Chapter 8
8
M ACKENZIE
I’m so convinced I’m wasting my time when I knock on that woman’s door, and no one’s answering that I quickly spin around, choking on anger.
What made me think he would be here? Or that Beverly would be home?
Disappointed, I walk out of the building when two cars rush to a halt in front of me.
I step to the side and let the men and women walk past me and enter the lobby, my eyes sprinting over their faces.
They’re all strangers to me.
The cars pull away while the people vanish inside the building when the heated focus of a gaze burns into my cheek.
I look across the road, where a man's dark silhouette fills the doorway of a building. My pulse races, tension grips my shoulders, and a ball of angst tightens in my chest.
For a moment, I’m not sure what to do.
Should I just scurry away and get back home as quickly as possible? Or should I try to find out more about that man?
That’s probably not the best idea.
The man doesn’t move.
Cloaked in darkness, he seems to still have his eyes on me.
I might be wrong, though.
Maybe I’m a little spooked by this evening’s incident back home and the thoughts spinning in my head right now.
Taking a long breath, I set myself in motion and head back. As much as I don’t want to look back, I can’t help myself and glance over my shoulder quite a few times.
Luckily, no one’s following me.
I’m ecstatic about that.
It takes me about ten minutes to enter my street––I’m moving that fast––and the closer I get to my place, the more relieved I feel.
This has not been one of my brightest ideas, and I’m mad at myself for going there because I wanted to see him.
And no. This wasn’t only about giving him the information.
I’m wearing the Christmas gift he gave me. And I've taken the money with me. Who am I fooling here?
The door closes behind me while I stride across the lobby and take the stairs up to my floor.
I won’t leave my place until next week. Enough adventures for the year. It sounds like a great plan, and I’m totally on board with it as I open the door to my apartment and walk in.
I barely have time to take my boots off and deposit my scarf and gloves on the kitchen counter when someone knocks on the door.
Apprehension zips through me.This has started to get on my nerves.What is wrong with these people?
I can’t say I’m not scared.
I just came back from a place I had no business being after noticing a man I had no business noticing. What if that man has indeed followed me.
And then followed me inside my building?
Shaking inside, I quietly sneak to the door and look through the peephole. A man dressed in black awaits in front of the door.
The dimness conceals his features.
Perfect.
I roll my eyes.
Maybe I should pretend I’m not home, although it’s probably too late for that. If I’ve been followed, the person knows exactly that I’m here.
How did he get in?
He must've used the passcode.
Like the two men who visited Carmen.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Callan,” he says evenly, and a sigh of relief rolls from my lips before I’m quickly doused in anxiety again.
Ugh.
He’s paying me.
So I sort of have to open the door for him.
Besides, I was looking for him.
I slide the door open, and his dark, imposing silhouette towers over me.
It was him in that doorway.
It was definitely him.
My mouth falls open.
“Were you…?”
My voice trails off before he nudges me to the side and enters my apartment like he’s living here.
I let the door fall closed.
“Have you been following me?” I ask behind him.
“Did I have a choice?” he tosses back at me. “What were you doing over there?” he asks, pivoting to me and moving his eyes around my place.
He wears perfectly pressed black pants, fancy shoes, and a short double-breasted coat. The starched collar of his dress button-down shirt stands out against his complexion.
Sleek gloves sheathe his hands.
He looks like he has stepped out of a theater. Or the Opera House. He looks like he belongs in Manhattan more than in Brooklyn. He also looks like a hitman.
The expensive kind.
I suck in a short breath while regaining my composure.
“I was looking for you.”
His eyes flick to me.
“What made you think I’d be there?”
“There is where I found you the last time I looked for you.”
He gives me a half nod.
“I don’t live there if that’s what you expected me to say.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Why were you looking for me?” he asks.
Ignoring his question, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the counter.
“How did you know I was there?” I probe in defiance.
He tips his gaze down as if he’s noticed a piece of lint on his coat before quickly pushing his reply to me.
“Stop playing games, Mackenzie. You don’t need to know everything about me. In fact, the less you know, the better you are.”
“I’ve already figured that one out. Still, there is stupid shit that falls into my lap, and I have no choice but to keep you informed.”
I would invite him to take his coat off, sit down, and perhaps have a cup of coffee.
To my chagrin, he slides his hands into his pockets, making my idea silly.
“What did you find out?” he asks.
“Her husband is back,” I say, gauging his reaction. “But you must know that.”
He silently nods.
Oh. So, he does?
Maybe he has other people running surveillance as well.
Or maybe he’s doing it himself.
“What else?” he mutters, not in a good mood.
He cocks an eyebrow at me, and the kitchen lights glint in his eyes. His arresting looks make my heart skip a beat. It's too bad that his personality is flawed, and at times, I walk on a minefield with him.
“Someone broke into her place.”
My eyes are stamped on his face, waiting for the slightest reaction. Deep down, I want to know whether he was the person going through her things.
Whether he is a crook dressed like a king and whether this story has layers buried so deep that if I knew the truth, I’d run for the hills.
“What makes you say that?”
Curiosity glimmers in his eyes, borderline misleading.
Maybe he’s curious about what I have to say and not what has actually happened, which doesn’t exclude the possibility that he might’ve been involved.
What is it with him and the woman upstairs?
I honestly don’t see the connection.
It all started like a tryst. A sexual escapade with foreseeable complications since she was married.
It was all about him hitting on the wrong woman and having some fun before her crazy husband came home.
But this is not that.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I ask, pushing off the counter and allowing him to ponder my offer as I turn my back to him and reach inside the cupboard.
“Christmas is just around the corner, so I thought I’d reach out to you and thank you for your lovely gift.”
I glance at him over my shoulder, empty glasses in my hands.
“That was the other reason why I looked for you,” I offer. “It was a nice gesture, by the way," I add, no longer looking at him while pivoting to the refrigerator.
“It’s chilled. I like it that way if you don’t mind,” I drone on as if the man in the room is actually waiting for his drink.
I pour two glasses of wine, although he says nothing and might, in fact, be expected somewhere else.
That doesn’t stop me from turning to him with a smile on my face and drinks in my hands.
“Can you sit, please?” I say, noticing he hasn’t moved from the spot he claimed in the middle of the room. "I can take your coat and gloves,” I add.
Reluctantly, he slides his hands out of his pockets, peels his gloves off, removes his coat, and deposits everything on the sofa. He stops me with a clipped gesture when I express my intention to drape his coat over a hanger.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” he says, his voice husky and wintery, making a swarm of goosebumps rise across my skin.
Secret thoughts darken his eyes, yet my gut tells me they have nothing to do with me or my invitation.
Eventually, he sits at the kitchen table and I put our drinks down in front of us.
He wears a very expensive watch, and I’m now seriously thinking I might be dealing with some mobster.
I’ve had rich clients at my last job.
My firm organized events for them and their significant others, so I’m familiar with how old money and new money look in terms of the clothes and jewelry they wear.
You couldn't guess some of those people’s net worth just by looking at them. Their outfits and fine quality shoes couldn’t give them away.
They looked like everybody else, only expressing more freedom, dealing with less stress, and having an abundance of fine things in their lives.
With this man, there is that, and there’s also more.
There is tension in his frame, a body chiseled to perfection, and something feral in his eyes. His determination speaks of street smarts in addition to the sophistication and smoothness needed in the boardroom.
This is the kind of man who would climb a fence, dangle from a balcony, sprint down the street if he had to, and beat someone’s face in if the circumstances required it.
I don’t clink my glass to his before taking a sip and studying his face from above the smooth rim.
“What makes you think someone broke into her place?” he asks, wrapping his fingers around his drink.
Regardless of how smooth his gesture is, it still brims with tension. He seems casual about our conversation, yet he is hardly that.
His eyes meet mine when I lift my gaze from his hand.
“I was outside, and her windows were dark when I noticed a light…” I say. “It was more like a flashlight, and it moved around the living room as if the person was looking for something. It flicked again moments later. This time, the person was in the bedroom. I know the layout of her place because, you know…” I gesture around the room and up before taking another sip. “It’s the same layout.”
His eyes are still on mine when he lifts the glass to his lips and drinks some wine. My gaze drifts across his lips, and maybe it’s the wine or the warmth in the room, but a fire burns across my skin.
“Frankly, I thought it was you,” I say, eager to get a reaction from him.
He sets his drink down and rests his elbows on the table. His shirt hugs his chest tightly, and I wish I were the fabric pressed against his pecs.
Too much wine for me, for sure, to think something like that.
And too little action in the bedroom since Quinn left. There has been no action, really.
But my sexual frustrations will go away.
Come January, I’ll start a new job, go out for drinks and findmyself a friend with benefits.
I’ll need to have some fun before seriously thinking about a relationship again.
Callan makes no comments.
“Or the superintendent,” I suggest.
His attention snaps at me.
“Why the superintendent?”
“I don’t know. She’s the type of woman men easily get a crush on. And my first thought was that someone had broken into her apartment and gone through her underwear to pick up a piece of lingerie and take it home.”
He laces his fingers together.
“Do you still think it was him?” he asks.
I shrug.
“Mostly no.”
“ Mostly? ”
I nod.
“The super is a little creepy. But he’s married and seems oblivious to anyone outside his world. Although you can never tell with these people. Besides, the woman upstairs is married, too. And that hasn’t stopped her to… You know.”
His eyebrows slowly arch.
He’s cold like a bag of frozen peas. And not in the least jealous because the woman is a hot commodity for so many people.
Himself included.
I make a gesture as in never mind.
“So, who do you think it was?” he asks, his eyes tipped down, his lips sternly drawn together.
I look at them, mesmerized.
“Mackenzie?”
I swing my eyes up.
“Huh?”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
He sucks in a long breath, straightens, and leans back in his seat, his arms folded across his chest.
“Yes, I am.”
A few moments pass.
“Do you want my honest opinion?”
“Yes.”
“As I said before… I think someone was in her apartment looking for something. I don’t know how they got into the building. It seems like everybody gets into this building these days. She’s probably passing the passcode around like it’s candy. And frankly, I don’t know what her deal is. She might be involved in something nefarious. There’s so much sex…”
He narrows his eyes at me, and I go quiet.
“Go on,” he says.
“There are so many men. The husband’s behavior is strange, too. He’s gone for days, and then he comes home like nothing happened. Everything seems normal, aside from their fights when she throws him out. I think he likes that too.”
The corners of his lips move slightly.
“You find that amusing?” I murmur, giving him a smile.
“No. Not really. But I like how perceptive you are.”
“I’m not into true crime documentaries or anything like that. And I was even thinking that it might be possible to deal with some criminals…”
The shift in his expression makes me stop.
“I hope I’m not getting tangled up in some nasty story because I’m spying on them for you.”
“You’re not,” he says reassuringly.
Like I believe him.
He sets his elbows on the table and runs a calm hand through his raven hair, his eyes tilted down, avoiding mine.
“Did you see that person leave?” he asks.
“No. But I haven’t surveilled the street since I got inside. That’s why I thought it must’ve been someone from inside the building. And I thought it might’ve been you. You were inside the building, too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The Christmas gift.”
“Someone else could’ve dropped it off.”
“Have they?”
He studies my eyes, and I’m suddenly aware of his genuine curiosity about me.
“No.”
“That’s what I thought. So, were you in the building?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Did you see her?”
“No.”
“You came here for me?”
“Yes.”
My lips tremble, my jaw locked.
“What is your deal with this woman?”
“There’s no deal,” he says, pushing his chair back, signaling that our conversation is over. “You’re doing a great job,” he adds, rising out of his seat and lifting his coat from the couch.
“How much longer am I supposed to do that?” I ask while he drapes his coat over his shoulders.
He leaves it open and picks up his gloves.
“Are you traveling for the holidays?” he murmurs.
“No. I’m home. Alone.”
It's not exactly what he asked.
I flash a smile.
“Sorry. Too much information. It must be the wine talking,” I excuse myself, and some of the tension dissipates from his face.
“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” he says and points with his glove to the table. “Thank you for the wine.”
“Uh… Yes. And thank you for the gift. Pink is my color.”
I sound a bit off, but I don’t care.
“And the money helps.”
I try hard not to wince in embarrassment.
That was too much information again.
I gesture him to the door.
“You know your way out,” I say.
Somehow, not accompanying him to the door feels better than doing it and remaining bereft after he leaves.
“I sure do. Take care, Mackenzie.”
With that, he makes a beeline for the door and steps out, my feet pinned to the floor.
Later, I head to the exit, open the door, and look up the stairs. I can’t tell which way he went. So, I pull back, lock the door, and dash to the window.
The street is empty for a few seconds before he exits the building.
I swear he glances up as he slides through the door.
Unfortunately, I can’t tell whether he looked at my windows or my neighbor’s place upstairs. So far, Carmen doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s been in the building.
Hugging myself, I watch him stride up the street.
Huh. So, he’s not going to Beverly, either.
Where is he going?
No car picks him up this time.
And what did he mean by not having a choice when I asked him whether he had followed me or not?
I pull back.
He followed me from the second I walked out of my building, which makes me believe he was watching the area.
Was he watching me? Or was he watching her?
Carmen.
No, not her.
I don’t think so.
He was watching the building when he spotted me and followed me to Beverly’s building. And then he waited for me to come out from her building.
Why did he say he hadn’t had a choice?
Did he want to make sure I was okay?
Did he?
The prospect makes me weak in my knees.