Especially the women he calls “darlin’” I mentally add with no small amount of scorn.
I stare at the broad palm and strong fingers of his outstretched hand, refusing to give in to his self-assured charm. “There’s no need for us to start over. And I’m still late.”
He inclines his head in a slight nod. Using his open hand, he gestures toward the elevator. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll personally take you upstairs to the executive floor.”
I readjust my portfolio and tighten my grip on my laptop bag. “That won’t be necessary. Besides, I thought you said you have somewhere you need to be?”
“My job always comes before anything else.”
Spoken like a true Boy Scout. I might have scoffed if he didn’t sound so sincere. “Well, consider your job here done. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go up to my meeting.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Like hell you can’t.” I glare at him, my anger spiking. “And if you don’t get out of my way and let me go—”
He slowly shakes his head. Then he leans in, closer than I expect. Close enough that my senses immediately fill with the clean, spicy scent of him and the unsettlingheat of his muscled body. “The garage elevator requires an access card. To get to the executive floors as a visitor, you also need security clearance, either from the guard on post in the lobby or by another member of the team.”
“Oh.”
I stare into those sharp hazel eyes, which I realize are actually an arresting combination of gray and green and brown. And right now, they’re lit with a smugness that infuriates me as he continues to hold my gaze—and my body—captive in the small space between us.
“I guess it’s lucky for you that we met, Ms. Beckham. Otherwise you’d be stuck down here in the garage until someone else came along.”
Lucky isn’t the first word that comes to mind, even though I have to admit I’m grateful for the save. Instead of giving him the satisfaction of a response, though, I squeeze past him without a word and head for the elevator.
I feel the weight of his gaze following me every step of the way. When I turn around to confirm it, I find him grinning. And fuck, he’s got a great smile. A little crooked on one side and framed by a pair of boyish dimples that I imagine have charmed the panties off any number of women.
Not this one, I tell myself, clinging to my irritation for him as we reach the elevator doors. I have to cling to it. If I don’t, I might be forced to acknowledge the attraction that’s been smoldering between us from the moment our eyes connected.
“After you, ma’am,” he says, pausing to hold the open door.
I mutter my thanks as I step inside. But I can’t resist giving him an arch look as he enters the car behind me. “As for getting off on the wrong foot, Gabedarlin’? I’ll bet that’s the only one you’ve got.”
2
~ Gabriel ~
Rush hour is in full swing by the time I make it over the Throgs Neck Bridge from Manhattan to Bayside, Queens. I should have been here an hour ago, but there’s nothing I can do to fix that now.
I squeeze my black Lexus RC 350 between a pickup truck and a rusted-out Bronco in the lot behind McGilly’s on Bell Boulevard, my old neighborhood. I had intended to stop by my place first and change clothes but getting held up at the Baine Building for as long as I did put the kibosh on that plan.
I know I’ll catch a lot of hell inside the pub for walking in wearing a suit that costs about as much as most of these folks take home in their weekly paychecks. No telling the amount of shit they’ll deal me if anyone takes note of my recently upgraded car. I bought it used, not that it would matter to anyone inside the busywatering hole. And it wouldn’t be the first time I take it on the chin for being on the payroll of a man as powerful—and wealthy—as Dominic Baine.
To some people, I sold out going to work for the formidable corporate titan as part of his security team. To others, I’ve done a lot worse than that, turning my back on my roots to make a life for myself on the other side of the bridge. It’s taken me a long time to decide I just don’t fucking care anymore what anyone has to say.
I make my own decisions, always have.
I’m the only one who has to live with the consequences.
As I park my car and kill the engine, I remove the Baine International logo pin from my jacket lapel and drop it into a cup holder in the center console. That’s less of a concession to the contempt it might earn me inside than it is out of respect for the privacy of my employer and friend.
Even off the clock, I don’t forget for a minute how much I owe Nick Baine. He took a chance on me when no one else would, so my loyalty runs deep. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him if he asked. And that means I’m never officially off-duty.
As for my service weapon, I don’t bother to stow that before I climb out of the vehicle. No one here will give the pistol a second look, so it stays holstered under my jacket as I walk to the back door of McGilly’s and into the din of a gathering that’s already in full swing.
A Springsteen classic rasps over the sound system. Competing for attention is tonight’s big baseball game, playing on all four flat-screens mounted high on the dark wood-paneled walls. Aside from a smattering of sports fans wearing blue-and-orange jerseys in support of thefavored team, the rest of the bar’s regulars crowded around the tables in the small establishment are dressed in jeans and T-shirts.
This pub on Bell is as local as it gets, and unless you knew otherwise, you’d never guess the whole damn place is full of off-duty cops.
