Nightwork, page 18
The system worked.
And the take would cover grad school tuition.
Finally, Friday blew in on a kicky wind that rattled the trees. It made Booth wish he had a fireplace, just for the atmosphere. He decided if he ever had a house of his own, it had to have a fireplace.
Since he wanted to give Miranda a taste of New Orleans, he had jambalaya in the pot and corn bread keeping warm in the oven. And this time he wouldn’t feel stupid lighting candles. He even had the blues playing low on his iPod.
A quick internal check told him he felt excitement instead of nerves when her knock on the door finally came.
She wore jeans and boots and a sweater the color of crushed blueberries. Instead of wine or flowers she carried a little overnight bag.
“If things don’t work out, it’ll go back in the car with me.” She set it just inside the door. “What smells so good?”
“Jambalaya.”
“Really? I’ve never had it. I’d say I can’t wait to try it except … Can it hold awhile?”
“Sure.”
He wanted to kiss her, but she wandered around his living room.
“Great, because I’d really like to see if things work out.” She turned back to him. “I’m a little anxious—that’s the best word for it. I’m not sure I could handle dinner without knowing.”
This time, he realized, she had all the nerves. So he walked to her, gathered her in, laid his mouth on hers. He sank into the kiss, just let it take them both away.
She put a hand on his cheek, looked in his eyes. “I think things are going to work out just fine.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
“I was going to say,” he continued, taking her hand to lead her to the bedroom, “if you change your mind, I’ll never be able to eat jambalaya or corn bread again.”
“I can’t be responsible for that.”
He kissed her again. “Lights on, lights off?”
“Oh. Well…”
“Let’s go with candles.” He’d set out a few, in anticipation and hope. As he lit them, something struck him, and he looked back at her, more than a little panicked.
“It’s not, like, your first time, is it?”
“No. Two semi-serious boyfriends, so not my first time.” The lifted eyebrow and smile told him her nerves were draining again. “You?”
“No.”
“I see you don’t toss out a number.”
“No,” he said definitely.
“I’m going to take that as I’ll be in good hands.”
“This feels different.”
“Yeah.”
And right, he thought when he drew her against him. Just right in every way.
He wouldn’t rush, not when moment to moment was its own small miracle. The way her mouth moved against his, the glide of tongue, the merging of breath.
He’d remember it, all those small miracles. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the rattle of branches in the wind outside the window.
She tugged at his sweater; he tugged at hers.
Then she laughed, stepped back. “I need to take off my boots.”
“We’ll get to them.” He pulled her back, stripped the sweater over her head. Incredibly, perfectly, the scrap of bra mirrored the color of her sweater. “You’re just beautiful. God, you’re just beautiful.”
He scooped her up, laid her back on the bed. He let the kiss deepen, let his hands begin to roam.
Slowly, though slow was a struggle. Easy, though easy proved hard won.
Snooks Eaglin’s “Teasin’ You” murmured in the air, a quiet, steady beat as he pressed his lips to her heart.
The thrill rocketed straight through her, left her both wild and weak. She’d expected a rush—had been more than ready to match that pace—and this long, thorough exploration woke every nerve in her body.
Good hands, she thought. She was in very, very good hands.
She could float under them, ripple like a river as she took the gift and did her best to return it.
He had such a long torso, lean, taut. Smooth skin, surprising muscles that bunched and released under her hands. She wanted, more than she’d known she could, and finally dragged his sweater away.
He flicked open the clasp of her bra one-handed, made her shiver.
“Good trick,” she managed, then arched, moaned when his mouth claimed her breast.
With tongue, teeth, lips, he took her to the edge.
Then his hand slid down, and his fingers unfastened her jeans with that same canny skill. He had only to press a hand to her center to fling her headlong off that edge.
“I’m going to get your boots off.”
His lips moved down her now, lighting countless fires.
“I don’t care, I don’t care, just don’t stop.”
“I do. I need to get you naked.”
Even as he yanked them off, his tongue swept over her, lightly inside her. The orgasm shot through her, a hot, wet bullet that left her dazed, crazed.
He took her over with his hands, his mouth, and she knew he hadn’t just stripped away her clothes, but everything.
And she didn’t care.
When he started to unfasten his jeans, she reached out.
“Let me. Let me.” She fumbled a little, let out a breathless laugh. “My hands are shaking. It’s crazy.”
No, he thought, it was perfect. Having her hands on him, the way her hair glowed, quiet fire, in the candlelight, the way she trembled because she wanted, like he wanted.
Then he lay over her, and their mouths met again, hungry now, greedy now. She opened for him, wrapped around him, long limbs, speeding heart.
He’d remember the way her hair spilled over his simple white sheets, and how the magic of her eyes met his. He’d remember how her breath caught when, at last, he slid inside her.
And he’d remember when they moved together, what coursed through him was more than pleasure, more than need, more than triumph.
It was finding a treasure, something precious, something without price. Something he’d only dreamed of.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He wished he could write poetry or music, or paint. Surely he’d compose an epic poem, a soul-stirring song, create a masterpiece with what now lived inside him.
She lay with her head on his heart, and he knew if he lived to be a hundred, he’d never know a more beautiful moment.
“It really worked out.”
She made him laugh, and with the laugh, everything in him felt free. “I don’t know, we should probably try it again, a few times, to make sure that wasn’t a fluke.”
“Sensible.” She gave his chest a quick rub. “You know, you hide all this pretty well.”
“My astonishing sexual talents?”
“Those, too. The muscles. You’re pretty ripped for a thin guy. When I caught you looking that first day in my dad’s class, I thought, that guy’s got a really pretty face. And if I spotted you on campus, I’d think, tall guy, classic lanky build. I thought you were a dancer.”
“What? Why?”
“The way you move, kind of catlike, athletic, but not in the sporty sort of way. Like a dancer.”
“Just my natural, and again astonishing, grace. I didn’t want to like you.”
“Now it’s my turn.” She lifted her head to study him. “What? Why?”
“Because the minute I saw you, everything else stopped, faded away. Then my world did a one-eighty. Turned upside down. Seriously pissed me off.”
Smiling, she shook her hair back. “That’s the biggest compliment in the history of compliments.”
“I decided you had to be a snobby, arrogant bitch so I could stop thinking about you. Then you weren’t, so that screwed that.”
“Sorry?”
He shook his head. “Not sorry.”
“Me either. I did a lot of thinking about you, too. This mysterious guy with the navy-blue eyes slipping around campus like a shadow.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“Little bit. And I like puzzles. My dad would say you have lots of layers. Very interesting layers. Crazy smart, and that’s from someone who’s pretty damn smart herself. Clicks with the nerds—and that’s a real click, even though you’re not a genuine nerd yourself. But likes to live alone, off campus, away from the action. Older, here and here, than most,” she said, tapping his heart, his temple.
“You sure you’re not a psych major?”
“Just a wannabe writer who likes figuring people out. After all, I’m going to write about people. And seeing as we’re naked in bed, figuring you out is important.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, if you haven’t figured that out.”
She laid her head back on his heart. “I’m pretty sure I’m right there with you. It’s scary.”
“Yeah, it is. But it’s … it’s really great, too, because I’ve never felt like this, about anyone. And I’ve never asked anyone if we can just see each other and nobody else.”
He felt her lips curve as she turned to press them to his chest. “That’s already a given for me.”
“You make me happy, all the way through. It’s been awhile since the happy’s made it through all the layers.” Happy, content, hopeful, he stroked her back. “Hungry?”
“Starved.”
“Let’s go eat, then maybe we can take a walk. Then we can come back and try this all again to, you know, eliminate the fluke factor.”
“I’m for all of that.”
“Just one thing,” he said as he sat up with her. “If it turns out you don’t like jambalaya, the whole thing’s off.”
“That’s very strict.”
“Somebody told me recently rules is rules.”
It turned out she liked it just fine.
* * *
At the age of eight, before his world crumbled, Booth wrote a story—a school assignment—about a boy granted a wish for a week full of Saturdays. The story, which earned an A plus, convinced his mother her son would one day become a writer.
While that fond maternal hope would, in Booth’s more realistic view, never come to pass, the story, and the boy’s joy in it, remained his personal pinnacle for pure joy.
The short weekend with Miranda topped it. They walked his quiet neighborhood under the autumn moon, exchanged dreamy kisses under its tender light. And though afternoon clocked in before they got out of bed on that magical Saturday, he fixed her breakfast. He agreed to buy a coffee maker if she’d spend the day with him.
With her approval, he settled on a French press. They talked about taking in a matinee, ended up renting a movie and watching it snuggled up on his living room sofa. And made love there as the credits started to roll.
And she stayed, showing off her chopping skills when he made fajitas for dinner.
When he lay beside her Sunday morning, he thought of that boy in the long-ago story, and the perfect bliss of waking on yet another Saturday.
“We could pretend it’s Saturday again.”
She had her head on his heart. He wasn’t sure he’d ever linger in bed again contentedly without that sensation.
“Can we pretend we don’t have papers due tomorrow on The Merchant of Venice? That Professor Emerson cracks the whip. And I need to take another hard look at my revenge story for my writing class. Then…”
She broke off, lifted her head, and gave him a narrowed-eyed stare. “You finished the Shakespeare paper, didn’t you? You bastard.”
“It needs a final polish.”
“I could hate you right now. I’ve barely finished the first draft. And, crap, it’s nearly noon. I really have to go.”
“You could work here.”
She slid up enough to kiss him. “I’m liking the scruff,” she murmured. “And I don’t think either of us would get much work done if I stayed—added, all my stuff’s at home.” Lazily, she wound some of his hair around her finger. “Do you think this, all this with us, will settle down any?”
“I sure hope not.”
“Me, too. I really have to leave. I’m going to hop in the shower first.”
Because he hopped in the shower with her, she didn’t drive away until almost two.
And he, a man who prized his solitude, felt completely alone.
He had plenty to fill his time until he saw her the next day. That paper did need a polish, and he needed to work out lesson plans for his tutoring gigs. Domestic chores, some nightwork research.
He turned on music, got started. And with every task, he thought of her. She’d filled the spaces he’d thought he’d wanted to keep empty.
She made him think almost as much as she made him want.
He wondered if she’d move in with him. Rushing things, sure, but maybe in a few more weeks … Then he thought of his actual career, and his tools, his work space in the basement.
How could she live with him when he had those secret places?
They’d figure it out. That’s what people in love did, he thought. They figured things out.
He could quit—maybe. He thought he could quit. Or at least take a break. Like a test. He’d never thought about setting aside his real work, work he’d done for more than half his life now.
But he could try. For Miranda, he could try anything.
She texted him, and brightened his entire day.
Taking a break between Portia and Revenge. Decided I do hate you.
He texted back. Add the pound of flesh to your revenge story. I miss you.
Too late for the lb of flesh. More like a bucket of blood. I miss you, too. Music at Club Caro tomorrow night. You want?
Sounds good.
See you in the morning.
I’m seeing you everywhere. It’s weird. I like it.
She sent him a heart and lips pursed in a kiss. And signed off.
He could take that break, he told himself. He could set his work aside. Maybe even try out a civilian sort of job.
When he finished the schoolwork, the lesson plans, had his house in order, he thought of his work in the basement, and the research he’d started on a coin collection.
If he was going to set all that aside, he might as well start now. He could take a walk, read a book. He could text R.J. and see what he and Zed were up to.
He figured the knock on the door came from one of the neighbors.
Nothing prepared him for opening the door to Carter LaPorte or the big, burly guy standing one pace behind him.
“Hello, Silas. Oh, no, it’s Booth now, isn’t it?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Manners dictate you ask me in. We’ll discuss that.”
“I was just heading out.”
LaPorte’s lips curved in a smile. His eyes didn’t reflect it. “Change of plans.”
Booth noted the dark Mercedes sedan at the curb. He’d need to come up with a story about that, when the neighbors asked. And they would.
But he couldn’t risk an altercation in the doorway. Especially since the bodyguard could, no question, break him in half.
“Make it quick.” He stepped back. “I have friends waiting.”
“Friends. Yes, you’ve made quite the little circle here, haven’t you?”
In his steel-gray suit and carefully knotted tie, LaPorte scanned the living room.
“I’d expected more from a young man with your talents. It’s quite—usual, isn’t it?”
“I’m a college student.”
LaPorte pinned Booth with one long stare. “We both know you’re much more than that. You’ve done quite well for yourself since we last met.”
LaPorte walked to a chair, sat. Spread his hands. “I have connections. And my connections have connections. I would love some coffee.”
Booth thought of the French press he’d bought with Miranda. For Miranda. He’d be damned if he’d use it for LaPorte.
“I don’t do coffee. What do you want?”
The icy fury blasted. It could do more damage, Booth thought, than fire and flame.
“You can start with respect for your elders. David here is an expert in convincing people to show respect. Shall I ask him to show you?”
Because he didn’t want a black eye, broken fingers, or worse, Booth sat on the couch. “You’re here because you want something. I have people waiting, and your time’s too valuable for you to waste.”
“Better. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Sebastien—”
“Isn’t equipped for this. Don’t interrupt. There’s a small, exquisite bronze, a female figure titled simply Bella Donna. It was auctioned at Christie’s in New York recently and is now part of a private collection. It, along with a few other pieces from this collection, will be on display at the Hobart Museum in Baltimore. The collector is a native son. The showing runs from November first through the end of January. I need you to acquire this piece for me, for which service you’ll receive one point five million dollars.”
Careful, Booth warned himself. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. LaPorte, but I’m a full-time student here, in North Carolina. More, I’ve never taken a museum. Only private homes. I’m not the right person for this job.”
“I disagree. The Hobart is a private museum. Essentially, a private home. You’ll have several weeks to prepare.”
“I live here, go to school here.”
“Things change, as you well know.” At his ease, LaPorte gestured with one hand, then settled back in the flea market chair in his rich man’s suit.
“Now, while your pursuit of higher education is admirable, of course, we both know it leads nowhere. And I could end that pursuit so easily. Some interesting information in the right ears. Who is this Booth Harrison, really? How is he paying his tuition? Why did he leave the university in Texas? Ah, wait, he didn’t, as those records are falsified.
“What would your little circle of friends, and that very attractive redhead, think when they learn who and what you really are? A drifter, a thief, a liar, using them as cover?”
“I’m not using them as cover. Threatening me doesn’t make me right for this job. And the fact is I can’t do that kind of work anymore. I have a full class schedule, I’m tutoring. We’re about to go into tech on a play. I can’t steal a bronze in Baltimore no matter how much you offer me.”
