Chapter 1 #2
She wrinkled her nose and took a step closer, clutching a glass of wine and a small purse that matched her outfit.
“Sorry about that. You took me by surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here, especially tonight…
” Her gaze flitted over my features, lingering on my beard.
Then she cleared her throat. “I mean, how are you?”
“Grand.”
“Are you working here?”
I raised my camera by way of answer, my tongue thick in my mouth. God, this was awkward. If only I had the natural chatter of my twin. But no, I was always the quiet one.
“Dumb question.” With a rough laugh, she raised her drink, downed the wine, then placed the glass on the floor.
“How are ye?” I repeated her question, wincing at how I sounded. Then I continued, because it was good to see her, even if she’d originally cut me. Whether she had on a bombshell dress or a t-shirt, I could never resist her draw. “I’m glad you found me.”
“You are? Even if I acted like a bitch?”
I tilted my head, inviting elaboration. She wasn’t a bitch. Not her.
Taylor took a deep inhale. “Let me explain. I guess you heard—”
A boom interrupted us. An explosion, with the tinkle of broken glass, reverberated down the hall, coming from the direction of the party.
On instinct, I grabbed Taylor’s arm and pulled her against my body, spinning her away from the sound.
“Shit!” she squeaked, huddling into my chest. “What was that?”
“I have no idea.” I snapped a look down the corridor.
An alarm blared, a rising din that sped up my heart.
Cries echoed. Footsteps drummed. People emerged into the dark corridor. Two security guards ran towards the main hall.
Taylor gaped. “Was it a bomb? Is that a bomb alarm? Oh God. We need to get out of here!”
“Aye, we do.” The entrance Josie and I had used was close. “Come on.”
With practiced ease, I manhandled my camera into its space in the bag then grabbed Taylor’s hand and jogged.
Taylor flew alongside me, agile in her heels.
We joined a group heading for the same exit. One man yelled into his phone a frantic message about terrorists. Another stumbled, pinwheeling. I thrust out an arm to right him, losing no pace.
At the closed door, a security guard waited, pressing his earpiece into his ear.
“Open up!” I roared.
The man gaped but flung open the exit, positioning himself outside. “Keep moving. Leave the building immediately and convene on the sidewalk.”
“What’s happening?” Taylor demanded as we passed.
“That is not yet clear, ma’am. Move on.”
Outside, rain splattered us, instantly soaking and plastering my hair to my forehead. Sirens from emergency services vehicles filled the night, the approaching lights reflecting in the puddles at our feet.
Traffic stopped where attendees in evening wear spilled into the wet street. Scared people huddled behind a hastily erected police cordon while passersby got caught in the drama, drawing closer to gawk.
Panic built in the air. We couldn’t wait around here.
Shite. Josie. The guys in the band. Already moving Taylor away, I peered over the heads of the crowd and spotted the small woman, her camera in action, ignoring the police officer trying to move her on.
At least she was safe. Behind her, the three band members spilled down the steps, an older man ushering them on.
“This is chaos,” Taylor said. “They’ll start grabbing people to search and interview any second. What should we do?”
“It isn’t safe to hang around. My digs are close.” For weeks, I’d bunked on Josie’s photography studio’s sofa. The place was empty at night and affordable, unlike anywhere else in Manhattan.
A loudspeaker whined with feedback before a stark voice ordered us to move into the police cordon.
The crowd shifted. People jostled.
“Keep close,” I uttered, and we fled, diving into the crowd and the rain.
A river of people flooded in the opposite direction. Taylor blindly let me lead, and we kept on track. As we moved, I slipped off my jacket, placing it over her shoulders then put a protective arm around her.
At the junction of East 82nd Street and Park Avenue, I produced a set of keys from my bag and opened the door at the top of the steps, under a covered porch.
We climbed four flights of stairs and entered the studio. In the darkened space, Taylor headed straight for the window, peering out at the city and the route we’d just come. More flashing lights streamed towards the museum.
No more explosions had followed, but still my heart pounded.
If I’d stayed, I could’ve taken the pictures of my career—a first-hand account of a terrorist attack. But no, keeping Taylor safe had been the only thought in my head.
I deposited my camera equipment on the small table that acted as the reception desk then stooped and unzipped my sports bag that was stashed on the floor. From amid my packed possessions, I pulled a soft fluffy towel to offer my poor cold, wet lass.
Then I gazed at her for a second, silhouetted in the window, her hands grasping her elbows.
Every time we’d found ourselves like this before—alone, a dimly lit room, limited time—we’d torn each other’s clothes off. Clawed at flesh to burn up our passion on the other’s body.
I could never explain it, the sheer thirst I had for this woman. I’d had girlfriends, a few one-night stands. Nothing came close to what I felt around Taylor.
What was worse? It hadn’t gone away.
Despite her news. Despite the man in her life.
The man she’s about to marry.
That last thought had me clamping down on the inappropriate lust, and I crossed to stand next to her and held out the towel. Being the good guy, not a dick. “Here, bundle up. You must be freezing.”
But to my horror, as Taylor peeked up at me, tears filled her eyes. Then the lass, the happy, joyful force of personality I had always been drawn towards, drew a shaking breath, flung her arms around me, and crushed her lips onto mine.