Release (6 page)

When the man threw his beer in his female companion’s face, some of it splashed onto Genevieve’s hair and soaked her shoulder. But that wasn’t enough for the irate fan. As his girlfriend cursed and threatened him, he’d lunged for
her
beer, obviously intent on serving it to her in the same manner that he had his own.

Sean grabbed the bully’s wrist lightning quick, halting him. The man dropped the cup and quickly transferred his ire to Sean, snarling and cursing and whipping his fist free from Sean’s hold, prepared to strike. Sean stood and spun.

The next thing Genevieve knew, the man was sprawled back in the seats, squalling, blood pouring from his nose and reddening his face and shirt with alarming speed.

It’d been hard for her to stop Sean from going after the man to give him more. She’d grabbed his arm and felt his muscles straining, tight and hard. For a few seconds, her voice hadn’t seemed to penetrate his thick anger. Finally he’d blinked and glanced over at her.

His gaze had been so cold; it’d been as if he’d never laid eyes on her in his life.

She’d managed to get him to leave the crowded ball game. The guy he’d hit had been a drunk bully, but Genevieve was worried Sean might get arrested if they stayed.

It’d all happened so fast, Genevieve later had trouble recalling the exact sequence of events. What she did perfectly recall was the cold, blazing fury in Sean’s face. She’d never seen him look that way. It was bizarre to consider this other side of his character—this shadow side—that she’d never before caught a hint of until that moment.

The chill in the penthouse penetrated the snug blanket. Her stomach growled. How long had she slept, anyway?

She blinked, breaking her intense study of Sean, and glanced out the windows. No wonder it’d seemed so dim in the living room. The storm had started. The thick, falling snow and low clouds acted like a curtain. For a few seconds, she watched the motion of the fat snowflakes. Their vertical trajectory and rapid fall indicated just how dense the flakes were with moisture.

She felt like she was being slowly buried in the onslaught of snow . . . imprisoned here with Sean. The realization of how pleasant the fantasy made her feel caused her to spring up from the couch, jarring her out of her reveries.

Even though Sean couldn’t have seen her abrupt movement, he moved restlessly in his sleep and shivered. She lifted the blanket she’d been using and draped it over his long, bent legs and torso, careful not to wake him. She flipped on the gas fireplace, hoping it would warm him.

She hesitated for a moment by the arm of his chair before she turned away.

She grabbed her cell phone and headed toward the kitchen. Genevieve hoped her Bujold Designs manager, Marilyn Marks, hadn’t tried to drive downtown from Skokie to open the store. When they’d spoken last evening before Marilyn left, Genevieve had warned her about the predicted snowstorm and made her promise not to come in if conditions got too bad.

From the looks of things outside the penthouse window, Bujold Designs would likely remain closed this Saturday along with hundreds of other businesses in the city. But Genevieve had no other choice but to go out into the storm.

Staying here with Sean just wasn’t an option.

Thinking of Sean made her mind turn guiltily to Jeff. It was ridiculous to feel guilty about anything, of course. Jeff and she hadn’t even slept together yet. It’d been a very loose, casual dating relationship.

Still, she felt guilty enough that she tried to call him. Relief swept through her when he didn’t pick up. She set down her cell phone on the kitchen counter after she’d left a brief message, and glanced around.

She needed sustenance before she wandered out into the storm. Sean could sleep a bit longer while she ate, showered, and dressed. She’d wake him before she left so that he could unsecure the door. She’d have to call her mother and let her know she was going to stay with her and her aunt over the weekend.

Where the hell was she going to stay after that? For a few seconds the image of the flames leaping from the dark outline of the mansard roof of the mansion sprung into her mind’s eye. Sean must have been right. She must have been in shock last night. Because even though she’d kept telling herself she
must
be upset, she’d felt entirely detached as she’d stood there watching her house burn.

Watching
Max’s
house burn.

It’d been like watching a neighbor’s house go up in flames. She’d been more worried about Jim than anything.

When had it happened, this feeling of disconnection with that lovely, rambling house? Had she
ever
felt she belonged there? She felt more at home in her Oak Street boutique and design studio than she had in the mansion.

Strange to think she’d hardly considered the fact that she was homeless the entire time she’d watched Sean sleeping.

She was going to have to decide where to live. But first things first. Food and caffeine were required.

And quickly.

A few minutes later she’d done a quick survey of what Sean had available in the kitchen and started the coffee. As for food, there wasn’t much, but she did find some bagels in a bakery box in the refrigerator along with a few packages of cream cheese. There were apples in the crisper. When she pulled out a bagel, however, she discovered it was as hard as a hockey puck. She was debating whether or not the bagel would be edible if she toasted it when a phone rang.

Genevieve started in surprise. It wasn’t her ringtone. In fact, it sounded like a residential phone. She hadn’t realized the penthouse even
had
a phone. No one had ever stayed here long enough to have a line installed. Apparently Sean had changed that, she thought as she picked up the receiver tucked behind a phone book on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?”

“Oh . . . hello. May I speak with Sean, please?” a woman asked.

Genevieve imagined the blonde who’d worn the handcuffs last night. “He’s sleeping right now. May I leave a message?”

“No, that’s all right. This is his assistant, Carol. I’ll just try to reach him later. He must have had a late night, huh?” Carol asked dryly.

“Carol? Carol Fallia?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

Genevieve smiled as she clutched the phone to her ear and walked to the corner of the kitchen farthest from Sean. She didn’t want to wake him, if she could avoid it.

“So . . . you got a promotion? The last time I knew, you were our receptionist.”

There was a long pause. “Genevieve? Genevieve Bujold? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what in the world . . . ? How
are
you?”

Genevieve laughed. “I’ve been better, but I’m surviving. How about you? And how are those kids? God, Blake has got to be in high school by now, right?”

“Yes, a sophomore, can you believe it? And what a heart-breaker. Every inch his father—well, before Jamie gained forty pounds and lost his hair, anyway. That’s just like you to remember his name, Genevieve. What are you doing at the penthouse? We haven’t heard from you since . . .”

“Since Max died,” Genevieve finished when Carol’s voice faded off. A silence ensued. Max’s employees—and most Chicagoans, for that matter—knew Genevieve had been the primary suspect in Max’s murder investigation for a period of time. There had never been sufficient evidence to prosecute her. The murder weapon had never even been found, and a motive could never be established.

There was no
obvious
motive that could be established. But none of that made the awkwardness any easier when Genevieve unexpectedly encountered one of Max’s old acquaintances.

“Sol Green, my attorney, handles of all the Sauren-Kennedy business affairs for me,” Genevieve explained.

“Right,” Carol agreed, sounding relieved that the tense moment had passed. “Sean told me about you being a silent partner. I can understand how you wouldn’t want to be reminded of Max all the time, like you would be if you took a larger part in the company’s affairs.”

“I thought it was for the best. Hearing your voice makes me feel guilty though . . . for not maintaining friendships, even if I wasn’t going to be involved in the business.”

“Well, it’s not like you haven’t had your reasons! I read that article they did on you in
Chicago
magazine last month. You’ve been busy. Your little boutique firm has really grown, hasn’t it? The article said your designs are being sold all over the world. I read that Michelle Obama ordered almost everything in your spring line! What’s she
like
?” Carol asked excitedly.

“As nice and down to earth as your best girlfriend.”

“And what about—oh, listen to me, gossiping away when there are more important things to discuss. Like what you’re doing up at the penthouse, for instance?”

Genevieve considered providing a vague explanation, not really feeling up to rehashing the events of the fire. But then she thought of what she’d said about feeling guilty about not maintaining friendships. It’d been selfish of her. So she explained to an increasingly alarmed Carol about the destruction of the Lake Forest mansion and answered all her questions.

“I can’t believe it. Such a gorgeous home. I remember several lovely parties that you and Max hosted at that house. And to think of it . . . ruined,” Carol murmured. She sounded dazed. After a pause, she asked, “Does Sean know about all this? I’m only asking because . . . well . . . he’d want to. Know, I mean.”

“Yes, he knows.”

“You said Sean was sleeping. So . . . he’s there?”

“Yes,” Genevieve said, trying to sound matter-of-fact; as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to have spent the night in the penthouse with Sean. She found a cup in the cabinet and poured freshly brewed coffee into it. The rich aroma seemed to brace her. “He was here when I arrived last night. He said he’s been staying here while he works overtime on some project. I know he said he was expecting you, but surely you’re not going to try to come in, given the weather.”

There was a short pause. “I’m not sure I know what—”

“Is that Carol?”

Genevieve looked over her shoulder to see Sean standing in the entryway of the kitchen.

“Yes,” she replied, a little knocked off balance by the unexpected sight of his big, male body in the small galley kitchen. His dark blond hair looked sexily sleep-tousled but his blue eyes were sharp and alert. He came into the kitchen and held out his hand.

“Can I talk to her for a second? I want to tell her not to come into the office like we’d planned. The weather’s gawd-awful.”

“Carol? Sean wants to speak with you. It was nice hearing from you. I promise not to be such a stranger this time around. I’ll give you a call in a couple weeks after I find a place to live. Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime?”

“Oh, I’d love that. I still can’t believe it, about the house. How awful for you,” Carol sympathized.

“I’ll be fine. Jim and I are safe, and that’s the most important thing. As for the house—well, that’s what insurance is for, I guess. All right then. Here’s Sean. Good-bye.”

She added powdered creamer to her coffee and listened to Sean talk while she stirred, glancing cautiously at his profile every few seconds.

“I’m sorry. I meant to call you earlier, but I fell asleep,” he said into the receiver. “Yeah, well, don’t worry about any of that now. No one should go out in this weather, anyway.”

A long pause ensued while Carol spoke. Genevieve noticed that Sean seemed to be making a point of not looking at her.

“The Skyway, too, huh?” Sean asked. “Well, it’s only gonna get worse. They say it’ll be coming down like crazy all weekend. We might get three or four feet of snow before Sunday night, and the temperature is supposed to drop. The wind is going to pick up as well. I’ll be giving everyone a call if they say conditions are too bad on Monday to come into the office. Don’t worry about it. Believe it or not, I used to make my share of deadlines without an assistant. I’m
not
saying I don’t need you, darling,” he scolded after a pause, his handsome mouth curving in amusement. He suddenly glanced over at Genevieve and caught her staring. She ducked her head and took a sip of coffee. “Yeah, we both know I’d be stumbling around blind without you. Okay. You, too.”

He hung up the phone. Genevieve handed him a coffee cup and a spoon and slid the sugar bowl and creamer along the countertop. She remembered how he took it: strong and sweet—Sean’s version of what he called
regulah
coffee. He murmured a “thanks.” A tendril of burnished hair had curled at his nape, she noticed, as he bent his head to pour his coffee. She resisted an urge to straighten it with her fingers . . . to feel the texture of soft, thick waves.

This kitchen was too small.

“I’m going to shower and dress,” she said briskly. She picked up her coffee and started to leave.

“You remember Carol lives in Hammond?” he asked in an almost offhand manner as he prepared his coffee. She came up short and turned. He finished stirring his coffee and faced her, leaning against the counter. Genevieve noticed the ledge hit him at the top of his thighs, just below the curve of his taut ass. She yanked her gaze from the enticing sight.

“Yes, I remember.” She leaned against the counter as well, trying to be as nonchalant and comfortable as Sean appeared to be.

“She just told me they’ve closed both I-94 and the Skyway between here and Indiana. If you were thinking about staying at your mom’s, think again. We’ve already gotten a ton of snow, and by all accounts, this storm has barely started.”

She studied the tiny clumps of creamer swirling around in her coffee. “There’s always a hotel, I guess.”

“You know I’m not going to let you check into a hotel. This place is yours to stay in for as long you need it. Hell, you can take up permanent residence here, for all I care.”

She glanced up, moved by the earnestness of his tone. It wasn’t
his
fault her house had burned down, after all. It wasn’t
his
fault she’d watched him having sex with another woman.