by Liz Maverick
There was a moment of silence. The light through the peephole vanished, replaced by an eye. After some swearing and some grumbling, the door opened and a frowning Tristan ushered them inside. He glanced nervously at Chase’s biceps highlighted by the cut of his puffer vest, and then looked to Nick. “Well?”
“Nice view,” Nick said, pushing the door open a little more with his foot. Chase leaned against the doorframe, half in and half out, making a show of enjoying the spoils of the picture window that framed a nice swatch of the High Line outside: a perfectly curated medley of grass, rusty train tracks, and purple wildflowers.
The interior of the apartment was in sharp contrast to these natural elements. Tristan’s place was classic New York–luxury construction. White, steel, modern, cold.
Tristan looked at Chase in annoyance. “You don’t have a really big gun on you, do you?”
“Medium-sized. I fudged.”
Tristan shook his head and turned back to Nick. “I never got paid, you know.”
“I heard. I’m sorry about that. I’d pay you, but Sokolov made it pretty clear that you don’t get paid until he gets paid. He’s trying to box me in.”
Tristan frowned. “Actually, I know that.” He took a swig of some hideous-looking fruit soda that probably promised to grow new brain cells. He didn’t offer either Nick or Chase anything, and he didn’t suggest they sit down. So, Nick stood with him in the foyer while Chase wandered toward the living room to look around.
Tristan’s eyes continued to track Chase’s position in his apartment even as he asked, “So, what the hell, Nick?”
“I’ve been asking that question since it happened,” Nick said.
Tristan dropped the act and got real serious. “Your time is almost up.”
Chase’s head snapped around. “What time?”
“Sokolov gave him a deadline,” Tristan said. He crossed his arms around his torso, his shoulders slightly slumped. This was not a man comfortable with his own body. “End of the month.”
“He did?” Chase asked, walking back over.
Nick hadn’t told anybody that part.
“That’s a week from now,” Chase said. “What happens then?”
Nick ran a palm over his face. “I assume it gets ugly.”
“Ugly? That’s optimistic.” Tristan looked between the two guys. “Sokolov is gonna kill him. Maks is pretty persuasive, but twenty million dollars is a lotta lettuce. I honestly thought you’d have put it back in his account by now.”
“I didn’t take it,” Nick said through gritted teeth. “Listen, Tristan, you know Dex, right?”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. We were recruited at the same time. I went with the Sixth Ward, and he went Hudson Kings.”
Nick wasn’t going to dis Dex’s talents as a hacker just to flatter Tristan, so he simply nodded, and Tristan said, “What about him?”
“I know you guys all have your methods, your secrets, your private contacts. But since your cut depends on me getting the full amount back to Sokolov, can you think of anything I can ask Dex to trace, anywhere I can ask him to hack for the money?”
“If I think of something, I’ll get in touch,” Tristan said. “But if I knew how to find twenty mil and extract it clean, don’t you think I’d have snagged it by now?”
Nick sighed. “I’m talking about the specifics of that one moment in that one mission. Besides me, you’re the only person who knows anything about the back-end tech of that heist.” If you weren’t too busy panicking your goddamn ass off.
“This a marker?” Tristan asked.
“No. It’s me trying to make sure you get paid,” Nick said tightly.
“Right,” Tristan said with a shrug. He put his hand on the open door and raised his eyebrows.
Chase took the hint and headed for the exit, slapping a massive paw on Tristan’s shoulder in a brotherly gesture on his way over the threshold. “Nice to see you, man,” he said cheerfully.
“If you think of something,” Nick stressed, forcing himself not to laugh at Tristan’s difficulty concealing the pain of Chase’s shoulder squeeze.
Nick followed Chase back to the car and got in. The big man next to him sighed. “That was a little disappointing.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Yeah. Not much to see, but nice for the files. I’ll give it to Missy for download,” Chase said, removing the small camera from the concealed compartment beneath the collar snap of his vest. Rothgar liked to collect deets on the members of the Sixth Ward, and at least part of the inside of Tristan’s apartment was now on tape. You never knew what could be useful intel: pictures of loved ones, drugs, documents left out on tables . . .
O’Neill, the leader of the Sixth Ward—and Rothgar’s longtime frenemy—probably did the same to members of the Hudson Kings. Anything Nick could do to get back into Rothgar’s good graces, he might as well do. Hence, Chase along for the ride.
Nick pulled out his phone and stared at it, then dialed Maksim Krovopuskov, who predictably did not pick up.
“No dice?” Chase asked.
Nick shook his head, and they headed for home.
Back in the Armory it was quiet. Chase went to talk to Missy about progress on the next phase of the Russian sleeper-agent mission. The war room was empty. Nick sat down at one of the computers and looked around dully, feeling oddly detached. He clicked on a bookmark he’d set and watched the video from his fishcam load.
Instantly, he relaxed. She’d already gotten started. He could tell because the water looked fresh and the scum building up on the sides of the tank was gone. He fiddled with the knob and zoomed into the chart on the side of the fish tank. An unfamiliar handwriting had recorded the thank-fuck-it-was-right-again pH balance of the tank, also per his instructions.
The heavy feeling that had been clutching at his chest eased up a little. Nick studied the fish moving slowly through the water and let himself meditate on their elegant, unhurried motions. And after he’d sat for a good twenty minutes, bringing himself back from the edge of the creeping unease gnawing at him, watching the fish Jane had cared for, he thought of Jane herself.
He was probably desperate for distraction. Maybe that was it. Because she was not his type. Scratch that. Physically, she was absolutely his type. Nice try with the no-makeup approach, but that girl couldn’t look ordinary if she tried. Almond-shaped elfin green eyes, full lips, and a big blowsy head of black curls and waves that apparently weren’t cowed by the rain and didn’t know the meaning of restraint, because curls were popping out all over the place, in spite of the rubber band she stuck in there.
A rubber band. Like she’d gone out to get the morning newspaper and had come back with a hairdo. It made him want to smile. Another thing that made him want to smile? Yeah, she had some meat on her, and he liked that because he liked to get a little rowdy during sex, and it wasn’t a turn-on to toss a tiny little thing around like a doll. He was just too big of a guy, and he wanted a woman with some fucking heft, for god’s sake, so he could bury himself in the goodness without worrying about snapping something off thanks to a vegan diet or lipo.
Nick blinked. He should not be thinking about having sex with her.
So, yeah, she was lush and gorgeous. The problem here was that Jane MacGregor wasn’t his type of human being. Sitting across from her in Bianchi’s, even as she obviously tried to play herself down, he felt she was too much; there was too much of her. Things spilling out of things with that shirt falling down on one side, too many loud stripes, too present tense. Too . . . too alive. Especially now, when the last thing he wanted—needed—was TOO. When he needed to disappear a little. Wait. “Needed” or wanted?
Nick’s fingertips hovered over the keyboard as he fought the temptation to click around to the different videos to find out what Jane was doing inside his place.
But he forced himself not to, contenting himself by rubbing his index finger over the keystroke arrow operating the l
iving room camera without actually pressing.
Except then Nick suddenly pressed down hard enough to click.
The living room video started to load on the page.
At which point his phone rang like a church bell, and he closed the video back down.
His heart was actually beating a little fast. Like he’d been caught committing a crime. Like he’d been so damn curious to see that woman that he would actually violate her trust and her privacy. Nick looked at the name on the call.
Well, maybe he couldn’t see her, but he could hear her now.
“What do you need?” Mr. Dawes said.
It was definitely him, talking in that low voice that made you want to do things, maybe sexy things, without making him shout. He was also breathless. Good god, what had she just interrupted?
Jane took a moment to process all the things that Nick Dawes might have been doing at 4:00 p.m. on a Thursday that might make him breathless and forced herself to think of the contents of his refrigerator just to keep her panties from getting moist. “Sorry to bother you, but, um, where were you thinking I’d sleep?” she asked.
“There’s only one bed in the apartment,” Mr. Dawes pointed out.
The one that Jane was staring at right now. “Yes. Right. Um, so I don’t need to sleep on the couch or anything?”
“You think I’d make you sleep on the couch for a month?”
“Well, um. This is your bed, sir.”
“That is my bed, Jane. And it’s also your bed.”
“Your bed is my bed,” she said. “We’re sharing a bed? I mean, no, not that we’re sharing a bed—I just mean, you’re cool with me using your bed. I mean, um, right, sir. I think I’m going to go now.”
“You’re going to bed right now?” He sounded . . . amused? Pleased?
“Well. Um.” She cleared her throat and did, in fact, kick off her shoes and lie down on his bed. Okay, nice mattress. “Yes. It’s been a long day.”
“Mine too,” he said. “Are you Scottish?”
Jane didn’t answer for a second, a little surprised by the personal curveball. “Yeah. A bit of a mutt, but definitely part Scots. What about you?”
There was a sound. A rustling sound like someone getting comfortable and settling in. Jane tried to imagine what Nick Dawes looked like right now dressed down in the privacy of his room, wherever that was—maybe his shirt unbuttoned, his hair probably falling into his eyes. It was a pleasant thought.
“All mutt,” Nick answered. “Some Eastern Europe. Where’s your family?”
“I thought you did a background check.”
“Your parents aren’t in New York.”
“They live off the grid in rural Massachusetts.”
“You close with them?”
Jane rolled on her side and curled up with the phone pressed to her face, letting her toes dig into the plush smoky-gray throw at the end of the bed. Divine. She smiled as she said, “I have the impression that you know most of the answers to your questions. Or that you could find them out if you went and looked at whatever ‘vetting’ report you had done.”
“True,” Mr. Dawes said. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”
He made it sound like he was actually interested, because he was actually interested. Not like this was interview part two. Jane smiled to herself and then said, “They were always more like friends than parents. It’s a good thing I’m very self-directed, or I’d be missing most of my teeth. So, to answer your question, we’re not close in the usual way.” She bit down on her lip and asked, “What about you? Are you close with your family?”
It got quiet on the other end. “No,” he said. “It’s just me. And the guys I work with.”
“Are your parents still around?”
Another quiet moment. “No. Good night, Jane.”
Jane pulled the dead line away from her ear and muttered, “Good night, sir.” But she was smiling. She could not stop the ridiculous smiling. And she also could not sleep. So, she got out her art supplies and sketched the frog.
CHAPTER 6
Given the sheer fabulousness of Nick Dawes’s king-size bed, Jane was not surprised that she overslept. Even after she awoke, she lay there wiggling her toes and luxuriating in his quadruple-digit thread count.
It took the doorbell ringing to force her hand (her entire body, really), and the only reason she actually opened up after peering through the peephole was because the person on the flip side looked official, and she thought it might be something important about or for Mr. Dawes.
She did not realize there was a dog involved until she’d already opened the door to a woman with a severe bobbed hairdo, rocking a pantsuit and heavy gold jewelry. At the end of the leash there was a young, enthusiastic dog, and in the woman’s other hand was a medium-size leather suitcase. It did not escape Jane’s notice that the color of the woman’s pantsuit matched the puppy, thereby negating any puppy-hair issues. Jane had to wonder if the woman had other dogs to match a black-and-white spotted pantsuit and maybe a gray pantsuit with white hems.
“Oh!” Jane said, and leaned over to let the puppy smell her hand. Wagging like mad, the dog covered her palm with excited licks and slurps. “Hiiiii,” Jane cooed.
“I apologize for the short notice, but you know how these things are. I’m so glad someone was home. I’d have to give him to someone else, and I’d much rather Nick have him.” She paused. “You’re with Nick Dawes, yes?”
“Yes. I mean, well, I’m not with him, per se. But I’m . . .” Jane considered her attire and the hour and then decided not to try to explain. She bent over to pet the dog’s back and muttered, “Yeah, I’m with him.”
“Excellent.” The woman held out the leash and the suitcase.
Jane blinked at the twin offerings, forcing herself to process the weirdness with her usual sangfroid.
The woman arched a worried eyebrow. “Did you change your mind?”
The puppy thumped his tail on the floor. Nobody was going to look down at this little wheat-colored bundle of deliciousness and change her mind, but that wasn’t the point. Just to clarify, Jane asked, “You’re delivering this dog to Mr. Dawes?”
“Well, yes.”
“This dog is for Mr. Dawes,” Jane repeated, just to be sure she’d got that right.
The woman looked a little concerned. “He said he was ready whenever.”
“No, I mean, this is a beautiful dog. I’m sure he’ll love him. It’s just that Mr. Dawes isn’t here to receive him, which seems . . . you know . . . slightly . . . inappropriate?” Oh, my god. Mr. Dawes set up a puppy adoption and didn’t tell me. That’s so uncool. A dog—even an adorable dog—was a much different kind of responsibility than a few fish. And not to have his new owner show up to receive him? Not just uncool. Much worse.
The woman stared at Jane. “Well, he’s coming back soon, I expect.”
Jane didn’t think she ought to let on about that one way or another. “This is his house,” she nonanswered in a friendly tone.
“I think it will be fine.”
“Oh.” Really? That seems sudden. Doesn’t the dog need time to get used to the house or me? “Maybe you should stay a little longer.”
The woman clearly thought that was an unsavory suggestion. “What a lovely offer. But I do want to get away from the city as soon as possible. May I have your cell phone number in case I need to reach you?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Jane provided her number, and the woman punched it in her phone. In a second, Jane’s phone dinged; the woman must have texted hers back.
There was an awkward silence. She’s really just going to leave this dog with me.
“I don’t think there’s any food,” Jane finally said.
The woman laughed. “In the suitcase.”
“Ah,” Jane said weakly.
Once the door closed and Jane stood in Mr. Dawes’s apartment holding the puppy leash limply in one hand, a swell of anger swept through her. If surveillance and mosquito larvae wer
en’t going to do it, puppy abandonment certainly was. I was wrong about him, Jane thought, fuming, as she brought the puppy inside and passed the fish tank and the splotchy section on the floor where the fish had expressed their unhappiness with the pH balance of the tank or the crisis in the Middle East or whatever the problem was. Nick Dawes is not adorable. Nick Dawes is just your typical self-involved rich jerk. Mr. Dawes probably wasn’t actually worried about his fish. That’s not why he’d hired her. He’d hired her because he was worried about how losing his fish would mess up the expensive wood flooring in his apartment.
The puppy found a good spot in front of the fireplace and plopped down. He placed his unbearably sweet face on top of his enormous fuzzy puppy paws and looked up at Jane. Half a day passed, with Jane alternately playing with the dog and then fuming about the dog situation overall. As it turned out, the dog didn’t seem to need as much acclimation as Jane would have expected, and his only expression of discomfort with his new surroundings was an unfortunate penchant for peeing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This would have been no big deal normally, and a small price to pay for such a large quantity of adorableness, except for the fact that Nick had not mentioned the puppy during any of their conversations.
God. Who the hell adopts the world’s cutest puppy and then isn’t there to receive it? He said nothing about a puppy. He’s gone and ordered a puppy for delivery to his door as if it was a case of paper towels and then assumed I’d take care of the whole situation, that I’d love this puppy as his proxy so he doesn’t have to get his suit dirty! Where’s his sense of responsibility? Who does that? What a jerk! And also, I really could’ve used a case of paper towels.
Jane spent the afternoon stewing about what to do, stewed while she dashed out to run a couple of errands, and was still stewing by the time dinner came around—and after she’d cleaned the floor several times. She decided there really was only one thing to do: show Nick Dawes that he couldn’t just walk around wearing his expensive privilege pants and not expect Jane to stand up for what was right.
