Wanted (14 page)

“He damn sure managed to get over the promise in the alley before the assholes showed up.”

“He was thinking with his cock.”

“And he wasn’t when he went down on me?”

He opened his mouth to retort, then shrugged. “Score one for the little lady.”

I reveled in my victory, even though it was the purely Pyrrhric kind. And, frankly, the reason didn’t exactly matter. I’d thought for a shining moment that I’d get the man I’d always fantasized about, and then it had all gone to hell.

Honestly, I should have expected that.

“And you know what?” Flynn said, waving a spatula in my direction. “If he’s so worked up about keeping promises, he needs to keep the one he made to you.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, a fact which must have shown on my face, because Flynn just shook his head in exasperation.

“What do you think happened on that dance floor? In that alley? Not to mention your bed.”

“Not enough,” I muttered grumpily.

He lifted his Bloody Mary in salute. “True, but I was going to say that it was a promise, too, right? He was promising you one hell of a good time, and then he went and cut you off. Do girls get blue balls?”

“Yes,” I said flatly.

He snorted. “Well, I know guys do, and he must have a serious pair. I mean, shit, the guy got you off, had you right there naked, and still didn’t fuck you. Do you have any idea how much self-control that takes? The guy’s freaking Hercules.”

At that, I laughed outright. I’d known coming here was a good idea. Already, I felt better. “Maybe he’s just not attracted to me,” I said, forcing myself not to grin.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

The smile I’d tried to suppress blossomed. “Well, duh. I’m not sleeping with you, remember? What good are you to me if you don’t lavish me with positive affirmations?”

“Good point.” He shoveled in the last of his eggs, then slid off the stool to go scrape the dregs from the pan to his plate. “You’re an exceptionally gorgeous woman with astounding acrobatic abilities in the sack. You have good taste in movies, terrible taste in candy, and you make a damn good Manhattan, thanks to my incredible teaching, of course.”

“Thank you,” I said graciously. “You’re wrong about Twizzlers. But I love you anyway.”

“As you should. But as for Evan Black …” He trailed off, shaking his head regretfully. “He’s an asshole who doesn’t keep his promises.”

“No, he’s not,” I said.

Flynn burst out laughing. “Oh, man. You really do have it bad.”

I sighed. Because I did. I really did.

Flynn took the last bite of his sausage, then glanced at my mostly untouched plate.

“I’m eating,” I said, shoveling a huge forkful of hash browns into my mouth. “Where are we going this week?” I asked, thumbing my nose at etiquette and talking with my mouth full.

Our weekly museum jaunts had started last May on the very day that we’d moved in together after I’d graduated from Northwestern. Before that, I’d lived on campus and Flynn had kept his tiny bedroom in the groundskeeper’s quarters that came with his father’s job on the massive Kenilworth estate just a few blocks from my uncle Jahn.

Flynn’s father, who rarely left his world of flowers and trees and shrubs, had taken the train into the city the day we moved into the apartment. He’d looked around the room, nodded approval, then pulled his son into a bear hug. I’m pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.

I’d felt a knot of jealousy curve in my belly. The neighborhood was safe and affluent to satisfy my parents’ concerns, but we’d taken the cheapest one bedroom we could find. We’d both wanted to pay our own way, and my starting salary at HJH&A wasn’t exactly impressive. Not that Flynn was doing much better between tending bar and working as a flight attendant. But we figured that we’d make do with me in the bedroom and Flynn in the living room—and the Oak Street Beach just a short bike ride away.

While the setup might have made Flynn’s dad proud, it had only frustrated my father, who made it more than clear that he’d happily buy me a condo if I would just say the word.

I remained silent.

Pops, as Flynn’s father liked to be called, had taken us out to breakfast, then led us to the Red Line. We’d asked no questions, just gone with him until we reached the stop at Roosevelt. Then he walked us to the museum campus, bought a hotdog from a vendor, and pointed to the Field Museum of Natural History. “Whenever you two have a day off,” he said. “Here, there,” he added, indicating the aquarium. “The Art Institute, one of those boat rides that shows you all the buildings. You explore. You learn. You see the world that you’re part of and you live in it. You understand me?” He poked Flynn in the chest. “That goes double for you. The opportunities you have flying all over the country. All over the world.” He sniffed, then pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “If only your mother could see you.”

Flynn eyed me sideways, his expression a little amused and a little embarrassed. But I liked the idea of living in the world. Especially since I sometimes feared that I’d forgotten how to do that.

Now Flynn started the dishwasher before we headed toward the door. “Let’s do the aquarium this week.”

“How about the Art Institute?”

“We went there last week.”

I shrugged.

He eyed me sideways. “If you already knew where you wanted to go, why’d you ask me?”

“An overabundance of politeness?”

“Let me guess. The windows.”

I took his hand and smiled happily. “See how well you know me?”

I feel about the Chagall windows the way some people feel about Notre Dame or the National Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. There is something about the experience of looking at that stained glass, with the oddly fractured images, so many of which seem to have been caught mid-flight, that makes my soul want to soar.

I’d discovered them by accident one day when I’d gotten turned around trying to find the cafe, and I’d stood there, no longer hungry, and just watched the light move across the vibrant, vital blue.

I knew that Flynn didn’t get my fascination. Monet, Rembrandt, even Ivan Albright’s dark and brooding images were the things that captured his imagination. But to his credit he stood by my side, watching me as much as I was watching the windows.

“You know you’re not going to find an answer in the glass,” he said after we’d been standing there for well over half an hour.

“I might,” I countered. I turned to look at him. “Maybe I already have.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do?”

I shrugged, not sure how to put into words all the thoughts that had been bouncing around in my head as I’d stood there in my private meditation. The blue sky. The images that floated through an eternity, soaring but never falling. Evan’s voice telling me to let go. To fly.

And my own fears holding me back.

But when you got right down to it, what did I have to lose?

“I’m going to go for it,” I finally said, boiling all my thoughts down to their utmost simplicity.

“Well, look at you. Angelina’s getting her groove.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not. Seriously. I’m proud of you. The guy wants you. You’ve wanted him since forever. So make your move. Tell him that he’s an idiot for keeping a promise to a dead man. All he’s doing is punishing you and giving himself blue balls. And if he sticks to his guns then he’s an idiot and doesn’t deserve you anyway.”

“Exactly.”

He hooked his arm through mine. “Come on. We’ll hit American Modern on our way up to three, then I’ll buy you a glass of wine at Terzo Piano.”

“We just had breakfast.”

“And your point is?”

I had to concede I didn’t have one. After all, it was past noon and even though it was a Thursday, neither one of us was working today.

Besides, a little afternoon buzz might give me just the courage I needed.

nine

Before my weekly museum jaunts with Flynn, I used to come regularly to the Art Institute with Jahn. He’d loved the place as much as I did, so much so that he’d donated both art and money to the museum through the Jahn Foundation, a nonprofit organization that he’d founded and that he personally ran. It was his passion—finding artists who needed funding or institutions that needed cash in order to acquire or a restore a masterpiece or an ancient manuscript—and on more than one occasion I’d ended up in Jahn’s office late into the evening, listening as he discussed his plans and choices with me. It wasn’t officially part of my job, but those hours were always the highlight of my workday.

As Flynn and I wandered through all our favorite galleries, I couldn’t fight the wave of melancholy knowing that’d I’d never do this with Jahn again. But this time it was mixed with a bit of pride, too, because I knew that Jahn’s generosity had made some of these exhibits—and others like them all across the world—possible. And when you got down to it, that was pretty cool.

We’d made it past the iconic
American Gothic
and had moved on to Ivan Albright’s rather creepy
The Door
when my phone started singing “I’m Just a Bill” from
Schoolhouse Rock.
I grinned at Flynn, then snatched it up, turning away from the strange, disturbing image before me. “Daddy!” I kept my voice low and took a few steps back from the painting. “Are you back in the States?”

“Not only are we back in the U.S., we’re in Chicago.”

“Really? Where? Are you at the condo?”

They’re here?
Flynn mouthed.

“Not at the condo,” my dad said as I nodded to Flynn. “Your mother insisted on a hotel. Too many memories.”

“What hotel?”

“The Drake. We’re only staying the night, though. I need to be back in D.C. by noon tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I frowned, wondering if I’d somehow gotten my dates mixed up. “We’re meeting the attorney tomorrow to go over Uncle Jahn’s will. Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m not a beneficiary.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t imagine why Jahn wouldn’t have included his brother in his will. Technically they were half-brothers, but my dad had been three when Jahn was born, and they’d always been close. “Oh,” I repeated stupidly.

“You mother made a reservation at the Palm Court for tea. We’ll see you here at three?”

“I’ll be there.” I loved high tea, and The Drake was one of my favorite places in Chicago. Most of all, though, I just wanted to see my mom and dad.

I ended the call, then caught up with Flynn. He’d moved on to another painting, equally unsettling. A woman, Ida, slavishly dressed, her skin lumpy and discolored, her face drawn and sad. I looked at it and the other paintings nearby, each done in a similar style that showed all the ugly underpinnings of life. All the nastiness.

That’s what I didn’t like about the Albright images, of course. They made me remember that sometime, when I least expected it, someone was going to see all the way through my layers to my dirty little secrets, too.

I shuddered. “Come on,” I said to Flynn. “Let’s get out of here.”

We skipped the drink—I didn’t have time if I was going to make it to The Drake by three. “You want to come with?” I asked, certain my parents wouldn’t mind.

“Tea and tiny sandwiches and prissy harp music? Not to mention your parents grilling me about why I didn’t bother with the college thing? No, thank you. Besides, if you’re booked for the rest of the day, I may see if I can pick up the afternoon shift at the pub.”

I nodded, feeling a little guilty. Now that I’d moved out, I knew that money was tight. “Have you found a roommate? I know Kat’s been thinking about moving into the city.”

“I think you’re about the only one I’d be willing to share a one-bedroom apartment with,” he said.

“Are you going to have to move?” Now I really did feel guilty.

“Nope. I’ve got it worked out.”

I paused as we reached the main lobby. “Really?”

“What? I don’t look like a guy who knows how to make a buck?”

“Did you get a raise?”

He grinned. “You’re looking at a man with green flowing in.”

“Good for you,” I said, taking that as a yes.

We hurried outside, blinking in the sunlight, and Flynn hailed a taxi for me. I gave him a hug, double-checked that he didn’t want a lift at least as far as the hotel, and then gave the driver my destination.

He pulled out in the Michigan Avenue traffic and I settled back. The Magnificent Mile stretched out ahead of us, and I sighed, half-wishing I could tell the driver to just drive, drive, drive until I was certain that I’d stop stumbling over every bump in my life.

I loved The Drake and I loved my parents, but I knew damn well that seeing them was going to bring everything back.

Each day since Jahn died was getting a little easier. But then I’d turn a corner and it would be hard again. I’d catch the scent of his cologne. Or hear his name unexpectedly.

Or maybe I’d see the tears in my mother’s eyes.

I closed my own eyes and drew in a calming breath. This was one of those corners, and I needed to steel myself to get past it. To be strong for my parents, who’d always been strong for me.

The outside of The Drake has a sort of art deco vibe that I love. I could imagine girls in flapper dresses hanging out in the Roaring Twenties, much to the delight of the stuffy businessmen who were secretly thrilled to see so much leg and so much cleavage.

But while the outside got my imagination humming, it was the inside of The Drake that took my breath away. It didn’t scream elegance. It simply
was
elegant. A massive staircase leading up to a beautiful floral arrangement that was flanked on either side by stunning chandeliers. That was all you could see until you climbed those stairs and entered the fairyland.

I did that now, pausing at the top of the stairs to turn and face the magnificence of the Palm Court. My parents had first brought Grace and me here when I was seven and she was ten, and I’d been certain that we must secretly be royalty. The entire room glowed white, from the drapes on the columns to the upholstered chairs to the massive wash of flowers that seemed to bloom out of the fountain that was the centerpiece of the room.