Oh, how Ace had sighed after Rusty admitted he hadn’t told his parents he was gay. It had been a gusty sound. Full of censure.
The bitter, acidic taste of self-loathing splashed from the back of Rusty’s throat. On the heels of that rushed a tide of indignation.
How dare Ace judge him for how he chose to live his own damn life?
Like many men of his size, men who hadn’t had to prove themselves because nobody messed with them, Rusty was usually slow to anger. Yet, right at that moment, he felt the burn of it in his chest like a hot ember.
“This is really something, isn’t it? The only other place I’ve seen with this many books is the Harold Washington Library in the South Loop back home.” Ace turned in a slow circle to take in the mahogany bookshelves that lined the room from floor to ceiling. The only vertical space that wasn’t covered with books was the wall with the windows. In the place of books—and everywhere there wasn’t a window—there were paintings hung frame-to-frame. Most of the artwork was portraiture, but there were a few landscapes and still lifes thrown in for interest.
Oriental rugs covered the parquet floor, and leather furniture made up three distinct seating areas. A massive wooden desk sat at the far end of the library, and Rusty couldn’t help but wonder if, over the centuries, the owners of the house had collected the books because they wanted to read them or because they wanted to impress people into thinking they were smarter than they actually were.
Little of A, little of B, he finally decided.
“I mean,” Ace continued, “don’t you just love it? I feel like I need a smoking jacket, a pipe, and a monocle.”
“Never been much of a book reader myself,” Rusty said.
Ace tilted his head, his mouth twitching. Rusty didn’t know if Ace was about to frown or smile, and tried really hard not to notice how the weak afternoon light turned Ace’s blond hair into a fiery halo around his face. Ace might not have the nickname, but the man could appear damned angelic, given the right circumstances.
“Why do you do that?” Ace asked.
“What?”
“Play the dumb jock card?”
Rusty’s heart hitched. Then it felt like it started beating backward. “Working with the hand I’ve been dealt, I guess.”
There was that sigh again. So full of censure.
Rusty clenched his hands into fists. “Why do you do that?”
Ace’s chin, that chin that looked like it belonged on a Greek statue, jerked back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Judge people.”
“I don’t judge people.” Look in the dictionary, and next to the word insulted would be a picture of Ace’s tan, blond-haired mug.
“Yeah.” Rusty nodded vigorously. “You do.” Now that he was going, he couldn’t stop. “You think I’m weak or spineless or plain ol’ stupid for not being out and proud.” Not only were his fists clenched, but the muscles across his shoulders were too. “But not everyone needs to air their dirty laundry for the world to see.”
“I didn’t judge you. Not until right this minute when I found out you think of your sexual orientation as dirty laundry.” Ace emphasized the last two words.
Heat flew to Rusty’s face. “Stop trying to use my words against me, damnit!”
“They’re your words. If they can be used against you, it’s your own fault.”
Rusty was gripped by an overwhelming desire to punch something. He considered making that something the blond-haired god standing in the middle of the room. Instead, he said through clenched teeth, “And now who’s treating who like a dumb jock?”
Ace’s color heightened. His fierce blue eyes traveled over Rusty’s face, past his beard-stubbled jaw, and landed on his lips. “I wasn’t judging you back in the truck. I’m not judging you now. I’m just…disappointed, I guess is the right word.”
“Which is a nicer way of saying the same damn thing,” Rusty snapped. “Disappointed in me because I don’t have the balls to come out to my folks. Disappointed that I’ve chosen to keep that part of my life a secret because I love them and I don’t want to hurt them. Disappointed that I’d choose their happiness over my own. No matter which word you want to use, it’s still judgment.”
“No.” Ace jerked his chin side to side. “Disappointed because I thought maybe there was something happening between us. Disappointed because I was excited by the prospect. Disappointed because that bit of whimsy went buh-bye the minute you told me you’re closeted.”
The steel went out of Rusty’s spine at the same time all the air left his lungs. “You thought something was happening between us?” Who had shoved a glob of glue down his throat? The words were so sticky they barely came out as a whisper. “Why does me being in the closet change that?”
“It just does.” Ace glanced over Rusty’s shoulder. “Did you pick out which room will be yours tonight, Emily? Dibs on the blue one. It has a bed with gauzy curtains. I’ve always wanted to sleep in one of those.”
Rusty watched Emily shove past him and was hard-pressed not to yank her back into the hall and then shut the door in her face. He and Ace needed to finish their conversation, damnit. He felt… No…he knew Ace had been about to reveal something important.
Of course, he could never be so rude to Emily. Not only had she been the one to rally support from the CIA for him when he’d been pinned down in enemy territory with no friendly evacs in sight that summer he’d spent working as an asset, but she’d made sure to keep in touch with him over the years. Emails, the occasional phone call… Emily took to heart that old proverb that once you saved someone’s life, you were forever responsible for it.
“The blue room’s all yours,” she told Ace, walking wide-eyed into the center of the library. “I laid my claim on the yellow one. It looks over the back patio and has some funky, sparkly art on one wall. But that’s neither here nor there, because get a load of this place!” She spun in a circle and started humming a song that was vaguely familiar.
She had changed into a pair of leggings and one of her many oversized sweatshirts. Both seemed to have survived the storm relatively unscathed inside her backpack.
“It’s a ceramic mural,” Rusty said, still battling his annoyance at her interruption.
“Huh?” Emily stopped spinning to scrunch up her nose at him.
“The funky, sparkly art on the wall in the yellow bedroom. It’s a ceramic mural.” He pushed away from the doorframe, walked to the seating arrangement on the left side of the room, and collapsed into a leather chair. Its springs whined under his weight.
When Emily blinked at him, he expounded. “There are three types of murals. Painted, ceramic, and tile. Painted is self-explanatory. So is tile, which is basically a painting on tiles that are then affixed to the floor or wall. What’s in the yellow bedroom is a ceramic mural. Meaning it’s a picture that’s been made up of mosaic pieces of mirrors, tiles, and ceramics. In my opinion, ceramic murals are the most interesting kinds of murals.”
“Said the man who claims to be all brawn and no brain,” Ace muttered, and Rusty shot him a scathing look.
“Yeah, that’s right. I know something about art and decor. Does it get any gayer than that? You should be patting me on the back.”
Ace snorted. “Sorry to say, but knowing the difference between shag and berber or a Pollock and a Picasso doesn’t make you a card-carrying member of GLAAD.”
Emily glanced back and forth between them, a line appearing between her eyebrows. “Did I miss something?”
“Nothing.” Ace waved a hand and started toward the door. “Where’s the bathroom you used, anyway? The only two I’ve clocked on my tour have signs saying they don’t work.”
After Emily gave him directions, Ace left the room. Emily’s gaze immediately fell on Rusty.
“What?” he demanded as she ambled over and plunked down on the le
ather sofa.
“What was that all about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean all the sarcasm about brawns and brains combined with the veiled eye threats. I left my Rusty-Ace handbook in my other pants. So out with it. What’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing.” That was the whole fucking problem.
“I don’t believe it,” she scoffed. “I think he likes you. And in my opinion, you’d be crazy not to buy a ticket on that ride.”
“Sorry to say, but that ship has sailed.”
She scrunched up her nose again. “We’re mixing metaphors. I’m getting confused.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s nothing. Drop it, okay?”
He could tell she wanted to press the issue but didn’t. Bless her. Instead she sighed and said, “Sorry I dragged you into this, Rusty.”
“You didn’t drag me anywhere. You called, gave me the lowdown, and I volunteered to help. Remember?”
“Yeah, but I thought you’d give us a quick boat ride across the Channel after we outed Morrison as Spider’s money launderer, and that would be that. I didn’t think we’d end up here.” She waved a hand to indicate the opulent room.
“You mean hiding out in a big, drafty house after having spent a week hiding out in a dinky seaside cottage?”
She laughed. “That and the fact that since we can’t be certain Spider didn’t catch all our likenesses on some CCTV camera, you have to come with us back to the States and put your business and your whole flippin’ life on hold.”
It had been decided that it wouldn’t be safe for Rusty to return to his house in Folkstone or his charter fishing business in Dover until the Black Knights could identify Spider and either kill him or hand him over to the authorities, who would hopefully find him a moldy eight-by-ten in which to finish out his days.
“My life was already on hold,” he muttered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Why are you suddenly being enigmatic?” She frowned. “Too much time around Christian and Angel? Have they rubbed off on you? What happened to the straight-shootin’ Midwesterner I’ve grown to know and love?”
“Straight-shootin’?” He scoffed. “You heard me tell Ace I’m not out.” He made air quotes.
She shrugged. “I mean, I don’t really get why you don’t tell people you’re gay. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and fuck anyone who thinks it is, even if they are related to you. Then again”—she made a face—“I’m probably not the best person to be handing out advice when it comes to familial relationships. I might as well have been raised by a pack of wolves.”
For a moment, they both lapsed into silence. Then Emily spread her hands. “I guess the bottom line is this: It’s your life. Live it however you damn well please.”
“Thank you,” he said, still fuming over Ace and his holier-than-thou, gay-by-birth-fabulous-by-choice, proud-to-be-out-and-you-should-be-too judgmental self. “Try telling that to your fair-haired flyboy coworker. He seems to think I’m doing something wrong.”
She sighed. “I think that has more to do with him than you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What do you know?”
She hitched a slim shoulder. “That’s a conversation for you and Ace.”
The fact that she had interrupted what he assumed was going to be that very conversation was something Rusty decided to keep to himself.
“But before we got off on this tangent, I was apologizing for getting you into this,” she said. “And before you start to argue again, I did get you into this. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
Rusty happened to like the tangent, especially since it promised to shine some light on Ace’s behavior. But he knew a conversational stalemate when he saw one. The look on Emily’s face on that subject screamed two words: dead end!
“You shoulder too much responsibility, dollface,” he told her. “Which makes you worry too much. It’s not your job to make sure everyone and everything is A-okay all the time.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, see? That’s where you’re wrong. I’m the office manager. Manager being the key word there. Making sure everyone and everything is A-okay is part of the job description.”
Rusty regarded her for a few seconds. “I hope they realize what they have in you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Generosity of spirit. Consideration. Caring. In their line of work, that’s hard to come by. Caring too much means hurting too much if and when things go sideways and someone gets injured. Or worse, gets dead.”
The word was enough to make her blanch, but she feigned bravado. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Generous? Considerate? Psshh. More like mouthy and nosy and pushy.”
It occurred to Rusty, not for the first time, that Emily had a strange habit of trying to convince herself and everyone around her that she was something she wasn’t. Something harder, meaner. Something decidedly un-Emily.
“You’re like a Cadbury Crème Egg,” he told her.
She rolled her eyes. “This should be good.”
“Hard on the outside, but soft and sweet on the inside.”
“Dude, you are cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. And how did this conversation get turned on me? Weren’t we talking about you and how badly I’ve fucked up your life?”
The fact that Rusty was beginning to realize he didn’t really have a life, at least not the one he wanted, made him grit his jaw. “Nope.” He enunciated the word so the P really popped.
“Hmm.” She frowned. “That’s strange. Because I could have sworn we were.”
For a long time, she watched him. No, not watched him. Looked at him. Like she was trying to peer inside his soul. He shifted uncomfortably and sent a silent thanks skyward when she eventually shrugged and turned her attention to the room. Once again, she began to hum that vaguely familiar tune.
“What is that?” he asked. “I recognize it, but I can’t figure out from where.”
She waggled her eyebrows. “It’s the theme to Beauty and the Beast.”
Rusty smiled and flicked a glance around the massive library. “Do you think Mrs. Potts and Chip will come to life?”
“I’m hoping.” Emily rubbed her hands together. “I’ve been envisioning myself in a yellow ball gown all afternoon.”
Rusty laughed. Some of the tension caused by Ace’s censure leaked out of him. Emily had that effect on people. Oh sure, she was quick to boss and pester. But she was also quick to accept and encourage. It made her easy to be around.
“Fine. You can be Belle,” he told her. “But then which one of us gets to be Beast?”
“Christian, of course. He’s the surliest, most irritable of all of you.”
“Ha! You make him surly and irritable.”
“Moi?” She feigned innocence. “What do I do?”
“Tease him. Incessantly.”
She twisted her lips. “I can’t help it. He gets under my skin, and that bugs me. I’m beginning to think he’ll bug me for as long as I live. And then probably after I’m dead too, because the damned can do that.”
Rusty fought another smile and lost the battle. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
“And if what you say is true, that I tease him incessantly,” she said, ignoring his question, “then it’s for his own good. He’s too poised. Too collected. Too…” She waved a hand, searching for the right word. “Unaffected. Someone needs to ruffle his feathers.”
“You’ve decided that someone should be you?”
“Who else has the balls to do it? All that perfection, not to mention that stuffy English arrogance, keeps everyone else at bay.”
“Hmm.”
Emily thrust out her chin. “Hmm? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Since Rusty had already
had all the confrontation he could stand for one day, he didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed up from the sofa and extended his hand. “Belle? Care to dance?”
“You’re changing the subject,” she accused.
“Quick on the uptake, aren’t you?” He started singing. “Tale as old as time.”
Emily threw back her head and laughed before accepting his hand and jumping to her feet. “True as it can be!” she sang in a lovely alto.
Together they belted out the third line as Rusty pulled her into a waltz that might have gone fairly well had she not fought him for the lead.
“Damnit,” he grumbled as she really gave her all to the chorus. “I’m the man. I’m supposed to direct this dance.”
To prove his point, he spun her around and dipped her low. Which is when something in the doorway snagged his attention. That something turned out to be Christian. And the look on the man’s face made Rusty want to reach up and pat his hair. You know, to put out the fire Christian’s laser-beam eyes had started there.
“Speak of the devil,” Rusty whispered in Emily’s ear as he pulled her to a stand. “Or would that be, speak of the Beast?”
Chapter 11
Emily’s smile fell the instant she turned and saw the man, the myth, the legend himself leaning against the doorjamb. Christian’s booted feet were crossed at the ankle, his strong arms folded, and his eyes were like the sky before a tornado strike. Green. Ominous. Threatening.
And there it is. That patented scowl.
Rusty took one look at Christian’s face and said, “I, uh, I think I’ll go look to see if I have any dry clothes.” She felt the breeze of his departure when he exited the room. The cowardly weenus!
After he disappeared, she returned Christian’s glower. “What did I tell you?” She planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t speak glare-ish.”
“How can you bloody well brush it off like that?” His accent was low and smooth. Hearing it had everything inside her going liquid and heavy.
“Brush what off?” Oh, for the love of Adam Eaton. What had happened to her voice? It didn’t sound like her own. It was far too breathless.
Hot Pursuit Page 12
