by Sarah Andre
“You never leave this early,” he protested.
“I’m at a stopping point. Thanks for agreeing to walk with her, though.” He ignored Dane’s crestfallen expression. If the guy held a black belt, it would be a different story.
Sean peered into Walter’s office. Dark and empty. Hannah’s laugh trickled down the hall. She’d have to do. He turned to Gretch. “I need to speak to you and Hannah for a sec.” He waited impatiently while Dane said goodbye to Gretch, which consisted of stuttering, scuffing his feet like he was in junior high, hitching his book bag, and all but bowing out the door.
“Jeez.” Sean walked over and flipped the interior bolt. “Do I act like that around you, your highness?”
“Worse. You’d have double-knocked that threshold on your way out.”
Sean cringed. The shit she noticed. Did he still do that? It was a holdover scar from childhood. “Come on,” he said, heading to Hannah’s office. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“Why?” She sounded tired, but he didn’t turn around. “What’s going on now?”
No time to explain twice. “Just brainstorming new and improved ways to annoy the hell out of you.”
Behind him, she executed the perfect regal tsk. “If it’s about the attempted robbery and your super-ninja moves, she already knows.”
Sean swung around, jaw clenching, and waited for Gretch to catch up. “I don’t think that was necessary,” he murmured.
She patted his chest with a condescending smile. “It’s what besties do. They share what happens in their day, especially if it involves guns and a dropkick to somebody’s head.”
Well, he was about to add a whole lot to that story. He eased away, but Gretch pushed him against the wall. Granted, it wasn’t remotely like the head injury he’d almost sustained last night against her hotel door, but the similarity of her dominance tightened his groin. He opened his mouth. Maybe to ask her what the hell she was doing. Maybe to kiss her. She placed a manicured finger to his lips. “Shh.”
Through a haze of horniness, he heard a man answer Hannah.
“Devon’s back,” Gretch whispered. “He must have gotten here while I was in Walter’s office.”
Sean shrugged. Hours had gone by where he’d been so fixated on being a hero that he hadn’t pre-empted this crisis. The Concert painting, the mob, and whatever personal information Gretch had posted on her social media were a hell of a lot more important than Hannah’s childhood sweetheart returning from a half-week trip to Manhattan. Sean straightened from the wall, but Gretch pushed him back, holding him there with a braced forearm and a dirty look. What the fuck?
Again she held a finger to her lips and mouthed, “Listen.”
“…so given the judge’s ruling, it looks like I’m in the clear,” Devon said, followed by a little squeal from Hannah. “I’m relieved it’s finally over. I can start giving my new company my undivided attention.”
“Your company?” Hannah cooed.
“Oh, I have all sorts of plans for you, Han.” The sound of kissing.
Ugh. Sean had barely spoken to the man, but it didn’t take a whole lot of imagination to see him for what he was: an arrogant rich boy who’d never suffered heartache like Sean and Dane and the rest of the world’s nerds. Sean twisted easily out of Gretch’s hold, gripped her biceps, and drew her so close their lips almost touched. “I am not going to eavesdrop on them,” he whispered, absorbing the tiny shiver that ran through her. “She’s your bestie. This is her dropkick to the head to tell you about later.”
He rounded the corner into Hannah’s office and stopped short, fighting the urge to slip out as soundlessly as he’d arrived.
Devon sat in the office chair with Hannah on his lap—straight on, her legs straddling his spread thighs. He’d wrapped his hands around her ass, and his toes manipulated the swivel chair with a technique right out of a porn movie. From here, it looked like he wasn’t kissing her as much as working her over in an obscene, no-holds-barred parody of a kiss. Maybe if Devon wasn’t such an overconfident dick or Hannah wasn’t like a sister, Sean could’ve tolerated this, but… Gross! He’d return to the hall and cough to warn them.
He pivoted and smacked into Gretch. Her woof was followed by two pairs of sucking lips hastily parting.
“Ohmygosh,” Hannah gasped. Sean reluctantly turned back, fighting for a neutral expression. Hannah now sat primly across her boyfriend’s lap, wiping her swollen lips. “Sorry. We didn’t hear you.”
“That,” Gretch said emphatically, “was quite clear. Too bad Sean ruined the show.” Her smirk and raised eyebrow set off a crimson blush on her friend’s face.
“What’s up?” Devon asked, looking completely unfazed and unapologetic. He trailed fingers through Hannah’s ponytail, his gaze warm on Gretch and cooling when it met Sean’s. Sean oozed his opinion right back. October had been nothing but turmoil for Hannah, all because of this good-looking, soulless guy who excelled at breaking hearts.
“Um…” Gretch turned to Sean, her hand out like she was about to introduce him. “I don’t know. What’s up?”
Crap. There was no way Sean was talking about any of this in front of a Wickham. “It’s an office situation I wanted to discuss with you and Gretch,” he said, eyeing Hannah unwaveringly, “in private.” The swivel chair twitched, but that was all the reaction Devon gave.
Hannah patted her boyfriend’s knee and stood, smoothing her wrinkled pants. “It’s all right to talk in front of Devon. He’s part owner in Moore and Morrow now, and a killer at problem solving.”
“Okay,” he said in a don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you tone. Haltingly, partially stuttering, and aware that his shirt plastered his back, Sean told them about stripping off the ugly painting.
“And?” Hannah breathed, her eyes wide.
“It’s Vermeer’s The Concert.”
Her body sagged enough for Devon to effortlessly draw her back onto his lap. She leaned forward and folded her arms like she was cold. “Sweet baby Jesus.”
“So?” Gretch asked in an unimpressed voice. “It’s what—famous? Priceless? Stolen? No need to make Devon and me feel any stupider.”
“It’s stolen,” Sean answered quietly. “It’s famous. Not priceless. It’s probably worth two hundred mil. And it’s one of the FBI’s highest-profile open cases, coming up on thirty years.”
Gretch gasped. Devon’s jaw dropped. Sean sped through the remainder of the day. “So Donatello’s only lead is me,” he concluded, “and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s mob. And Gretch paid for lunch next door with a credit card.”
“Shit.” Devon instantly got the connection. “No one is safe here.”
Gretch socked Sean’s arm hard. “Why didn’t you tell me in the taxi?”
“I don’t know.” Because you held my hand and joked with me, and that fucked with my mind all afternoon.
“What are we going to do?” Hannah asked, her voice high with hysteria.
“I’ve texted Jace,” Sean said hastily. “But I don’t think that painting should stay in the office. And maybe we should keep the outer office door locked during the day except for well-vetted appointments.”
“We’ll need security cameras outside the building.” Devon reached for the phone. “And a description of what the Donatellos look like.”
“I’ll Google them.” Gretch marched over to Hannah’s computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Ta-da.”
Sean checked the dark screen of his phone, his teeth clenching. Evidently the second sos was going to be ignored.
Hannah touched his arm. “Can I see the painting?” she said softly.
He led her back to the lab and unscrewed the offset clips. Slowly and without flourish, he peeled back the outer canvas.
Hannah gasped. “Oh, Sean, it’s breathtaking. Can you believe we found it?”
Gretch and Devon were coming down the hall toward them. Sean tore his gaze from them to her. “Devon is right. None of us are safe. They’ll find Gre
tch in a heartbeat. I’m surprised they didn’t surprise us this afternoon.”
“Sean, even the mob can’t march into a business and shoot it up when they have no idea what you know about Rick’s painting.”
Sean’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I told them the owner was overseas.” Not that they’d believe him, but Hannah had a point. Sean had taken a ride on the paranoid merry-go-round all afternoon. Moore and Morrow probably wasn’t in the imminent danger his imagination had created.
He was halfway through a calming inhale when his phone dinged. A message from Jace: Open up.
25
It was crazy weird how Sean’s stature shrank around Jace. Gretch studied the pair walking side by side toward where she, Hannah, and Devon were clustered around the painting.
Except for being the same height, the brothers’ personalities and body language were night and day. Jace, with his short black hair and crystal-blue eyes, strode like a Marvel Comics superhero, his eyebrows knit, his square jaw thrust in pursuit of justice. Beside him, Sean’s long-legged form was all lanky angles. Even his mouth stretched into a sullen line. He’d found a two-hundred-million-dollar painting, dropkicked someone’s ass this afternoon, and still walked like the dopey kid in trouble. As the brothers neared, it became evident that he was, and Jace’s larger-than-life presence was due to fury. “…sending goddamn SOS messages like the sky is falling!”
“At the time I thought it was. It still could be.”
“You need to see a doctor about that toxic level of estrogen.”
“Jace, listen. We found—”
“Hello, Gretch.” Jace smiled, the wattage and beauty of it sizzling her like an egg on a scorching sidewalk. “Hannah.” He halted near Devon, and the two alphas sized each other up. “Jason Quinn, FBI.” He held out his hand, and Devon gripped it, supplying his name. The level of testosterone lowered slightly, and Jace turned back to Gretch. “I trust the texts stopped.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I uncovered this,” Sean blurted, pointing over the cubical wall.
Jace glanced down, looking unimpressed. Then his eyes bugged out. “One of the Gardner Museum’s?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me,” he murmured, and brushed around her to the desk. “Give me the facts.” He took out his phone and snapped pictures, eyes shining like sapphires.
Hannah and Sean crowded in, explaining when and where and how. Devon rested an arm atop the cubicle, slightly bored, slightly amused, and more than marginally absorbed in Hannah.
Jace nodded and snapped. The more ecstatic he became, the more morose Sean looked. Gretch didn’t get it. The FBI would protect them, the painting would go back to the museum, and Sean would be a hero—why the gloomy puss?
“Where’s the Sig?” Jace asked, when Sean got to the part about the gun Donatello had pulled.
Sean retrieved it from his book bag and handed it over clumsily. See? He’d handled the gun like a pro in the taxi. Weird.
“You knew this was loaded, right? And a Sig doesn’t have a safety?”
“Yes, Jace. I knew that,” Sean retorted.
Jace shook his head, released the magazine, racked the slide back, and removed the round from the chamber. He slipped the components in separate pockets. “The shit you get yourself into.”
Gretch rolled her eyes at their dynamic and headed down the hall. Their volatile relationship was exhausting. And what the hell had Jace meant by that cryptic text remark? He’d asked for her phone number Monday. Tuesday he found out she was being harassed by Brandon. Had he pulled her phone records? Hacked into her texts? Found Brandon? She hadn’t thought to check messages all day. If there were none from Brandon… Well, on the one hand, the freak would finally move on. On the other, she was pretty sure her civil rights had been grossly violated. Not to mention Sean had barely let her pee in private these last two days.
The overbearing assumptions of both Quinn brothers were too much. Gretch grabbed her phone and tapped the text icon. Two new dates from the LVR hookup site, both suggesting a meetup for drinks. None from Brandon. The last obscene text had been the one Sean saw last night.
So this is what you do. Her teeth clenched. She scanned recent calls. Oh no. One from the shelter an hour ago, no message left. “Please God, let everything be all right.” If only she’d had the ringer on! She returned the call and asked to speak to Eve.
“Hello?” At Eve’s timid voice Gretch caught her breath. She’d spoken to the poor woman enough times, trying to cajole her to safety, that she knew Eve’s differing degrees of courage and determination. And she knew this tone.
“It’s Gretch,” she said briskly. “Just checking in.”
“It’s been…a rough day.” The last word was said on a sob. “My parents said he went over there and got physical with my dad—knocked him to the ground. Threatened them unless they told him where I was. My mother’s in hysterics. I’m afraid, Gretch. I need to go comfort my parents.”
“Don’t leave yet. I’m heading to the shelter right now. It’ll take twenty minutes.” She shoved her purse strap over her shoulder. “We can talk as long as you want, Eve. Promise me you won’t leave before I get there.” Silence on the other end.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please, Eve. He’s probably parked out front of their house waiting for you. He knows what buttons to push. Think of your girls!”
“Okay,” Eve said so softly it was a strain to hear over the celebratory exclamations in the lab. “I’ll wait.”
“Twenty minutes. Clock me.” Gretch hung up. One last glimpse down the hall—Jace spoke animatedly into his phone, and Hannah pointed something out to Sean, their heads lowered in that worshipful art-geek manner.
Good. They wouldn’t notice her slip away. She was sick of being escorted around like some fragile fairy princess when women like Eve were in very serious danger.
By the time Sean stopped ogling The Concert, not only had Gretch left, but he also had to book it to the dojo—as in sprint the entire nine blocks instead of waiting for the El and suffering through the station stops in between.
Where the hell had Gretch gone? She’d been available for an earlier dinner only hours ago and hadn’t mentioned being in a hurry when Dane hovered at her desk, so her disappearance had to be spontaneous. When would she clue in to the danger she faced?
Sean hit the street and pumped his annoyance and worry into his stride. How had she gotten this far in life with all the risky pickups? As soon as the boys were squared away practicing their Katas, he’d try her cell phone, and by God, if she answered, he wasn’t going to be pleasant, geeky Sean. Those days were gone.
Ten minutes later he pushed through the dojo door, sweaty and gulping oxygen.
“Sensei,” the boys chorused, and bowed.
Randy, who owned the place and leased it Tuesday and Thursday evenings to Sean, threw him a dirty look.
“Sorry,” Sean gasped, unzipping his gym bag, “held up at work.” Which never happened. He was devoted to his teaching evenings. Just one more testament to how adventures with the FBI and Gretch had sent his serene life through a spin cycle. Randy grumbled unintelligibly and stood up from behind the desk, grabbing his keys and phone.
“Stretch out,” Sean called to the boys, and spun back. “Can you stay one more minute while I change?” He whipped his gi out of his book bag and headed for the bathroom without waiting for an answer. He’d covered for Randy several times when the guy was too hungover to even bow. As much as the owner was probably jonesing for a beer, Randy wouldn’t leave a bunch of eight-year-olds unsupervised.
Sean glanced around him at the filth of the bathroom, his skin crawling at having to change in here. Urine droplets on the floor, paper towels instead of toilet paper, a corner of the mirror cracked off. The dojo probably wouldn’t stay open much longer, which was too bad. The place had gone from pristine to shabby in only a few years. Any cleaning of the workout mats and bathroom seemed to occur only on Tuesday and Th
ursday nights by Sean, after his students left. Tonight should be an exception—he had a dinner date—but he physically couldn’t leave it like this. His OCD wouldn’t allow it.
“Fuck,” he muttered, wrenching the door open and waving his thanks at Randy, who was tapping his foot by the door. Maybe he’d end class five minutes early, give each boy an area to wipe down. Sean would deal with the disgusting bathroom.
He stepped onto the mat, and as usual, the serenity and dignity of the art form flowed into him. Here, he wasn’t geeky Sean, bullied since grade school, odd one out in his own family. He was Yondan, a fourth-degree black belt, a sensei who commanded respect and generated awe.
“Fujikata Dai Ichi,” he ordered, and walked down the line, adjusting the boys’ stances of the first and most basic kata. He spent extra time with Phillip Mayfair, who not only suffered from variations of that name (Fillie Fairy), but was also an asthmatic and too small and uncoordinated for his age. Empathy seeped from Sean as he patiently demonstrated the form again. His own childhood had smacked of similar torture until his mom had stuck him in karate class after he’d come home with a fat lip. It was the only day his father, grinning and puffing on his cigar, had shaken his hand.
“Hope the other guy looks worse,” he’d stated, slapping Sean on the back. Sean hadn’t the courage to tell him she had walked away completely unmarked and laughing with her girlfriends.
“That’s it, Phillip. Great job.” Sean headed back to the center of the mat. “Fujikata Dai Ni.”
The soft snick of the door and the boys’ attention snapping that way broke into Sean’s thoughts. He turned, expecting Randy to have forgotten something. Three men filed in. Their sheer bulk and gruesome tats radiated a menacing signal as loud as an air horn. Randy, in his haste to get out of here, hadn’t locked the door behind him.
Although his heart seized to a stop, Sean schooled his expression into the watchful calm of a predator. “Gentlemen. May I help you?” he asked pleasantly for the benefit of the boys behind him. He kept his hands loosely at his sides, his bare feet hip distance apart, weight shifted to the balls of his feet.
