On Best Behavior (C3) (9 page)

The woman watched her reach into Grant’s pocket for the keys. “Quite a charmer you got there.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, smiling as she unlocked the door. She pushed the charmer into their apartment and watched him weave his way to the sofa. She supposed she should be angry at him for flirting with their neighbor, but she loved his completely carefree demeanor. It was so uncharacteristic.

He wiggled out of his long navy coat and tossed it toward a kitchen chair, missing his mark by a full coat-length. Very un-Grant-like. Not bothering to pick it up, he continued stumbling toward the sofa, humming Sinatra. Definitely not like Grant. When he began unbuttoning his shirt, she held her breath. Slowly his sculpted back came into view, his ropy muscles lean and taut. With a body like that, he had no business being so modest all the time, and she reveled in the show. He wadded up the shirt and tossed it to the corner.

“Whoa, sailor!” She waltzed into the room, picking up his coat and laying it neatly on the chair. “You taking off your pants too?”

He spun around and placed a finger on his lips with an exaggerated “Shh! They’ll hear.”

“
Who
will hear?”

“The po-po.” He gestured to the discarded shirt. “They’ll be listening for sssure tonight.”

She frowned. The feds were okay with him turning off the mic when he was safe at home, but apparently manipulating the small recorder was beyond his skill set at the moment.

She reached up to trace the alcove of muscle above his collarbone. “Why are they definitely listening tonight?”

He shivered from her touch, then latched onto her hips and slid his cool hands beneath her fuzzy pajama shirt.

Squeaking, she jumped. “Your hands are
freezing!”

“Bonnie, it’s cold outside,” he sang, abruptly sliding his hands up under her arms and lifting her like a pairs figure skater.

From above she watched his shoulder muscles flex and ripple, holding her weight. Her eyes locked on his as he slowly lowered her, and her legs snaked around his waist. She crossed her ankles behind his back, sat in his cupped hands, and ran her fingertips across his angular shoulder blades. “Let’s warm up, then.”

His mouth met hers, sucking and kissing, a contact buzz flowing from his mouth to her brain. He carried her into the bedroom, keeping his lips molded to hers, and gently set her on the bed. He frowned, eyeing her fleece pajamas. “I miss summer.”

“You miss warm weather?”

He shook his head. “I miss easy-access silk nighties.”

She giggled. “Here, I’ll help you, drunk boy.” Her pajama top was history in seconds, and she scowled at him just standing there. “Work on your pants, McSailor.”

His eyes focused. “Yes, ma’am.”

They didn’t stay naked for long before they were both under the covers, pressing skin on skin to warm themselves.

His fingertips skimmed her back. “I wanted to do this the
first
time I got drunk on tequila.”

“Me too.” She smiled. “But I didn’t want to take advantage of you in your inebriated state.”

“You can ravage me any time, you vixen.”

She giggled. “So you’re not too drunk to give consent?”

“Lay your hands on me, Bonnie.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Lying on her back a little while later, Sophie searched for the right words. “Well, that was, um…unfortunate.”

He groaned, rolling over and turning away from her.

“Grant, it happens sometimes.”

He turned back to face her, indignant. “Not to
me!”

She tried not to laugh. “I guess you’ve never done it drunk before.”

His lips parted with wonder. “Ohhh.” His head fell back on the pillow. “So that’s the problem.
Phew
.”

She snuggled up to him, kissing his forehead. “Don’t worry, your manhood’s still intact. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Even your girlfriends? I know how you ladies talk.”

“Not even Kirsten.”

“Oh, Kirsten. Sorry I wasn’t home tonight to help. Did she get moved in okay?”

“Yes. So are you going to tell me who you were drinking with?”

He bolted upright. “The Russians!”

“
What?”

“Crap, I gotta call in. They’re probably furious with me.” He leaped out of bed and yanked open the bureau drawer, hunting for the hidden cell phone. When he located it, his face fell. “Five missed calls. It was on vibrate. Oh, no.”

She watched him, infected by his contagious anxiety.

He dialed the number and closed his eyes, waiting for the call to connect. “It’s me.”

“
What was the first thing you were supposed to do when you made contact?”

She heard Lucas Bounter’s shouted words through the phone ten feet away, and she grabbed her robe to give Grant some privacy. She left him standing in the bedroom naked. “Call in, sir,” he said as she closed the door.

A few minutes later she leaned on the kitchen counter, stirring sugar into two cups of herbal tea, when Grant emerged from the bedroom. A worried look had replaced his exuberance.

“Bounter didn’t sound happy.”

“He’s not.” Grant had pulled on some navy blue sweatpants. “I messed up big time.”

She set the steaming cups on their small dining table. “What do you mean? Isn’t it a good thing you made contact?”

He hunted for his discarded shirt, locating the crumpled ball near the corner. He set the button microphone to the off position and slid into the shirt, buttoning it as he joined her at the table. “They didn’t expect it to happen like that…the Russians inviting me back to their place right after meeting me.”

Her spoon paused mid-stir.

“I’m fine, Sophie.”

“Is he mad you went with them?”

“No. Everything went like clockwork at first. I hinted around I was looking for a game, and they took me to West Town for poker. I somehow won the first hand but then got in over my head, just like we planned.”

“How much did you lose?”

He shrugged. “Five grand…and then some.”

“I thought you only carried five thousand.”

“The plan was to get in debt to them from the start.”

Her heart thumped, and she scampered off her chair. “But they could’ve killed you!”

“Relax, Soph. The mic has GPS, and the feds were right outside, listening in.” He reached for her hand, but she began to pace.

“They were right outside…so they could collect your body after you were killed?”

“It’s not like that. The Russians need me.”

She paused, turning to him. “Why?”

“I shouldn’t go into the specifics.” He took a sip of tea, and she sensed he was stalling. “The less you know, the better.”

“I don’t like this.” She resumed treading her carpet track.

His voice sounded nervous. “Come sit down. I’m getting dizzy watching you pace like that.”

“The
tequila’s
making you dizzy. I thought you weren’t going to drink again.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” She turned to look at him, wondering what he meant. “I can get away with water at Capone’s, but there’s no way I can refuse drinks from a host.”

She eyed him. “You don’t seem all that drunk right now.”

“Getting chewed out by the FBI sobered me up right quick. Besides me not calling in right away, they’re not too impressed with me.”

Her hands rested on her hips. “What’d you do this time?”

“Well, for one, I shouldn’t have woken up Tattoo. Shouldn’t draw attention to myself like that.”

She squinted. “Who’s Tattoo?”

“The neighbor?”

“Oh! Seven-B.” She snickered.

“At least you remembered to call me Mick. Agent Bounter said to tell you good job. You did much better than I did.”

“What’s that mean?”

Biting his lower lip, he admitted, “I let the Russians drive me home.”

“Did they hurt you?” She approached the table and sank into her chair.

He shook his head.

“Why would he care about them driving you home then?”

He met her gaze. “Because now they know where I live.” He winced. “I was supposed to relocate before that happened.”

“Relocate? You were going to move
out?”

“I had to. I can’t risk them finding you. It’s why I asked Kirsten to move in, to be close to you when I left. Agent Bounter has a place set up in Streeterville for me.”

“You never told me that! No, Grant. You live with me—I won’t let you go.”

“Relax. He told me I’m not moving out now.”

“Good.”

He rubbed his cropped hair, looking down and sighing loudly. Eventually he looked back up at her, his eyes full of guilt. “I’m not moving now.” There was a pregnant pause. “
You
are.”

“
What?”
She shot up out of the chair.

This time Grant got up too, taking her hand. “I’m sorry, Sophie, but I can’t have you anywhere near them.”

She felt her face get hot, and she yanked her hand free. “There’s no way I’m moving! You’re going out there every night, risking your life, and I won’t get to see you when you get home? Make sure you’re okay? No. That’s not happening.”

“It’s not like you have a say in this. The FBI will make you move.”

“Like hell they will! They can’t make me do anything…
I
don’t work for them.”

“Bonnie, please.” He gently clasped her arms to stop her wild gesturing. “You know what happened when the Mafia got to you last time.” His fingers grazed over the bullet wound above her left elbow. “I’ll never forgive myself for that. Let me get you out of the next bullet’s path. I’m begging you. I’d take a bullet for you, but please, don’t take another for me. I can’t deal with it.”

She exhaled. “Did you know we’d have to live apart all along?”

“I had a pretty good idea. I asked them how we could keep you out of the action this time.”

“Do you think it would’ve been a good idea to communicate this to me earlier?”

He looked down. “You’re right. Dr. Hayes wouldn’t be happy with my communication skills right now.” He looked back up at her. “I’m sorry.”

“So
I’m
supposed to live in this Streeterville hovel now?”

“Streeterville’s hardly a slum, princess.” Her glare ended his teasing. “Actually, they’ll probably use it for another undercover agent since it’s all set up with surveillance. I was thinking you could move in with your dad for a while?”

Her mouth dropped open, and her pacing resumed. After a few seconds, she said, “Okay, assuming I could deal with my dad better this time around, what am I supposed to tell him about me moving out? We already agreed he’d go ballistic if he knows you’re around Mafia again.”

“That’s a tough one.” He rubbed his jaw.

“I can’t tell him we’re fighting, or he might hate you again.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell him that.” His fingers tapped on the back of a chair. “Hey, what if you told him we were trying to be chaste before our wedding? That you’re saving yourself?”

She cocked one eyebrow. “That ship has sailed, McSailor.”

“C’mon, he wouldn’t believe you?”

“No way.” She braced herself. “Not after…the sentencing. All the sordid details of my sex life came out then.”

“Oh.”

His grip on the chair appeared to tighten, and he held still for several moments. Finally, he approached her and wrapped her in a hug. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

She melted in his arms, grateful for how far they’d come since the summer. Grant hugging her instead of yelling made her trust him even more. It also made her feel guilty for referencing her past with Logan in the first place.

“
I
know!” She looked up at him. “I’ll live with Kirsten!”

“No.” He stepped out of their hug. “You can’t be in this building.”

She ignored him. “That way you can sneak upstairs when you get home at night.”

“Sophie, no! It’s not safe.”

“Grant, you better figure out real quick that you’re not telling me what to do in this marriage.”

“Why are you being so stubborn? This is for your own good! I
won’t
place you in that kind of danger again!”

“So it’s safe for Kirsten to live in this building, but not me?”

He paused, and she knew she had him. “It’s different. Besides, I thought Kirsten got a one-bedroom place like ours.”

“She did. I’d have to use the sofa again.”

“I feel guilty enough as it is, and now you won’t even get a bed?”