That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (10 page)

She didn't want to do anything but sit in the dark. And maybe work on her Black Shadow, but mostly sit in the dark.

"George?" Alex rapped his knuckles on the wall. "You awake? Maybe you should go home, too. It's been a long day. You don't plan on putting in more hours on the bike, do you?"

She had, but he made her feel like she was a loser if she did. Closing the file cabinet, she turned around and shrugged. "No."

He arched his brow. "You sure?"

"Go," she barked, heading to her desk.

She felt him hesitate, but he didn't say anything and a moment later she felt him leave. She sat and drooped forward, rubbing her neck.

None of this was Alex's fault, but it
was
her mother's. Lifting her head, she grabbed her phone and dialed the devil. "We need to talk," she said the moment Siobhan answered.

"Georgina, you're alive." Her mother's husky drawl oozed over the line. That was Siobhan's talent: she could say “
Pick up some milk”
and it'd sound like she was asking you to undress her. "Your father was about to go over and check to make sure one of those cars hadn't fallen on you."

"I know what you're doing, Mother," George said in her best grown-up voice.

"What am I doing,
mi corazón
?"

"You're trying to distract me from the reason I'm calling."

"Have you worn the shoes I sent yet? I had them made especially for you. The red is going to look stunning against your skin."

"See?" George pulled at her ponytail. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what, darling?"

She closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she got to ten, she started over. "Next time, if you're going to send someone to me, send me an artist."

"Didn't Remy tell you? He
is
an artist."

An artist who refused to paint. She rolled her eyes.

"He had to have mentioned it. He's quite famous. Men like it when you listen to them, Georgina."

Was it because he was such hot stuff that he wouldn't paint her façade? She played with the zipper on her coveralls, oddly bothered that he wouldn't find her worthy.

There was a muffled sound in the background, and then her mother said, "Your father is waiting for me. We have new students coming in a few minutes. We'll chat later, shall we?
Chau-chau
!"

"Sio—"

The dead line mocked her.

"Damn it." She tossed her phone aside and turned to the computer. Opening a browser window, she typed in
Remy Savage
.

The first thing that popped up was his picture and a short bio. He looked like a less tortured version of himself, younger, dressed expensively. The bio said he came from modest means and then built himself up as a sculptor. He met his wife at one of his gallery shows and they fell instantly in love.

"
Wife
," she screeched, leaning forward as she scrolled through pictures.

Sure enough, there she was, delicate and blonde and beautiful. Giselle Savage—even her name was gorgeous. George pressed herself practically against the screen, studying her. Why wasn't he dancing with her?

What was she thinking? Because tango did that to a couple—made them seek out other "partners" as an expression of passion.

Clicking through, she skimmed the articles, looking for more information when she saw the obituary for the woman. Killed when she stepped out into traffic against the light, two years ago.

Gasping, she reread the article. Then she winced with a sharp stab of guilt. Maybe Remy Savage wasn't as much of a jerk as she'd thought.

George clicked on a picture of Remy and Giselle together at some sort of New York society thing. He gazed at her like he planned on doing it forever.

Man
. She slumped back, rubbing her chest.
She
was the jerk here.

"What are you doing?"

She looked up to find him in the doorway of her office, his helmet in the crook of his arm. She yipped and quickly closed the browser, feeling like she was spying on him. "Nothing."

He didn't look like he believed her.

But she wasn't going to let him go down that path. "I'm closing, so you're going to have to leave, unless you've come to give me a ride."

He blinked and looked at his helmet. "I didn't bring a spare."

She shrugged as she stood, oddly disappointed. "Then I guess you should just go."

"How are you getting home?" he asked, not moving.

"I'll walk."

He frowned as if he didn't understand the concept. "How far away do you live?"

"Not far."

"I'll walk you home."

"It's not necessary. I know where I live." She turned off her monitor and the music. The sudden silence of the garage made it seem intimate, even with all the lights blazing. She swore she could hear him breathing, as though they were in the bedroom and he were silently undressing.

The image caught in her throat, and she stepped back. Would it be weird if she turned the music on again?

"Are you scared of me?" he asked, his expression horrified.

Maybe, but not in the way he thought. "Should I be?"

His frown deepened. "Then you don't want me to know where you live?"

"It's probably too late. Siobhan probably gave you a map with the five easiest routes highlighted."

He didn't confirm it, but he didn't deny it either.

Siobhan
. She mentally wrung the woman's neck.

"Okay," he said, as if he'd come to a sudden decision. "I'll walk you home."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm pretty sure I won't get lost."

"That makes one of us." He unzipped his jacket as if preparing for a trek. "We going, or what?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm only allowing this because I'm too tired to argue."

"Uh-huh," he said noncommittally.

She was
so
going to strangle her mother. "Give me a sec. Wait out in the lounge area."

For a second it seemed like he was going to argue, but then he left.

Unzipping her work onesie, she reached for her street clothes. She stepped out of the coveralls and hung them on the peg where Poppy used to hang his. She usually just wore boy shorts and a tank top underneath—she ran warm. Grabbing her jeans, she bent over to put a leg in when she felt someone staring.

She looked over her shoulder at the doorway. "I told you to wait in the lounge."

Remy stared at her body, unabashedly taking her all in. "I don't listen well."

She turned away, not wanting to know if he found her attractive or not. It didn't matter—not at all. "I'm going to find out you have warrants out for being a peeping Tom, aren't I?" she said as she zipped up her jeans.

"No. I've never been caught."

"Until now," she said, glancing at him.

"Are you sure you didn't want to be caught?"

George felt herself flush in an uncomfortable way. She grabbed her hat and pulled it lower over her eyes. She knew better than to touch that.

He followed her outside, hanging his helmet on the handlebar of his motorcycle as she closed the garage door. She could still feel him watching her, and it bugged her. What was there to see? "If you leave your helmet there, it'll get stolen."

"I'll take my chances."

After she locked the door at the bottom, she straightened and faced him. "This is ridiculous. You know it's not going to work. Just give it up."

He faced her head-on. "Not until you dance with me."

She shook her head. "Not going to happen."

"Excuse me?" a tired feminine voice called.

They both turned to see a young woman in the street, just off the curb. There were a couple of large suitcases at her feet, plus some bags and boxes. In her arms, she held more things, including a wire mannequin. She smiled at them, but it looked more like an exhausted grimace. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, not looking very sorry, "but the key to my place is in my pocket and I don't want to put my fabric on the ground to get it out."

"Here." Remy strode over to the woman and took all her burdens in one sweep.

The girl slumped in relief, shaking her arms. "Thanks."

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"There." She pointed to Dolores's house, where Esme's PSYCHIC sign glowed from the second floor.

"You live there?" George asked with a frown. "With Esme?"

"No, I'm moving in downstairs. Dolores Fonda was my great-aunt."

"You're Michelle," George said as the dots connected. "Who lives in New York."

Michelle blinked. "You know about me?"

"I'm George. I service Dolores's car. She talks about you all the time." Then the girl's sentence hit her. "
Was?
"

"Dolores passed away a couple days ago." The girl's tone didn't convey sorrow or regret, just fatigue.

"Aw man." George stuck her hands in her pockets, wriggling her nose to keep the emotion at bay. She felt Remy's gaze on her and she turned her head so he wouldn't find what he was looking for. "Sorry."

"I didn't know her well." Michelle frowned at the door as she stuck the key in. "She was nice, wasn't she?"

"Yeah." She used to bring George cookies for payment—homemade, because she always said that she had to take care of the people who took care of her. "You're living in her flat?"

"For the time being." Michelle stepped in and held the door open for Remy. "I guess I'll see you around."

"I guess," George mumbled, slumping into the shock.
Aw man
. She'd loved Dolores, even though she was always trying to set her up with men. Somehow, it'd never irritated her the way it did when Siobhan tried it. It'd been sweet.

Sniffling, she turned her back and waited at the bottom of the step for Remy to help Michelle into the apartment. When she heard him come back, she started walking up Greenwich, toward Polk where she lived.

He fell in step silently, hands in his pockets, too. She wasn't used to people keeping up with her long-legged stride. In her mind, she heard her mom say, "Slow down, Georgina. You're galloping like a camel."

"You liked Dolores," Remy finally said after several blocks of silence.

She nodded, her hands fisted in her pockets.

"Esme was upset, too," he said in a thoughtful tone.

She glanced at him. "You and Esme seem awfully chummy."

"I have a feeling Esme is chummy with everyone. She's an original, isn't she?"

George stopped and pointed at him. "Don't listen to a word that she says. She's batshit crazy."

He arched his brows. "She seemed pretty grounded to me."

"Then you're batshit crazy, too." She shook her head. "I'm telling you. Don't listen to a word she says."

They started walking again. Normally she took a different route, with a more gradual incline to her apartment. But she didn't want to make it easy on him, so she took the steep route. Served him right.

But by the time they got to the top of her hill, where she lived, she was the one trying not to pant. He seemed perfectly comfortable, damn him.

Frowning, she jabbed a finger at her building. "Here."

He surveyed the building. It wasn't anything special, but she'd gotten the apartment at a good time, so the rent wasn't insane, and it was a quick walk to her garage. She loved it here. It was hers. "If you say one disparaging word, I'll cut out your heart with a spoon."

"I was going to say it looks peaceful." He faced her, his brows pulled together. "So tomorrow."

She shook her head. "There is no tomorrow."

"I have a feeling tomorrow will come."

He didn't sound happy about that. She supposed she couldn't blame him, given that his wife had died.

Before she could figure out what to say, he surprised her by taking her elbows and pulling her closer.

She inhaled sharply, shocked by the sudden closeness. She wasn't used to men taller than her, and she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and hooded, not entirely hiding his ghosts.

"I'm going to tango with you, Georgina."

"I hate that name," she said, really hating the way he'd made goose bumps rise on her skin. She knew she should step away from him, but she didn't want him to think she was running scared.

The voice in her head snorted.
Yeah, that was why she didn't want out of his arms.

"The name suits you," he said, his voice low. "Straightforward, with a few soft curves to make it more interesting." He leaned toward her.

Was he going to kiss her? She held her breath.
Yes, please
.

Oh, hell, no
. What was she thinking? He was just trying to manipulate her into dancing with him. She stepped back and punched his arm.