CHAPTER 17
The next day during lunchtime, Jane took Rochester over to Ally and Cecily’s on her way to the PO box. While the puppy romped with Cecily down the tight halls of their apartment, Ally produced a rack of samples from a past feature spread on “larger women” (spelled out on a box of blouses and pants with a Sharpie, thank you very much). And because the clothes were so fantastic, Jane ignored the stupid label. Ally insisted Jane take the ones that looked the best—including an amazing Vera Wang evening gown—and then did her makeup.
Which explained why Jane kissed the puppy good-bye, rubbed a lint remover over herself, and went off to meet Nick wearing a saucy new blouse featuring a luxurious draped cowl in forest-green jersey over tight black jeans and black boots, plus a full face of makeup involving a wicked cat eye.
When Jane carelessly observed that she looked like a different person and that between Ally’s natural talents for foreign languages and styling people Ally would make a great operative, her friend went uncharacteristically silent, leaving Cecily to pick up the conversational slack.
That aside, when Jane left, she was on top of the world. She looked great, she felt great, and she was going to see Nick.
That thought had her pulling up short in her heeled boots to reevaluate her current state of mind. She’d let her friends dress her up for Nick. Worse, she’d started calling him “Nick” in her head right about the time she’d made a drunken scene in front of him that probably revealed too much about her real feelings. No matter how much he shares, he’s still Mr. Dawes. Sir. Partly annoyed at herself for wanting to be attractive to him and partly alarmed that he was so attractive to her in spite of everything she (and Nana) had warned her about, Jane repeated Keep it, sir, sir, sir in her head on the subway barreling toward Nick’s PO box.
The PO box was located in the post office in Midtown, a huge branch. Jane got off at Thirty-Fourth Street, taking a deep breath before pushing her shoulder into the throngs of tourists moving way too slowly as they headed for Penn Station and Madison Square Garden.
Nick had picked the most prominent post office in Manhattan, probably for the extra anonymity the crowds, lines, and mess would provide. After double-checking the number, Jane found the box. She stood on her tiptoes and used the key, then pulled out a package and some letters that looked like junk mail or donation solicitations. She stuffed everything in her tote bag, closed the box, and headed out, walking toward the safe-house address, which Cecily had recited in the kitchen before Jane had left.
If this were a mission or some sort of con, I’d walk into Mood Fabrics and walk out again, looking nothing like myself in dark sunglasses and a huge Jackie O swatch of fabric concealing my hair. Or I’d find a convenient Brazilian parade involving costumes and mask, and then I’d knock someone just a little bit unconscious and steal their getup and join the march. Or I’d wait until an enormous bus passed so I could use it to shield myself while I unexpectedly ducked into a noodle shop with a back exit—hey, I know where there’s a noodle shop with a back exit!
Jane headed for that ramen shop on Thirty-Second. Ichiro, or something. She watched the traffic coming and timed her entrance so that she went into the shop just as an M4 bus completely blocked the view from anyone who might be across the street. For the benefit of anyone who might have been on the same side of the sidewalk, she briskly moved through the maze of the restaurant, shouted “Ojama shimashita!” like the sushi-eating pro New Yorker she was when they welcomed her, and exited right out the back.
After another few minutes of walking, Jane forgot about keeping it sir, sir, sir and instead thought about how much she was looking forward to seeing Nick in person again.
He was waiting in a shadow-blocked alcove when Jane arrived; he blew a quiet whistle to get her attention and then quickly waved her up some stairs and through another door to a third-floor apartment that appeared to be a one bedroom with one of those typical New York open floor plans that managed to squeeze a kitchen, a living room, and a dining room into the square footage of the average postage stamp.
Without a word, he closed the door behind her. Jane looked around. The place suffered from what appeared to be a Hudson Kings curse: the men on the team had used up so much charisma there wasn’t any personality left over for interior decorating. If you liked square things and shades of brown, this was the apartment for you. That said, it was also a private apartment, and Jane faced Nick in silence for a moment until she finally said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Nick said. “Thanks for bringing that over.”
“No problem,” Jane said, twisting the straps of her tote bag. “It’s on the way to Nana’s. I told her I’d hang a new shower curtain.” She suddenly felt stupid. Why was this so awkward? They’d spoken a million times on the phone; it always felt so intimate. Was it the fat thing? Was she right about that? She tugged at her jeans, annoyed that she was even thinking about it much less caring about it. If he wasn’t into her body, screw him.
Oh, god. She’d really like to.
Nick walked over to a dining room table and picked up a piece of paper. “Here,” he said, holding it out to her.
Jane walked over and took it. Not a piece of paper. A check. A check for $50,000. She hiked an eyebrow and stuck her tote bag on one of the dining room chairs. “What is this?”
“I think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Nick said. “It’s your money. I took it back for you and stuck it back where it came from.” He pushed a sealed envelope across the table. “Here are your new passwords, a fresh ATM card, and your PIN.”
Jane stared at Nick, wishing he wasn’t so damn pretty. “Pretty” really did help you get away with stuff. She put the check down and pushed it back toward him. “I told you that was personal. You looked anyway.”
“Hell. You’d look too.” He added softly, “You already did, didn’t you?”
The picture of Jemilla Johnson or something else? Jane gaze shifted to Nick’s face. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “This is awkward,” she said.
“What would fix it?” Nick asked.
“Um, geez, I don’t know. Maybe you should take your money back. And we start over with ‘Hi.’”
Nick picked up the check. “It’s not my money.”
Jane stared at the check in his hands. Bill had taken that money from her; Nick took it back. So, was there a problem? It was just that given what her parents liked to get up to, she knew more than most that gray areas only looked gray until you decided they looked very white against all that really terrible black stuff. “This is what you do, isn’t it?” she asked, testing out the idea that his occupation as a “financier” could also be described in less attractive terms like “money launderer” or “thief.” She knew all about people like that. She knew how shitty it could be under certain circumstances, but she also knew how justifiable it could be. Anyway, maybe if she thought of him as a “wealth redistribution architect” it would be better. And maybe she was letting her feelings get in the way of her common sense. The problem was that, more than anything else, she wanted Nick to at least be a good guy; her gut told her he was a great guy.
“I see,” he said into the void of her silent analysis. Then he frowned, almost like he was in pain.
“What’s wrong?” Jane asked in alarm.
“I’ve been making a lot of wrong guesses lately,” he said. He sighed and did that ruffling thing he sometimes did.
Jane fought the urge to fix his hair and focused on his words. “Wrong guess? Am I one of them?” she asked, really, really not wanting to be one of Nick’s wrong guesses.
Nick looked at the check in his hands and folded it. “Looks like it.”
“Um . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be one of your wrong guesses.”
A small smile played at Nick’s lips. “I don’t want that either.”
“And, well, it was my money first. If you’re going go Robin Hood on my ex’s ass, I’m not sure why I should stop you.” Jane reached out and took the check back and stuck it in her back pocket.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” Jane said, unpacking her tote bag and piling the mail next to the package on the table.
“How does the daughter of con artists let herself get bilked out of fifty K?” Nick asked gently.
Jane blinked. It was not the first time she’d heard this question. In fact, she’d asked herself the same thing many, many times. “I wanted something to believe in, Mr. Dawes. I thought he could be an anchor. Nana’s my anchor, and she’s . . .” She choked up a little. “She’s getting old, and I guess I just really wanted to believe in him, even though . . .”
“Even though what?” Nick asked.
God, this was hard to explain. Even harder to talk about, now that she knew the difference between wanting to love somebody and being simply unable to stop your heart from hurtling toward that person regardless of what you want. The latter was something you couldn’t control; it just was. It just was . . . God, Nick, can you tell what I’m feeling when I look at you? Jane stared at Nick and forced herself not to let it show how hard she was falling for him. “I wanted so badly to believe in him,” she said. “He asked me to move in with him and then set up a joint account and started sending my paychecks there. Obviously, that didn’t work out so well for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Nick said. And then he added politely, “I’d like to break his legs for you.”
“Please don’t,” Jane said with a grin. “Although, I do appreciate your support. And anyway, thanks to you, I’ve got my nest egg back. I don’t need money as badly as I did before. I can pay for Nana, and I can rent a place while I look for a permanent position,” she added, knowing full well she was testing . . . him, the situation, her own heart.
Nick stared at Jane. Why is he looking at me like that? His eyes took in her face and then slowly traveled down her body. Then he kind of smiled to himself and forced his gaze to the wall. Wake up, Jane. He likes what he sees. You let Ally doll you up so Nick would notice. He noticed. Her temperature hiked; she could only pray she wasn’t blushing. Too much, anyway.
“You made a commitment to me,” he said.
Man, I like the sound of that. Jane swallowed hard. “That’s true. And there’s the fish.”
“Right,” Nick said. “There’s the fish.”
“So I think I should just complete the job as per our original agreement,” Jane said.
Nick visibly relaxed, sitting down at the table with a muttered “Great” and taking what seemed like excessive interest in the mail, given it was mostly junk.
“I’ll be home late tonight,” she blurted, staring at that gorgeous face, emphasizing her total lack of cool as she sat down in the chair next to him with an undignified thump. “Just . . . saying. In case. You call to check on the fish. Or . . . something.”
Nick looked up. There was a long pause. “Or maybe you should just call if you feel like talking,” he finally said in that quiet, quiet voice.
What? Really? Why? What does that mean?
“Or if you don’t, just shoot me a text so I know you’re home safe.” He didn’t seem to notice when he did it, but he reached out and pulled a scrap of paper, left from the ripped envelopes, off her sleeve.
His fingertips moved lightly across her wrist, and Jane wanted to melt. She was hot everywhere, sweat sliding between her breasts. The new blouse suddenly felt like a sweater. A sweater she wanted to yank the hell off before body-slamming Nick Dawes to the floor. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll check in when I get home.” She gave him a tight smile, suddenly not sure what to do with all the parts of her body. Poor body, so confused. She wanted to shake hands with her boss and call him sir and then stick her hand down his pants and get him off.
Nick likewise seemed a little overheated. “You know, Jane—” he began.
“I know! Right? It’s so goddamn hot in here.” Jane looked randomly around for a thermostat, her heart slamming around in her chest. And then she made the mistake of looking back at Nick. He was watching her, a little curious and a little intrigued. She could see it all there in the slightly incredulous tilt of his smile, the one from Bianchi’s on interview day. He’d wanted her that day, and she’d gotten this job.
He wanted her now.
“Jane,” he said again, his voice throaty and stern, in the good sort of way, like he thought she needed a good talking to. Or a good—oh, god, I am so turned on right now. What is wrong with me? He’s my BOSS. Red alert! Red alert! Abort mission! Do not pass go! Hold the door, for fuck’s sake, Jane. HOLD THE DOOR!
Nervous and aroused beyond any past experience she’d ever had, Jane stood up and shoved the mail at him, saying, “HERE’S YOUR MAIL, MR. DAWES, SIR, SIR, SIR,” in a voice that was entirely too loud, and then, of course, accidentally toppled the pile of envelopes and bumped the package off the table with her elbow.
They went for it at the same time, meeting on the floor on all fours, their faces an oxygen molecule apart.
If chastity was the goal, “on all fours” was apparently the worst configuration a body could make when it came to designer blouses with massive cowl necks. The folds of her fabulous new top instantly dropped away from her body; Jane froze, realizing he had a view of—oh, Jesus, what can’t he see?
Jane managed to move her gaze in time to watch Nick’s lips part just slightly. His eyes moved oh so slowly, from her face to her neck and down her shirt. She could feel her nipples harden, the wetness sliding between her legs as she shifted.
The air was so thick she couldn’t breathe. He didn’t say anything . . . his tongue moistening his lips. He looked up, a foggy look in his eyes. He can’t believe I’m not fixing this. He can’t believe I’m still here half under the table, my tits falling out of my bra for his personal appreciation.
And though you’d never be able to call him a gentleman for it, Nick Dawes was certainly appreciating what was being offered.
But he didn’t move. He didn’t make it all stop, and he sure as hell didn’t run. He looked like a wild beast, ready to strike, but playing it smart. She could see the tension. He was the epitome of self-control. But it was touch and go, you could say. Like he . . . Just. Might. Not. Be. Strong. Enough. If she . . .
I’m just going to see if I can put him over the edge, Jane thought wickedly. In the alternate reality version of my life, I just crawl toward him on all fours—it’ll only take two crawls, say—and I just . . . barely rock forward . . . and right there, his mouth, the one he keeps licking, the jaw he keeps clenching . . . I could just sort of touch my mouth to his and see if he loses his fucking mind . . .
Jane crawled toward Nick, who looked like he was in the middle of a very good and amazing dream. And then she leaned in, noticing that he seemed absolutely mesmerized by what she was doing, and she touched her lips to his.
Instantly, Jane panicked. “Sorry! I . . .”
The dampness slid in her panties as she stood up, wobbling, and she crushed the corner of the package under her shoe. “Oh, shit! Sorry, look—”
She was silenced by the sensation of Nick’s warm palm moving to the side of her head. Now both palms. Cradling her face.
“Jane, we’re good. Calm down.”
“I . . .” Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes, please.
“I know,” Nick said. And then he smiled a wicked, wicked smile and tilted his head.
Jane’s eyes locked on his. And then she slowly lowered her lashes as the delicious pressure of his mouth crashed down on hers. Nick’s tongue seared the seam of her closed lips, and she opened for him. When his tongue swept in, her entire being surrendered to his heat, to his wet . . . to his heaven.
Dizzy in all the right ways, every sense amplified, Jane reveled in the trail of heat left by his hands sliding from her face to grip her shoulders and pull her close.
But now, with his lips leaving hers, moving to her neck, the relief of finally acting on the coiled passion that had built up between them gave way to the discovery that they both wanted more. Bucking and pulling at each other, plundering mouths and pulling away just to tease . . . with this much electricity, this much heat, Jane knew they’d just opened a door.
Only the tick, tick of a clock served as a soundtrack to the most mind-blowing kiss of Jane’s existence; she could scarcely breathe.
“Jane, are you wearing a watch?” Nick suddenly asked.
Jane blinked, foggy with lust. It took her a second to process his question and wonder if this was Nick purposely trying to change the subject from we-clearly-want-to-take-our-clothes-off territory. She immediately pulled herself together. “No, you are,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the massive gold piece that circled his wrist like a handcuff.
But Nick was apparently done being relaxed. Jane opened her eyes wide and saw that he did not look the least bit like a Scottish Highlander in the throes of unbridled passion. He’d gone on high alert.
“My watch has silencing technology,” he said.
Tick, tick . . .
Nick surveyed the room, uber-focused, uber-intense. He and Jane looked down simultaneously; the package she’d crushed was sitting on the floor like a lopsided cake.
“Go!” Nick yelled, pushing Jane in the direction of the back door. She hesitated long enough to see him grab the package and hurl it to the other end of the hall in the front end of the apartment.
She turned and ran for the door, but there were so many locks and knobs. Breathing heavily, Jane whimpered, forcing herself not to panic, forcing herself to focus on being logical about the hardware. Don’t give up. Be smart. Think straight. Turn knob left . . . pull chain . . .
An explosion rang in Jane’s ears; Nick’s body covered hers, slamming her against the door just as the locks turned. It was the last thing Jane processed, for a while.