They both stayed still and silent, and Cole held his breath as he listened. New York City was never quiet, not even this time of night, but certain sounds could break free from the usual noise. A vehicle peeling out. A person running. Gunfire.
Tonight, nothing stood out, which unsettled Cole more than he already was. He didn’t necessarilywanta car to peel out or a gun to fire, but that would be better than this relatively silent unknown.
He met Will’s alert, concerned eyes and nodded toward the building. Without a word, they were moving again.
The loading dock was open and there was a car parked by one of the bays. A single light was on, but no one was around.
“Do you know if that’s Cheyenne’s car?” Will whispered.
Cole shook his head. “No idea.”
They both hesitated. The wide open loading dock could’ve easily been a trap just like every other goddamned thing since Alders’s party. On the other hand, the longer they stood out here discussing it, the more chance there was for someone to show up and throw more monkey wrenches into things, so… fuck it. They’d take their chances.
Well, they wouldn’t taketoomany chances—they each drew their pistols, keeping them down but ready. And maybe later Cole could think about how unreasonably sexy Will looked when he stepped into badass mode.
He shook himself and focused ahead. There was an elevator up to the studio floor, but they went for the stairwell instead. Fewer opportunities to get literally boxed in. Cole took point, and halfway up the stairs, it occurred to him that he wasn’t sure which was weirder—trusting an armed Will Yarmouth to have his back, or knowing that subtle ache whenever he took a step was Will’s fault. He actually had to bite back a laugh at that;their immediate situation may have been serious, but this entire debacle was comedy gold.
He’d have to tell the story at Christmas dinner. Mother would be horrified.
Just before they reached the top of the stairs, something tickled the edges of Cole’s senses. Something so familiar that when he recognized it, he was annoyed with himself for not putting his finger on it immediately.
As unpleasant memories—and some painfully pleasant ones—flooded his brain, ice prickled the length of his spine. He halted and murmured to Will, “Marcus is here.”
“He is?” Will quirked his lips. “What, can you smell him or something?”
“Actually, yeah. Take a whiff.”
Will eyed him dubiously, but then he sniffed the air, and Cole could see the instant he caught that scent. He’d probably have noticed it himself before too much longer; all the wood, plastic, solvents, and other smells in this building couldn’t quite erase that sharp note of overpriced cologne.
“Jesus.” Will made a face. “Didn’t anyone ever tell him you’re supposed tospritzit on, notmarinatein it?”
Cole huffed a near silent laugh. “Do you think he’d listen?”
“Hmm, yeah, fair point.”
Cole opened his mouth to speak, but right then, something in the studio crashed.
And he was pretty sure that scream came from Cheyenne.
They exchanged looks, then jogged the rest of the way up the stairs.
“I’m done with your excuses!” an all too familiar voice boomed. “You lied to us, and?—”
“I didn’t lie!” That was definitely Cheyenne, and she was terrified. “I swear, I gave you exactly what they gave me. Theytold me they were staying at that hotel. I don’t know what more you—no, don’t knock that?—!”
Something else crashed, and what sounded like ceramic or porcelain shattered on the hard floor.
Had Cole and Will been SWAT team members or action movie stars—basically, anyone with any kind of, like, training in this sort of thing—they’d have hung back. They’d have assessed the situation, made a plan, and strategized like intelligent human beings with functioning survival instincts.
That crossed Cole’s mind about thirty seconds after it should have, and about two seconds after it was too late to course correct.
Because Cole and Will—being art thieves and not Navy SEALs, not to mention both arguably qualifying as dumbasses—went crashing into the room like the damn Kool-Aid man.
They succeeded in startling Marcus before he could knock over yet another shelf of pottery, so there was that. And Cheyenne was able to seize the opportunity to put some space between her and the red-faced psycho.
Unfortunately, both of those things happened in the same moment Unnamed Goon #1 and Unnamed Goon #2 clocked the two interlopers. Goon #1, the bigger of the two by a mile, grabbed Will and hurled him like a ragdoll into a workbench, sending Will, the bench, and all its tools and jars crashing over behind some more shelves. Goon #2 had Cole by the throat and slammed him up against the wall, stunning him for a second.
“Will!” Cole wheezed, trying to free himself, breathe, and get a bead on Will, who hadn’t made a sound. “Will, are you?—”
