"Oh, yeah," she said, raising an eyebrow. "It's an…interesting place." Her brother Brendan had been shot at the Seven Club last fall, in the process of arresting a drug dealer.
"Interesting, how?" Finn asked.
He was curious about everything. Always wanted details. Descriptions. But she wished he hadn’t asked about Seven. "It's a little wild." She swallowed. "A pick up place. The kind where people have sex in the dark corners."
Finn frowned. "You've been there?"
She knew exactly what he was thinking. She squeezed his hand. "On the job. My brother was shot there during a drug arrest."
"Is he okay?" Finn asked immediately.
"Good as new. It was Brendan, the one who interrupted us at Oscar's."
"Okay, then." He rubbed her hands once more, then twined his fingers with hers, as if it was normal. As if they did it all the time.
And they did, she realized. The cover they'd concocted was becoming too real.
The thought of being at the sexy Seven Club with Finn made her want to step closer to him. Instead, she forced herself to focus on her job. "Are they renting the whole place out?"
"Doubt it. This is an indie film. Doesn't have a huge budget. And we have a small number of cast and crew."
"So there are going to be outsiders there during this party."
"I guess so."
She took a deep breath. She didn't like that, but no one had asked her opinion. She'd stick close to Finn. Make sure she had her gun handy.
She closed her eyes. She'd have to go back to her place to get something to wear. Which meant taking Finn to her apartment.
That felt too intimate. Too personal. And the fact that she wanted him to see her place? That felt as if she were standing on a precipice, toes on the edge. Already teetering, one slip away from falling off.
Risking getting shattered on the shiny, glittery rocks below.
Chapter 17
Finn glanced at Mia, fidgeting on the seat beside him, as Pete drove them toward her apartment. After Finn's meetings at the studio, they'd driven through a Starbucks, and she clutched the cup with a white-knuckled grip.
The only time he'd seen her nervous was when Doug had knocked on the door when they were sprawled on the floor after making love. Or, as Mia had said, in their 'post-coital haze'. He smiled to himself as he took a sip of his own coffee. He loved her words – her snark and her cleverness. Her honesty.
"Are you worried about taking me to your apartment?" he asked.
She flinched, and two drops of caramel-colored coffee spilled out of the sip hole and trailed down the white paper cup. "Of course I'm not worried. Why would I be?"
"I have no idea. But if you were holding that cup any tighter, you'd punch holes in it."
She glanced down at the coffee and set it carefully in one of the cup holders. Then slid her hands beneath her thighs. So he wouldn't notice them shaking?
"Mia, I'd be nervous if I was taking you to my place." He reached over and pried one of her hands out of hiding, lacing their fingers together. "I'd probably spill the coffee all over myself. Get it on the seat of the car. Burn sensitive bodily parts." He shuddered, making it dramatic to coax a laugh out of her.
She glanced at him, rolled her eyes, but finally relaxed her shoulders. "Okay. Yeah. I'm a little nervous."
"How come?" he asked, fascinated. "What is there to be nervous about?"
"I don't let a lot of people into my house. Most cops don't. We have to keep our real self hidden when we're on the job. And a person's home says a lot about her," she said, playing with his fingers. He was pretty sure she didn't even realize it. "The furniture she chooses. The books on her shelves. The pictures on the wall." She swallowed. "If it's messy or neat."
"So you left the place a mess?"
"No." She scowled. "It's not a mess. But I left in a hurry. Probably didn't pick up all my clothes from the floor. Might have left piles of mail on my dining room table. There could even be a bag of junk food in my living room. Stuff."
"So we're not walking into a place that's ready for an Architectural Digest photo shoot?" He squeezed her hand. "I'd worry about you if we were." He edged closer. "You think I'm going to judge you? You should see the way I left my place in California."
"Please," she scoffed. "You have a cleaning service that comes twice a week. And don't lie and say you don't."
How did she know that? "Well, it would have been messy before they came," he muttered.
She glanced at him, then down at their hands. "Seeing a person's home is like seeing them stripped bare. It tells you so much about them." She rubbed one finger over his thumb. He didn't think she realized she was doing that, either. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
Why was Mia so reluctant to let him into her space? Yeah, he got that it revealed a lot about a person. But this was more than that.
Was it because she'd already gotten closer to him than she'd planned? Because she wanted to look good to him?
She didn't have to worry about that. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. And not just physically, although he'd lost a lot of sleep thinking about her in that room on the other side of the suite.
He knew a lot about Officer Donovan – how good she was at her job. How smart she was. How quickly she put things together. But the last few days had left him hungering to know the woman behind her cool, capable exterior. He wanted to know Mia.
"I can wait in the car with Pete." He wouldn't like it, but he would do it. He'd been looking forward to seeing her apartment. Probably more than he should have been. Because she was right. It said a lot about who you were. "If that would be more comfortable."
"You know I can't let you do that," she sighed. "You have to come with me."
"You can blindfold me," he said. "Lead me up the stairs and into your apartment. Might be kind of kinky. In fact, if we're going with kinky, you can tie me to your bed. Or use your handcuffs on me! That would be even better."
By the time he finished, she was shaking her head. But she was smiling. "You're a goofball. Although I know that's not news to you."
No one had ever called him a goofball. He'd been called lots of things, but never that. Having Mia say it made him feel…lighter. As if she'd looked past all the hype and publicity and movie-star-ness and saw him. Plain old Finn O'Rourke.
The car slowed, then Pete slotted the car into a narrow spot at the curb. The partition rolled down, and before Pete could say anything, Mia leaned over the front seat.
"Hey, Pete, nice job with the parallel parking. We may have to make you an honorary Chicagoan. My brother Mac would weep if he saw you slide this baby into that tiny spot."
Pete turned and grinned at her. "Glad to see someone appreciates my talents."
Finn shook his head. "You're spoiling him," he told Mia. "Gonna give him a swelled head. He'll expect compliments all the time."
"He should get them," she said as she opened the door. "He deserves them."
Pete reached his fist across the seat, and Mia bumped it with hers. Then she stepped out of the car and waited as he followed her.
They stood in front of a two-flat. It was dark brick, with bay windows on both floors. The street was a mixture of two-flats and single family homes, with a couple of apartment buildings thrown in. Maple trees, just budding out, lined the street.
"Pretty neighborhood," he said as he followed Mia to the front door.
"I like it. It's quiet. A lot of families. When I get home from work, I don't want bros throwing ragers and loud, drunk people on the street late at night."
She opened the door, unlocked the inner one, and stood aside for him to start up the stairs. "Hold on a minute," she said, sliding a key into a mailbox. She stuffed the accumulated mail under her arm, then joined him on the stairs and let the door close behind her.
Her apartment was on the top floor. As he waited for her to open the door, he saw her hand tremble as she inserted the key in the lock. The door opened silently, and she
waved him inside.
"Stay next to the door while I check the place," she said.
As she disappeared to the right, he studied her living room. She had a comfortable-looking, battered old leather couch and a worn, threadbare recliner sitting next to it. A small table separated the two, covered with a sprawl of magazines and books. A faded Oriental rug covered the center of the hardwood floor.
The coffee table in front of the couch held the junk food. A bag of Cheetos. His favorite.
Photos lined the mantel over the fireplace, and he took a closer look. Most of them were of her family. Mia and four guys who were clearly her brothers. Mia, her brothers and a woman who looked like an older Mia. A picture of five young kids, the woman and a man. Mia must have been six or seven – she was missing a front tooth. They all stood close, smiling and happy.
"Nice-looking family," he said when he heard her behind him.
"Thanks. You want to have a seat while I get the stuff I'll need for the party tonight?"
"Not really. I'd rather help you pick it out."
"Not going to happen, O'Rourke," she said, but her eyes looked more relaxed. "I won't be long."
Finn gestured at the beat-up recliner. "This safe to sit on?" he asked.
Her gaze softened as it rested on the chair. "Yeah, it is."
"Looks like it's special to you."
Her gaze lingered on it for a long moment, her eyes as gentle as a caress. "It was my dad's. My mom still has hers at the house, but she let me have this one."
She ran her hand gently over one tattered arm, lingered near a worn spot. "My dad used to read to me in this chair. The Harry Potter books. We got to the third one before he died."
"I'm so sorry," Finn murmured, wrapping his arm around her and tugging her against his side. "How old were you?"
"Eight." She leaned against him for a long moment, then straightened. Stepped away. "He was a cop, too. Died in the line of duty. Hit by a drunk driver one night."
"Awful." He couldn’t imagine losing his father that way. Growing up without his dad.
"It was." She elbowed him gently. "But I didn't mean to make you all sad."
"Give me a moment and I'll be back to my manly self."
She smiled, but it didn't quite make it to her eyes. "I'll be right back."
He couldn't let her carry this sadness away with her. "I know how you can cheer me up," he said. "Let me help you pick out what you're going to wear tonight." He tilted his head. "I'll need to go through your closet, of course, but I'm seeing tight. Short skirt. Something in…red."
Predictably, she rolled her eyes, but her smile reached her eyes. "Sorry, Finn. I guess you're going to have to be sad."
After she left the room, he edged into the dining room, listening to Mia in her bedroom. Hangers clattered in her closet. Drawers opened, then closed. He could picture her trying to decide, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
It made him want to walk around the corner into her bedroom. Show her how beautiful she was. How her clothes couldn’t possibly make her more beautiful.
He retreated to the living room. Headed for the recliner, then swerved toward the couch instead. It seemed wrong, somehow, to sit in her father's recliner. Disrespectful. Only someone who had known and loved the man should sit there.
Instead of sitting on the couch, he wandered around the room. Mia's apartment felt comfortable. Lived-in and welcoming. The pictures on the walls were a hodgepodge of styles and subjects, from landscapes to geometric splashes of color. There was no theme. Nothing tying them together.
Except Mia. Her taste. What gave her joy.
Her books were a mix, too. Thrillers, mysteries, romance novels. History. Biographies. As eclectic as the rest of the room.
Finally, he sank into the couch. Mia's casual, homey apartment was so different from his place in California. A designer had put his house together carefully. Matching furniture. Color-coordinated paint on the walls. Art selected by the designer, all from prominent artists. Cool. Aloof. Meant to impress, rather than to be enjoyed.
In his living room, leather-covered books filled the bookshelves and looked impressive, but he'd never read one of them. He kept the books he actually read on a bookshelf in his bedroom.
Mia's home was real. His was part of some 'movie-star' illusion. A great place for interviews and photo ops. Not so great for actual living.
Mia walked into the room, carrying a garment bag and a small duffel. "All set," she said. "Let's go before you notice the cereal sitting on the kitchen table and the Cheetos in front of the couch."
"Too late," he said, too brightly. "Already ate some of the Cheetos."
She glanced at his fingers and shook her head. "You did not." She pointed at his hands. "No orange fingers."
Even the snacks in Mia's house were real.
* * *
Mia stepped out of the car in front of the Seven Club, tugging her skirt down. She had her back-up gun in a thigh holster, and her skirt was on the short side.
Not because Finn had asked her to wear a short skirt. It was red, too, but she'd chosen this particular dress because it suited the vibe of the Seven Club.
Plus, it was important for her to dress the way his girlfriend would. And if his girlfriend would wear a tight, short red dress, then that's what she'd wear.
That was the only reason.
Yeah. Right.
Clutching her glittery silver bag tight, she turned and waited for Finn, watching the long line of people snaking down the block. Women dressed like her, in short skirts and low-necked tops. Men in black pants and dress shirts open one button too many. Seven was a popular club. It was always crowded.
Tonight it would be a nightmare.
When Finn stepped out of the car, she maneuvered so that she was between him and the waiting line of clubbers. Then she grabbed his hand and hustled him past the bouncers. They stared at Finn and held the door wide open for them.
Once inside, Mia took a deep breath as she scanned the room. The best option would be one of the booths along the edge of the room. Out of the way, easier to keep an eye on the crowd. She started to steer Finn in that direction, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her close.
"Where are you going?" He leaned close to her ear because of the loud music and thumping bass, and his breath tickled her neck and stirred her hair. "The dance floor is the other way."
Of course he'd want to dance. To be in the area of the club she was least able to control. Her gut told her to stay in the safest area, but Finn grabbed her hand and led her toward the densely packed mass of dancing bodies.
She tugged him back, and he bumped into her chest. He grabbed her hip to steady her, and each of his fingers burned into her. The pressure of his chest against hers, the scent of that damn hotel soap and his aftershave that always reminded her of ocean breezes, made her tremble. Move closer.
The flow of people swirled around them as they stared at each other, frozen in place. Someone bumped her from behind, pushing her harder into Finn's chest. His arm curled around her, tucking her against his body from chest to knees.
His eyes, already dilated from the dim lighting, grew even darker. She knew hers looked the same – aroused. Hungry.
Totally out of line.
She stepped back until they weren't touching. So she could think again. Then she leaned close to his ear. "You want to dance? We'll dance. But not here on the edge of the dance floor. In the middle." Where everyone surrounding them would be dancing, as well. Too busy to notice Finn. "Follow me. And stay close."
He set his hand lightly on her hip as she edged her way through the undulating, gyrating crowd. That was good, she told herself. The music was too loud to communicate verbally. At least she knew he was right behind her.
She was such a liar. She liked the pressure of his hand on her hip. Liked the solid feel of him at her back. And not only because she needed him close to protect him.
One of the dancers spun wildly, crashing into her, and Finn's hand
dropped away. She glanced over her shoulder, and he was two steps behind her. He caught her eye and nodded. He'd stay close.
They were almost at the center of the dance floor. It wasn't as crowded as the outer edges, probably because it was farther to the bar. She began to turn toward Finn when a man grabbed her arm and tugged her toward him.
"Mia Donovan. All grown up, too. Looks like my lucky day." The guy smirked and drew her closer. He scanned her body, lingering too long at her chest. "Your asshole brothers with you tonight?" he asked.
His dirty blond hair was gelled into a peak, and his clothes screamed 'bro on the prowl'. Kyle Pinckney. God! Mia tried to shove him away, but Kyle was even stronger than he'd been in high school.
He smiled and bent close, and the sour stink of alcohol wafted across her face. "Looks like that's a no, thank God. We have a lot of catching up to do."
Chapter 18
"Pinckney." As she stared at him, memories barreled through her like a freight train. Panic that she hadn't felt in years rushed through her in a frigid blast, freezing her in place.
He'd been her high school's star quarterback. He'd pestered her to go out with him, but she'd refused. That hot, sweaty afternoon, he'd appeared out of nowhere, dragging her into the vacant lot. Now, the smell of rotting vegetation swirled around her, along with the smell of his sweat. The cruel grip of his fingers on her arms dug into her muscles, just like that September day. Afterward, she'd worn long sleeves for weeks.
The sick excitement in his eyes as he smirked at her now was identical to the way he'd looked on that sunny afternoon.
A dance song ended with a crash of cymbals on the club stereo, jerking her back to the present. She tore her arm away from his grasp, standing straighter as she stared him down. But her hands still shook. So did the rest of her. "You're still a complete asshole, Pinckney. Get lost. I'm not interested in catching up with you."
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers tightening painfully on the bones. "Who's going to protect you now, Mia?" he said, his low voice filled with glee. "You're all by yourself."
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