8. Tiia
“Close the blinds,” Jakeline orders, stepping out of her office and crossing the shop to stop by the till.
It’s rare, if ever, that we have cash in excess of the float in there, since buyers seldom use paper money for the items we have for sale. It’s not like your standard guy who walks in off the street is carrying multiple thousands in his pockets. But she hits the till buttons anyway, popping the drawer open to take out enough for her needs tonight.
Dinner on the way home, maybe. A bottle of wine to celebrate the English desk she no longer has in her possession.
“I’d like you to vacuum the floors.” She slaps the register closed and folds a couple of fifties in her palm. “And water the plants by the window.”
That’s not my job, jerk!
“Close the store at five on the dot.” She steps around the register and settles her oversized purse on the crook of her arm. “If casual shoppers are wandering through, shoo them out. They won’t buy anything, anyway, and wasting our time should be a crime.”
“Yes, Ms. Colby.” I weave past my desk and to the small closet at the back of the store. After taking out a spray bottle and a cloth, I prepare to not only water the single pothos plant we have, but clean the dust off the leaves, too. “I’ll be sure to lock up and set the alarms.”
“Good.” She lifts her head and shoulders, pointing her chin as she starts toward the door. “It’s nice to see you finally taking some initiative. Lazy employees are cancer to a business.”
She grabs the door handle, but looks back in my direction, her eyes glittering with unkindness. “I was concerned about you being here, Tiia. Unconvinced that my good deed would be rewarded.” Your ‘good deed’? I work for practically free! “But your dealings with Mr. Harrison yesterday undoubtedly showed me a different side of you.”
She pulls the door open and faces forward again, only to jump and let out a squeal of fright when a man waits on the other side.
Micah Malone wears a suit again. His hair, damp and combed carefully to the side. His tie, knotted and perfectly centered.
He looks straight past Jakeline, like he doesn’t notice her at all. Instead, he burns me with a glare, staring directly into my soul.
“Oh my goodness!” Jakeline giggles like a brainless schoolgirl. I know she sees money in the clip holding his tie, and the cufflinks affixed to his shirt. She surely sees dollar signs, because even I, a non-suit-aficionado, can tell his ensemble comes with a hefty price tag.
But then she looks up and takes stock of his face. The hard lines. The gritting jaw.
Anyone who has lived in New York for longer than a minute, and who reads a newspaper, would recognize that face. And because she does, she repeats, “Oh my goodness.” But this one comes out breathier. More sultry, though I’m not sure that was her intent.
Regardless, Micah doesn’t pay her any attention. His bold green eyes focus solely on me. On the spray bottle I hold like a gun. The rag fisted in my hand.
He can’t possibly see the way my heart pounds. But I feel it.
I hear it.
“Just closing?” Micah rumbles, his voice low and commanding—and call me crazy, but I get the feeling he isn’t asking Jakeline. “Am I too late?”
“Ye—”
“Absolutely not.” Jakeline takes an exaggerated step back, extending her arm like she’s a magician’s assistant and I’m the rabbit. “We wish only to serve our clients, Mr. Malone.” Her voice cracks on his name; her fear, beating out her greed.
For a moment, anyway.
She recovers herself, and her voice is steady when she explains, “I am heading out, but Tiia will stay on and help you.”
“Jakeline—”
“Take your time,” she urges, waiting for the man to step into the shop. Then she swaps places with him, setting herself on the threshold. “It’s a shame,” she laments. “We sold the most beautiful desk yesterday. Distinguished and handsome, like yourself.”
Oh, for god’s sake. Close the door and go away.
“I’m looking for a chest, actually.” Micah strolls in, leaving a gaping Jakeline staring in his wake, her mouth hanging open and her eyes already registering the cash she thinks he’ll leave for her tonight.
Little does she know, he’s probably just here to kill me.
Or, at the very least, to say horrible things and hurt my feelings.
“I’ve been searching.” He wanders the store, running his fingertips across the top of a cabinet before slowing in front of a small table filled with pretty baubles. Necklaces. Brooches. Pins. “I heard Ms. Colby’s shop was in possession of a chest that might interest me.”
I peek past his broad shoulders and around muscular arms—noticeable even when wrapped in a thousand-dollar jacket—and when Jakeline flashes a giddy thumbs-up and closes the door, practically skipping away in glee, I shake my head and give up on any hope of being falsely polite.
“You can leave, Malone.” I bring my spray bottle up, prepared to use it if I must. “I don’t want to be near you, when you have no intention of being decent to me. And we don’t have any chests that might interest you.”
“That’s not true.” He leaves the table of jewelry and faces me instead, setting his hands in his pockets and looking me up and down. It’s ridiculous that he can wear a full suit, as though he’s heading to an upscale wedding, and I have to wear a cutesy dress, which is not at all suitable for throwing hands with a man, unless I want to appear undignified while doing it. “I heard a rumor about a particular chest this store is in possession of.” He lifts a single, infuriating brow. “I want you to sell it to me.”
“Fine.” I toss the rag to my desk, but keep my bottle and stalk across the store.
Thankfully, we only have one chest in stock worth mentioning, and it’s on the complete opposite side of the shop from where he stands.
“Here it is.” I almost want to kick it. To disrespect it the way I wish I could disrespect the man who wants it. “It’s a little expensive, though. Are you sure you can afford it?”
He chuckles. A chest-bouncing, throat-vibrating kind of laugh that has my eyes watching his neck.
If I’m not careful, I might actually humanize him. I might allow him to convince me that he’s just a man. A warm-blooded mortal, rather than a slug robot I’ve deemed scummier than pond sludge.
Starting in my direction, he keeps his steps slow. His movements, exceptionally lazy and unthreatening.
“Things are worth only as much as a man is willing to pay for it, Ms. Hale. When I told you to sell it to me, I didn’t mean literally. I meant…” He comes to a stop ten feet from where I stand. “Sell it to me. Convince me to buy it.”
“Oh, no thanks.” I fake a smile and circle around, leaving the man his corner so he can study the stupid chest on his own. Instead, I snatch up my rag and stride closer to the plant near the door. “I don’t convince people to buy things. Usually, the treasure they’ve discovered sells itself. My job is simply to facilitate the exchange of money and organize shipping, if shipping is required.”
With jerky, angry movements, I spray the top of the pothos and set the bottle down so I can work on cleaning the dusty leaves.
“It’s a chest,” I grunt. “It’s made of some kind of wood. Someone else used to own it.” And if Jakeline could hear me right now, I’d be on my ass so fast, I wouldn’t even have time to grab my spray bottle. “I think it’s old, though I can’t be sure. Hit up any garage sale out in the boroughs this weekend and you’ll probably score one much the same, but at a fraction of the cost.”
“You’re good at this, huh?” He turns on his heels, ignoring the very thing he claims to have come in to buy. “You have a passion for selling antiques. Your spiel has moved me.”
“Has it moved you right out the door?” I straighten my back and glance across to meet his eyes. “I could go on with my pitch, if not.”
He sniggers, dropping his shoulders and head in a kind of submission. “I’ve really offended you.” He peers up through long lashes. “It’s my job to protect my family, Ms. Hale. And your ‘I know nothing about the chest I’m supposed to be selling’ does nothing to further your argument that you are who you say you are.”
“I no longer wish to play your game.” I spin back to the pothos and continue wiping. “You’ve decided you have a problem with me. You’re intent on engaging in this back-and-forth, so much so that you’ve come to my place of work, after accosting me last night at the restaurant I chose to dine in. You’re seeking me out, not the other way around. So I figure, me staying away isn’t achieving the result I’m looking for. So if I simply ignore you…”
And so I do. I spray and wipe and pretend I’m in this store all on my own.
“What is the result you’re looking for?” He stalks closer, a dark shadow deep in my peripherals. “What do you want?”
“To never have met you.” I set down my bottle and gently caress a pothos leaf that’s almost as broad as my palm. The dark green, almost matching Micah’s eyes. “For some odd reason, the universe decided to tangle us up a month ago. I didn’t leave my home that evening expecting to meet you and jack my life up. So if I could go back in time and choose a different club to meet my friends in that night, I promise you,” I peer over my shoulder, and groan internally when I find him impossibly close.
Just three feet away. His body warmth, emanating forward. His cologne, trickling into my lungs.
“I would have stayed away from CeCe’s if I knew this was the mess I would walk into.”
“Sell me the chest,” he orders, low and dangerous. “Convince me to want it, Tiia.”
“It’s old.” I bring my attention back to my plant and ignore the man whose stubble draws my eyes each time I look his way. “And it’s severely underpriced. You could buy it today, insure it for three times its cost, lose it tomorrow, and take your payout. It’s practically printing money.”
His brows pinch, noticeable even from the corner of my eyes. “If you could make that much money in a day and a half, why haven’t you done it?”
“Because I don’t have seventy grand to drop on it in the first place.” I gently release the pothos limb and pick up another, careful not to snap the delicate lengths. “I work here, Micah; I don’t run the place. And I assure you, whatever you pay for that chest today, even at rock-bottom pricing, it will far exceed my yearly income.”
“So convince me to buy it,” he presses. Another step forward. “Convince me to love it. Maybe I’ll gift it to you.”
I scoff, loud and jarring and not at all me. “No thanks.”
“You don’t want such a grand gift?”
“I don’t want you to be here!” I release the next limb and half-turn to meet his gaze. “It’s closing time. I have things to do. Places to go. People to see. None of which include sharing space with a man who thinks threatening a woman with his knife at her throat is in any way excusable or forgivable.” I grab my supplies and step around him again, taking back my space and leaving him to a corner. That’s more than he deserves. “If you insist on hating me, and wish to slit my throat, then please do so sooner rather than later. If I’m going to die, I’d rather not spend time sweeping the floors first.”
“I’m not going to kill you.” He turns on his heels and watches me. So at ease. So relaxed. “I’ve decided you may be telling the truth.”
“Oh! Well.” I roll my eyes and stride across to my desk. “So magnanimous of you. Will you hurry and buy your chest, then, so I can leave? It belonged to a soldier who went off to war. He traveled in his youth, at just twenty-something years old, and fought god knows who, for whatever reason the men in power deemed suitable. He gifted this chest to the woman he loved.” I set my spray bottle down and perch my hands on my hips. “She cheated on him while he was gone. Had another man’s baby, and sold the chest to buy a farm.” I flash a vindictive, horrible smile; poison, partly for the man who studies me, and partly for myself, for telling a lie and besmirching history when I know the chest’s real origins are far prettier.
And more tragic.
“She was a nasty, lying whore who laid with another man. When it was all said and done, and she’d sold all of her belongings for fast money, she went searching for her soldier—hoping to rekindle her net wealth, I suppose. But he’d died at war.” I present my hand, palm side up. “I’ll cut you a deal and part with the chest for sixty-nine thousand dollars. You can use the other thousand to buy another suit and maybe a night with a whore.”
“A thousand dollars for a suit and sex?” He starts in my direction, his expression thoughtful, and yet, carrying himself with confidence, commanding of the space he walks within. “Either my suit is gonna be ugly, Ms. Hale, or my cock will be red and rashy tomorrow.”
“Is it not already?” I give him a pithy smile and hate that our conversation has somehow landed here, on the subject of his penis. “Do we have a deal?”
“We do not.” He comes to a stop ten feet from where I stand, and tilts his head to the side. “I’ll pay full price for the chest, but only after you tell me its real origins. And…”
My eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “And, what?”
“And I want the devil’s ivy.”
“The…” Stunned, I look around. “What?”
He hooks a thumb back toward the door. “She needs a bigger pot, less direct sunlight, better soil. And more love.” He broadens his chest, though I swear I thought it impossible. “I want the ivy.”
“Ummm… Jakeline said it’s called a pothos. So maybe it’s not what you think it is.”
“It’s exactly what I think it is. And your treatment is criminal at best.”
“My treatment? I was wiping it down! I was giving it love.”
“You were strangling an already yellow leaf,” he tosses back. “I want the ivy. The pot. The spray bottle. The chest. And I want a truce.”
“A tru—” My heart thumps to a standstill. Nerves strangling me, just as surely as he asserts I strangled the plant. “Y-you want a truce?”
“It would seem I acted rashly when we crossed paths last night.” He swallows, grimacing as though crow doesn’t taste all that nice. “I have always, and will always, be protective of those I love. I’ve had to circumvent a thousand beautiful women, over the course of my lifetime, who thought their pretty faces and damsel acts could hide the threat they posed to me or mine. I assumed you were another one of them.” He drops his chin. “I’ve yet to decide I was wrong.”
The ground he was making, if only infinitesimal, washes away on a wave of anger.
“But I am willing to explore the possibility you’re not one of them.”
“One of them?”
“A murderous, treasonous, evil bitch who would make me regret my leniency.”
“Oh, good.” I snarl. “I’m so glad I’ve moved on from treasonous bitchery, to… what? Tolerable?”
His lips curl, the effect handsome enough to make my stomach flip.
He’s not allowed to be handsome. He’s not allowed to be endearing.
“How much do you make on these sales?” He nods toward my shoulder, though I’m sure he means the chest at my back. “Commission?”
“Five percent of the sale price.” But why I tell him that, I have no clue. “I make a base salary, plus commission on top.”
“And five percent of sixty-nine thousand dollars is…” He pauses for a beat, working the math in his mind. “Three thousand, four hundred and fifty.” He nods—impressed, I suppose. “That’s not a bad day at work, really. If you sell just one piece a day, you’re laughing all the way to the bank.”
“Uh huh. Except, I’m not likely to sell more than a piece a month, since our prices are a little steep.”
“But you said the chest is undervalued.”
“It is.” I hate that he’s wiggled a conversation out of me. That his bad behavior is being rewarded with civility. “The chest is easily worth three times more than we’re asking. But seventy-grand is still seventy-grand, and regular Joes aren’t often walking in off the street to drop that kind of cash. Though,” a small smile, genuine, even against my will, curls along my lips, “I sold a lovely desk yesterday. It was cheap, too, but the commission I made was… well…” Not polite to discuss. “Decent. So will you take the chest or not?”
“Only after you tell me the real story.” He looks down at his shoes, grinning like what he sees is entertaining. “I know you’re not selling me an antique in which the history is ‘she was a slut, and then she died.’”
“I might be. It happens more often than we think.” I turn and lean against my desk, setting my hands by my thighs. Getting comfortable, since it seems he’s in no rush to get out of here. “Women can be vindictive, nasty beings. Which,” I scoff under my breath, “I suppose you already know. Hence the threatening my life stuff.”
“You gonna keep mentioning that into forever, or…?”
“Certainly. But I don’t intend to see or speak to you again once you hand me seventy-thousand big ones and walk out of here. So I’ll tell my story to everyone else.” I breathe out a whimsical sigh. “That time the mafia nearly ended my life. I had a belly filled with gnocchi, and was sporting underwear I wasn’t keen on the medical examiner seeing.” I glance across and grin. “Not the best way to go out. But I figure we rarely get a say in these things.”
“Sixty-nine thousand big ones.” He steps right over the rest of everything else I say. “And the vine. They’re known for good fortune, did you know that?”
“Hmm?” I chew on the inside of my cheek and consider the man who trotted right past scummy slime territory and into he knows how to charm a woman once he puts the knife away. “The chest?”
“The ivy. Place them in a corner of your home, and they’ll purify the air and bring you good things.”
“And yet,” I sneer somewhat playfully, “it was in the corner here, and you still walked through the door.”
“Home being the operative word. Not some snobby shop in the lower East End. But they’re also known as the money plant. If you focus on the leaves and squint your eyes a little, they kind of look like coins.”
Intrigued, I peer past him and narrow my eyes. But all that does is turn the green mess into a larger, blurrier green mess.
Shaking my head, I blink once, twice, three times before I meet his stare again. “I’ll take your word for it. Are you ready to check out now? And do you want to carry your vine out of here yourself, or shall I have it couriered over tomorrow?”
“You in a rush to leave?” He rests on one leg, crossing his right over his left, so his right foot sits in front of the other. “You’re making a few grand off this sale, Ms. Hale. The least you can do is give me an hour of your time.”
I slouch. Because I’m tired, and I have no reason to want to impress this man. God knows, if I even try, he’ll assume I’m a whore just wanting his attention and a chance to kill him and his brothers. “It’s five o’clock, Mr. Malone. I’m ready to go home. I have a guest coming over, and a meal I still have to order so we can eat at a respectable hour. If you want the chest, you’re welcome to make the purchase and take it. If you want the whole experience—fawning from a woman who thinks you look good, a complimentary cup of coffee, and a little history lesson to go with the box—then I suggest you come back tomorrow around ten a.m. Jakeline will be in by then, and I’m sure she’d love to fluff your egotistical feathers.”
“I want you to fluff them.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t back up even a single step. But he smirks, roguish and challenging. “Three and a half thousand dollars in your pocket, Tiia. And a plant you never again have to clean. I’m certain your guest can wait.”
“You make assumptions.” I push off the desk and snatch up my spray bottle and rag. Because I still have work to do, and I want to get out of here. “We all know assumptions can make a man look silly.” Stopping by the door, I squirt fresh water onto the pothos and start wiping. “My guest is not typically a patient person. So no, he can’t wait.”
“A lover? You have a date tonight?”
“What I have is a right to privacy.” I swipe my rag along a green leaf with small, golden specks a bit like a leopard’s spots. “And no reason to share with you details of my personal life. He was a Mongolian warrior, by the way.”
Curious, he turns, his nostrils twitching. “Your date?”
I snort. “The owner of the trunk. He was a Mongolian warrior who left his lover behind to fight another man’s war. His wife did get pregnant, like I said. But the baby was his. They were, by all reports, in love. And if not for dying in battle, I doubt he intended to leave her.”
“And the woman?” he asks. “The child?”
“Perished soon after.”
And that thought, the tragedy, hurts me on a soul-deep level. It seems foolish to feel that way; the couple lived hundreds of years before I did. Many hundreds. But their love makes my heart ache anyway.
“She passed away giving birth. And the trunk, I think, has become a very special part of history because of it. Or at least,” I give the plant another spritz, “that’s how I feel. If I could buy it for myself, I would.”
“For the insurance claim?” Smug, he starts forward. One step. Two. “You’d torch it and make your money back three-fold?”
“No. I would put it in my bedroom, and hide all my most special treasures inside. If my home was burning, it’s the first thing I’d make sure to save.”
I gently wipe a hand-sized leaf and exhale. I hate that he so easily tricks me into relaxing. “Can you please make a decision on your purchase?” Releasing the leaf, I glance across to the man who stares. “I can’t leave until you leave.”
“So maybe I’ll stay all night.” He gently pulls a captain’s chair closer to him, a fifteen-thousand-dollar piece that not even I have sat in. Lowering into it, he fixes his pants and settles his left ankle on his right knee. “I’m not done spending time with you, and you’re trapped for as long as my ass is sitting here.”
“Or,” I counter solemnly, “until I call the cops—which is probably the wrong thing to say to a man who carries the last name you do. But I’m not staying here all night, and if you think you can hold me here, Malone, then I’ll call your bluff and ring the police. I doubt you’ll still be here by the time they arrive.”
“What happened to the child?”
“The…” Confused, I meet his eyes. “What?”
“The Mongolian infant whose father went to war and whose mother died.”
“Um…” I bring my hand up and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Went on to live a full life, I believe. He, too, became a warrior, but eventually married and made a family, which is how the chest came down through time.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“The stuff about the owner of the chest? I read about it.” I set my things down and step to the door, flipping the Open sign to Closed, and dropping the blinds to dissuade anyone else from coming in. “I make it a point to research the pieces that come through this shop. I would look stupid if I attempted to sell a box for seventy thousand dollars but had no clue why it was so valuable.”
“Sixty-nine thousand.” He counters. “And I get the plant too.”
“You said you would pay full price only moments ago. But sure.” Exhausted, I shake my head. “I doubt Jakeline will miss it. So you’ve decided?” I turn and press my back to the door. “We have a deal? I can ring you up, and you can write a check. Or pay by bank transfer, but you can’t take your purchase until the transaction has cleared.”
“What’s your story?” He reclines in the chair and watches me the way wealthy men watch women circling a stripper pole. There’s a certain elegance to both parties; a level of class that doesn’t seem to exist in lower socioeconomic areas. “Who are you, Tiia? Where are you from?”
“I’ve already told you. Tiia Hale. Not your enemy. Can we skip to the part where you don’t believe me, and just get it over with?”
“Parents?”
“I told you that, too. Hawaiian mother, Latin father. I was born and raised in the Bronx.”
“No…” He bounces his foot. Gently. Slowly. “I mean are they alive? Both of them? One of them?”
“Still alive. Happily married. And if I get even a whiff that you’ve gone anywhere near them, then you’ll have been right all along—I’ll kill you.”
His lips curl, sexy and savage. “Siblings?”
“One brother. And yes, he’s also still alive.”
“What about your?—”
“What happened to your hand?”
Startled by my non sequitur, the man snaps his mouth closed and fists his left hand in his lap.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I taunt. “Are we not supposed to ask private questions? I thought prying was the theme of the night, and your hand still looks sore.”
“I’m not gonna tell you what happened to me. You don’t need to know.”
“Great!” I shove away from the door. “Then I think that concludes our evening. You’ve set down a boundary, I’ve set down a boundary. And as normal, functional, respectable adults, we both agree to honor those boundaries.”
I have no choice but to pass him on my way to my desk, what with his stupid chair parked in the center of the walkway. “I have dinner to get to. And it would seem you want nothing more from this interaction than a plant and a license to irritate me.”
He reaches out, his hand moving faster than I thought to give him credit for, and wraps his fingers around my wrist. Yanking me to a stop, he holds me by his side, his gaze burning into mine as my breath catches.
“I’ll take the chest,” he murmurs. “Because you think it’s romantic and worth the money. I’ll take the ivy, because it deserves better than this dump. And I’ll take you…”
My eyes widen in horror.
“To dinner. You’re hungry. I’m hungry. Your meal was ruined last night. So I’ll make it right.”
“No thank you.” I snatch my arm from his hold and press my hands to my chest to keep them out of his range. “I have other commitments tonight.”
“But if you didn’t? You’d come with me?”
“No. But the fact I do actually have other plans makes me feel like less of a jerk for telling you no. It stuns me to admit that, despite your woeful behavior last night, it’s important to me that I maintain good manners. Must be my better breeding.”
I move toward my desk and snag my phone. Spying Roscoe’s name not only in my texts, but in the missed calls log too, I swipe my screen unlocked and tap on his contact.
I hold the device to my ear, but my attention is focused solely on the son of a mafia don currently inside my workplace. “Please leave, Micah. I no longer wish to entertain this discussion.”
“Tiia?” My call connects, and Roscoe’s voice registers somewhere at the back of my consciousness. “Hello?”
“I’ll leave.” Micah slowly stands, his breath coming out on a groan that shoots odd spears to the base of my stomach. “But I’ll be back tomorrow for my chest.”
“Tiia!” Roscoe snaps. “Ipo? You there?”
“Make sure you get home safe.” Micah pushes the chair back to where it originally sat, and slowly starts toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll take the day off.”
He chuckles, strolling along the sparkling tile flooring. But where I expect him to open the door and step out, he detours to the pothos. Picking it up, pot and all, he hugs it to his chest. “Then I’ll come to your home to complete our transaction. Be here, Ms. Hale.” Finally, he grabs the handle and drags the glass door open. “Or I’ll come find you.”
“Tiia!” Roscoe shouts. “Hey!?”
“Goodnight.” Micah crosses the threshold and moves onto the sidewalk outside.
The sun is still up, since summer is well and truly beating down over us. In fact, right now might be the hottest part of the damn day. But the man in a fine suit seems to be immune to the heat, even as I smolder where I stand.
“Ipo! I’m coming to you.”
“Calm down.” I fist the phone in my hand and lean to the left to watch as the shop door slowly swings closed, jingling the bell above, and a sleek black sedan pulls up to the curb outside.
Drawing a deep breath, I collapse until my backside hits my desk and my thighs bruise from the edges digging in. Then I exhale and look up at the ceiling, blinking to rid myself of the itch tormenting the backs of my eyes. “Micah Malone was just here.”
“What?” On Roscoe’s end of the call, a door slams and heavy boots hit concrete, clueing me in to the fact he’s coming this way. To save the day, of course. To be my hero. “Are you okay, Ipo? Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m okay.” I swallow, lubricating my painfully dry throat. Then I look to the now-empty pot stand that is only, actually, an old iron chair. The dirt sprinkled on the white surface, and underneath that, the rust-stains scattered across.
“Jesus.” I press a hand over my pounding heart. “Why does it always feel like I’m gonna die when he’s around?”
“Because he’s the fuckin’ mob! Lock the doors, Ipo. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”