But of course Arthur Kenzie didn’t know that. Kenzie was just another wealthy jerk-off wanting an appraisal. He had no idea what that ring had done to Rory and probably enough social clout to blacklist Brodigan’s Appraisalsand make sure the shop never got another customer.
Rory had to fix this. He had to be gone when Kenzie arrived. His boarding house was locked tight by now and he was facing another night in the shop, but he could walk the streets until the coast was clear, and maybe Mrs. Brodigan could smooth things over for his stupid big mouth in the morning.
But before he could run, he had to lock up, or he was just rolling out the welcome mat for Hell’s Kitchen’s gangsters. He held his broken glasses on his face best he could as he scrambled to empty the cash register into the safe, to lock up the files, to cover the items that needed covering, to draw the curtains—and, most important, lock the drawer with the briefcase in it.
He was in the office yanking on his coat and newsboy cap when the shop door’s cheerful bell jangled like a funeral march.
Oh,balls. Why hadn’t hestartedby locking the front door?
The posh voice from the phone split the shop’s silence. “Where’s Mrs. Brodigan?”
Rory winced. Weighed his chances of sprinting to the side door. Weighed his chances of spontaneously becoming invisible. Then, with defeated reluctance, he peeked around the office’s open pocket door.
Whoa.
Standing in front of the door was the most handsome man Rory had ever seen, tall and well built, with coal-black hair, sky-blue eyes, and a frantic expression. But Kenzie didn’t seem to notice him staring as he crossed the shop in two long strides and began poking his head into every crevice, even checking behind the register.
“Excuse you,” Rory said, finally finding his voice. “This is a private shop. You can’t just—”
Kenzie was suddenly right in front of him. “Where’s Mrs. Brodigan? Don’t think of making me ask a third time.”
He towered over Rory by a head, and he had the broad shoulders and muscles of someone who did real exercise, not just moved the occasional antique lamp. His black wool coat and three-piece suit must’ve cost more than anyone in Hell’s Kitchen could make in a lifetime.
Rory tried not to sound intimidated. “She’s in bed, yeah? If she’s not asleep yet, she’s reading a novel with a cup of tea.”
“Tea? Why the—is she all right? Have you rung for a doctor?”
Rory blinked. “She’s fine. Isn’t she?” He covered his mouth. “Oh God. Is she all right?”
“You should know!”
“Why would I?”
Now Kenzie paused. “Mrs. Brodigan is unharmed? She’s not in a coma, or babbling nonsense?”
“Not that I know of,” Rory said warily. “But if she is, we should—”
Kenzie waved him quiet. His gaze swept over Rory, from the shaggy hair, to the broken glasses, to the second-hand tennis shoes. Rory had his full attention for the first time and it was enough to make him squirm. “Who are you?”
“Rory Brodigan.” After four years, the lie came easy, the name now his own.
Kenzie’s gaze returned to Rory’s face. Lingered on his eyes. “A relative, I presume. What are you doing in her shop so late?”
“Inventory.” Rory recited their well-practiced cover story. “I’m Mrs. Brodigan’s nephew. I help her out around the shop—just the little things that need doing, you know, taking deliveries, carrying boxes, getting things off of shelves.”
“Not the top shelves, clearly.”
Rory narrowed his eyes. “What’s it to you?”
Kenzie smiled, no warmth, all menace. “It’s not every night I get a call at ten o’clock from someone who, and I quote, never wants to hear my fucking name again.”
Rory winced. “Ah—”
“Look at that, you blush.” Kenzie folded his arms. “Where was your shame fifteen minutes ago?”
Rory tried to will his cheeks back to normal color. “Mr. Kenzie, I—I, might, um—”
“Where’s my briefcase?”
