretch stood by the open elevator, and he headed for it like it was a guillotine. Not because he feared the ancient contraption. Because of how close they’d have to stand together, and how long it would take for that damn thing to descend.
10
See, this was what happened when everyone got hysterical over her business. Twice on the way to the El station, Gretch spied a tall, handsome blond who looked exactly like Brandon. Both times it turned out to not be him, but by the time she pushed aboard the train in front of Sean, her stomach was a tight vise of nausea. Fuck Brandon. She knew how to stick up for herself, and she was done cowering. She’d have turned her phone back on as a symbol of her bravado, but the mash of commuters made moving impossible. In fact, the only space left was pressed tightly against the front of Sean.
Their glued bodies swayed to the rhythmic push-pull of the train. His book bag was wedged between his slightly spread legs. Their proximity meant it was between hers, too.
Her heels brought her nearly to his height, but she focused on his freshly shaved, sharp chin, instead of those brooding eyes.
His clasp on the bar positioned his right bicep a millimeter from her boob. With each sway, the lemony-fresh laundry scent of his shirt enveloped her.
She stood rigid with tension, unable to ignore the hardness of him. All down his front. A part of her was disappointed; he’d always seemed above the average male’s pervasive lust, what with the classical literature, his finesse at work…the music that had brought her to tears yesterday.
The other part of her reveled in her seductive power. He may have control over those emotionless expressions, but he couldn’t hide this. And as long as she stayed in control of a guy, everything was fine. What would it be like with Sean?
The train lurched, throwing the standing commuters off balance, and Sean’s free arm snatched her about the waist, steadying her. The embrace fused their pelvises tighter. She froze at the exact instant his jaw clamped in horrified acknowledgement, and they careened apart like two opposing magnets. Gretch apologized over her shoulder to whomever she’d body-slammed, and bit her lip. Seconds later the train screeched to a rapid halt, and with a whoosh, the doors opened. Masses shuffled and bumped past them.
“Oh shit,” Sean breathed, squinting over her shoulder. She struggled to turn, but he clasped her again. “Don’t!”
The doors hissed closed, and the abrupt acceleration pitched her into him. His steely embrace didn’t drop. Exhilaration and claustrophobia warred within her. Unless she initiated it, being clutched this tightly by men—unable to move—made her want to shriek. And yet this was Sean. Harmless, oddball Sean, whose arms she once in a while fantasized being wrapped in. Here was her wish. Relax already!
He lowered his forehead so their noses almost touched. His lips were right there. She sucked in a breath. “What are you doing?”
“Hiding behind your spiky hair.”
See, the problem with Sean was: you never knew whether he had this incredibly dry sense of humor or he just thoughtlessly insulted others. His grip tightened, and, as she was still distracted by the meaning of his comment, her muscles subtly relaxed against his.
“One-two-three, go,” he muttered.
“What?”
With fluid grace, he executed a tight twirl around the book bag, so his back was to the commuters he’d just faced. Her heart skipped a beat. The authoritative manner, the elegance of the move—it was right out of her childhood daydreams, before life went so horribly wrong. She’d pretend to be a princess in a red ball gown being swept into a swirling waltz. Once in a very rare while, that fantasy still came to her in dreams—spinning giddily in the arms of a man whose touch didn’t repulse her. The sophisticated man had no face. He wore a tux and was really, really good, like the male dancers on that reality TV show. But this was Sean. Half nerd, half hermit. If he was adept at ballroom dancing, she’d die of laughter. Or swoon.
She found herself relaxing fully, the bulge pressing her pelvis not as unpleasant as men’s erections usually were. The train rocked them to and fro. In her head, she swayed and twirled in her satin gown, and finally found the courage to glance into Sean’s espresso eyes. They weren’t on her. He didn’t even seem aware of her or their erotic locomotive body rhythm. Instead, he studied the blocks they rocketed past, his usually tilted eyebrows knotted, his jaw taut.
“Sean?”
“We’re getting off at the next stop.”
She snapped out of her girlie crush. “Maybe you are, but I’m not walking the rest of the way in these heels.”
He turned from the window and stared at her in that fathomless way, like he was strip-searching her mind. Ordinarily it was incredibly annoying, but this time she felt paralyzed by his gaze—the slow way his dusky black lashes lowered, the steel band of his embrace…
“I don’t need your protection, Sean,” she said curtly, but her breathy voice ruined it. “I’m just humoring Hannah. For today only.”
The brakes squealed as they approached the next station, and lurching momentum plastered them tighter. His hypnotic eyes darkened, focusing on her mouth. Christ in a cradle, he’s going to kiss me! Her pulse stampeded, and her lips parted on instinct.
He pressed his mouth gently to hers, the kiss achingly slow and measured. His lips were warm, the pressure light, like he was giving of himself instead of taking from her. He tasted of coffee and cinnamon and something pleasantly male.
The train jolted to a stop, and their lips bumped apart with a clumsy smacking sound. He raised his head, his face mirroring her bewilderment. The doors hissed open. He formed a syllable, no doubt to say sorry—it had been a mistake. She didn’t want to hear anything out of that mouth. It would ruin the perfection of his kiss.
“I thought you wanted to get off,” she snapped, nudging his book bag with her toe. “Let’s go.”
As they cut through the mass of bodies, she was pretty sure he muttered, “When do you ever do what I want?” She glared at him, but he was looking over his shoulder.
Gretch descended onto the platform and spun around, primed to rip into him and demand an Uber. Again his focus was elsewhere, his face pale. She followed his gaze. Amid the noise of the crowd hurrying around them, a bearded man with heavy eyebrows waved from an adjacent door as he stepped down too. “Mr. Bixby!” He appeared to be looking at Sean, and Sean seemed to think so too.
“He’s not talking to you, hon,” she said in a voice reserved for five-year-olds. She linked arms and pulled. “I’ll pay for an—”
“I thought that was you,” the man said, hurrying over. “Although I confess a bit of surprise…” He gazed at Gretch, and let the sentence hang. What the hell? By the dread on Sean’s face, he was unmistakably in trouble. Because of the kiss? Because Sean was linking arms with her? Was it any of this man’s business?
Sean cleared his throat and gestured to her. “This is—”
“His wife,” Gretch blurted indignantly. The man’s mouth dropped open.
“No,” Sean spat out. “She’s not.” He unhooked his arm like he was shaking her off.
She stood breathless from the sting to her heart. The commuter noise around her faded to a dull hum as she blinked at Sean. The least cruel man she’d ever met. He ignored her as he shook the man’s hand.
“Did you get my email?” the man asked, scrutinizing Sean’s face intently from under those bushy brows.
“I…uh…I haven’t had a chance to respond.”
“Then it was fortuitous we met here.” The man spread his arm to encompass the platform. “The gentleman I wanted you to meet is just down the block.”
“I can’t.” Sean glanced around wildly. He swept a hand through his chronically messy hair. “I have an appointment,” he said. “Maybe another time, Mr. El Bashtan.”
“We’re perfectly free,” Gretch said through her teeth. Sean’s slanted brows added to the helplessness and horror he threw her way. What was he involved in that made him this squirrely? She gave him her infamous death glare before smiling over at El Bashtan. “May I come too?”
“No!”
Fucking Sean! Gretch ignored him as she oozed as much sexual innuendo into her smile as possible. “I won’t be any trouble,” she purred to El Bashtan. It took so little to sway men. She could do this. Screw Sean for having this side life he was so obviously trying to hide. She’d finally figure him out. She increased the wattage and squeezed the bearded man’s forearm, recognizing the second he faltered. Her ego swelled in triumph.
“As you wish, miss.”
“Missus,” she said, with a withering side-glance at her coworker. She fluttered her hand. “Please lead the way, Mr. El Bashtan.”
11
We are so fucked!
Perspiration glued Sean’s shirt to his back as they set off down the block. El Bashtan chatted courteously with Gretch, but his steady frown proved he was guarded and unamused. Two Mrs. Bixbys, Jesus Christ.
Sean fell a step behind, fingering his phone in his windbreaker. How could he alert Jace to this disaster without further implicating himself—and now Gretch—as frauds?
If El Bashtan had sent the email invitation to William Bixby, it’d gone to the FBI task force. Maybe the address they were heading toward was included.
A block and a half from the El, they turned on to a side street, which housed small shops and a bakery that wafted cinnamon-sugar and warm yeast scents. No cars or pedestrians were visible this early, and most of the display windows were still dark. On any other day, it would’ve been a street Sean deliberately cut down to reach a destination with a minimum of crowds. Today it meant no witnesses and no help. There was no way he’d walk Gretch any further into this danger.
Still in plain sight of the busier main street, Sean stopped and retrieved the cell phone. “I’m letting our other appointment know we’re running late,” he called, and the two halted patiently. He pressed Jace’s cell number and sucked in a breath.
It was answered on the first ring. “Can’t talk—in a meeting.” Jace hung up.
Because El Bashtan and Gretch stood several feet away, Sean conversed with no one, apologizing for the delay and promising to send the file right over. Gretch’s eyebrows knotted. Good. She was catching on. Art restorers had no files on their phones to send anywhere.
Sean pressed the Share My Location option, which sent Jace an instant map of his cell phone’s position, then texted: sos. Pocketing the phone, he joined the other two, and, as a final warning to Gretch, forced his lips into a wide, cheerful smile. Life wasn’t amusing. He rarely smiled. Just as he hoped, Gretch’s eyes flickered in alarm.
“All set,” he said to El Bashtan. “Although I’d prefer if I saw your artifacts alone.”
“Nonsense,” Gretch blurted in a high voice. The sly triumph from the train platform had vanished. “You’re not going anywhere by yourself…dear.”
“Please, please.” El Bashtan ushered them toward a shop on the other side of the bakery. “It’s just this way.”
As Sean stepped off the curb, Gretch slipped her hand in his. Not knowing what else to do, he squeezed it. Their kiss had been a spontaneous fluke. The erotic rhythm of the train oscillating their bodies back and forth had done such a number on his nerves and cock that when he’d spotted El Bashtan studying him, Sean had thrown caution to the wind. If he was going to die today, he was going down with his ultimate wish fulfilled: a simple kiss from Gretch.
