A French Whipping (16 page)

16

AFTER NICK LEFT,
Blake showered and changed into a long-sleeve T-shirt and yoga pants before wandering into the kitchen to locate some lunch. She found very little in the way of anything she’d eat, but ultimately made a salad with grilled chicken and an avocado dressing that turned out to be delicious.

She sat on Nick’s couch, pleasantly tired and loose after all the exercise she’d had the past few days, and turned on the old black laptop so it could load while she ate her salad. His apartment was quiet, unlike hers. During the day she could always hear a din from the marketplace: people laughing, musicians playing, and buskers hawking their wares.

The quiet made her . . . restless.

When she was finished with the salad, she walked to the tall French doors that led to a large balcony and opened them, letting in the salt air and the sounds of the bay.

She walked outside, wrapping her arms around herself as a breeze made her shiver. The patio furniture was still covered for the winter in thick khaki-colored canvas and a high-tech bicycle hung from a nearby wall.

“Why haven’t you ever found a girl?” she said out loud. Nick had always attracted women—she’d never known him to be without a date—but he’d never had a serious girlfriend that she could recall. She’d thought it was just his philosophy, his reluctance to share space with anyone, but now she suspected it was more than that. What would he do if she told him she loved him?

“Probably run for dear life.” She chewed on her lip and went back inside. Of course, he’d said that he would be happy to be her sex toy for the rest of his life, but that had just been after-sex talk, not a serious comment on what he wanted, right?

The computer had finally started and was waiting for her to log on. He’d used her name for her log-in ID and a picture of a fluffy puppy for her icon. He’d written the password on a Post-it note and stuck it to the top of the computer screen. She glanced at it, but didn’t sit.

Homework waited. She knew she should sit and just get it done. Thoughts of Nick had her distracted, though. She picked up her phone off the nearby table and wandered through the living room looking at the paintings of nautical scenes, collections of scrimshaw behind glass, and shadow boxes of seafaring equipment. None of the furniture reflected a marine theme, but every piece of art she looked at had something to do with the sea. How had she never asked him about it before? He was her friend.
Am I really so self-involved that I never realized how fascinated he is by the ocean?

Frowning, she ventured into his dining room, smiling at the tables full of ropes and notepads with obscure codes written in his strong, slanted cursive. She touched the ropes with her fingers, tracing the knots. She recognized some of the ones he’d been teaching Chuck, and others she knew from working with Milton on the magic show. She’d even practiced escaping from several of them.

Her phone dinged. It was a text from Rosa, asking if she was coming to the support group on Tuesday.

Blake wasn’t sure at this point. She supposed it depended on what was going on with Keenan, but she didn’t see why she couldn’t go. If Nick was worried about her safety, he could come with her.

I think so,
she texted back.

Good. New girl @ shelter. Hoping you would talk to her.
New women and girls came into the shelter all the time. Blake had never made any special effort to get to know anyone except Rosa, but plenty of women had reached out to her when she’d first starting going there, letting her know that she was welcome and offering to help if she needed anything. It seemed like the least she could do was return the favor.

Sure.
Blake hoped she could help. At the moment she didn’t feel capable of offering anyone advice.

Great. See you then.

Still restless, Blake wandered back into the living room and realized that she’d yet to see the upstairs. He may not want her to go up there, but he’d never said she couldn’t. Not that it would have stopped her if he had. Aggravating Nick had always been one of her favorite pastimes. She didn’t see why realizing she loved him would change that in any way.

The stairs ended in a landing with a railing that overlooked the living room and split off to the right and left. She went to the right first and found Nick’s library, or office, it was hard to tell. There were shelves of books, but also a desk with several monitors that were bigger than the TV in her apartment. He had a two or three different pinball machines and a Ms. Pac-Man. She grinned, seeing it. She had a feeling it had been a gift from Milton.

She looked over the titles, finding science fiction, fantasy, and the kind of fiction she remembered not reading in high school, but the majority of what he read seemed to be books on science and math, on simple machines, martial arts, and biographies. There was also shelf after shelf of books about sailing, knots, ancient fishing vessels, and the sea. One section did surprise her, though. Nick, it seemed, liked erotic art, especially erotic art where women were tied up in intricate ways. Several of the books had in the title
Shibari
or
Kinbaku
and seemed more like instruction manuals, while the rest were clearly collections of photographs from Shibari practitioners, their models on display in various locations around the world.

Frowning, she studied the pictures. She’d only ever seen something similar in movies, usually when women ended up dead, but these models looked serene, almost Zenlike, and the idea of being helpless like that for Nick, decorated with the knots he loved, had her breathing more quickly.

Picking up a heavy portfolio-sized tome with glossy four-color pictures, she carried it out of the room to study further once she’d seen the rest of the upstairs. There was another bathroom and bedroom next to his library, but nothing of interest, so she crossed over to the other side of the floor and found what she would have called a gym, but not like any gym she’d ever seen in someone’s house.

It was a long room that spanned the width of the apartment with large picture windows on either end. One showing the same view of the harbor as the living room, the other on the west wall with a view of downtown Boston. The long wall directly opposite her was completely mirrored and half of the floor was covered in the thick mats used in gymnastics. The uncovered section of the floor appeared to be wood, like the rest of the house.

A delicate Japanese-looking cabinet under the west window held candles in art glass jars that smelled of eucalyptus, lemons, and something herby, like basil or rosemary. She set the book she’d found on the top of the cabinet and opened the double doors to look inside. She found clean towels in one drawer and various lengths, textures, and colors of rope in another. Shivering, she eyed the book that she’d taken out of the library. Had he brought other women up here and tied them? Fucked them?

She never felt particularly jealous of Nick’s women before, but the thought of him bringing them here, into this private place, made her snap the drawer shut in irritation. She didn’t want Nick to think about those women again. She wanted to replace every image of them that he carried in his mind with her, but unfortunately, she couldn’t tie herself up like a Christmas present.

She could be naked, though, or maybe dressed in the silk robe she’d bought, her hair and makeup done, kneeling for him in this room when he came home. It was an idea.

Part of her was a little astonished that the idea of being tied up and helpless didn’t bother her more. It wasn’t just that Nick would be doing the tying, though that was crucial. Mostly it was because he hadn’t asked her to make herself helpless. He wouldn’t, she knew, without some . . . encouragement.

17

BY THE TIME
Nick and Shane returned to Blake’s apartment, the police had arrived with their van full of equipment and bomb gear. They’d evacuated the Hairy Lemon, much to Kevin’s annoyance, and several other buildings. The press had also arrived, making Nick curse. Now he had to let Blake know what was going on before she saw it on the news.

Nick turned his back to the press vans, not wanting to be recognized, and pulled out his phone, but stopped when he saw Roland approaching with a short, red-haired woman at his side, her face covered in freckles, wearing a black suit jacket, pants, and heels that made Nick glad he was male and didn’t have to endure daily torture.

She was scowling, but on her it was cute. He doubted she’d appreciate the description, but that was the word that came to his mind.

Roland stalked along beside her, making no concession for her much-shorter legs, but she didn’t seem to need any. Her no-nonsense march would have done the nuns in his old neighborhood proud.

“Roland,” Nick said as his friend approached.

“Nick, this is Detective O’Halloran. Detective, this is Nick Cord, my business partner. Blake is staying with him while we look for Keenan.”

She threw Roland an annoyed glare, but managed a polite nod for Nick. “Mr. Cord. How is Blake?”

Nick shrugged. “I was about to let her know that this”—he gestured to the cop cars and the press that were swarming like jellyfish in the harbor—“was happening, but otherwise she’s been okay.”

“Has she received any threats? Been contacted since I spoke to her last?”

“No, ma’am,” Nick managed, struggling not to send Roland a look. She was something, all right. “I thought I heard someone say something to me in the market yesterday, but I didn’t see anyone that fit Keenan’s description.”

“What did you hear?”

Nick clamped his mouth shut, uncomfortable. He didn’t want to explain why the words
She’ll never be yours
had special meaning for him, or how they connected to Keenan. He didn’t even want to tell Roland about the incident, much less a total stranger.

“Just a voice that sounded familiar,” he lied.

Roland knew he was lying. Nick could tell by the way his friend studied him, but he didn’t clue in the detective.

“Okay, it’s not much. Otherwise, no other contact?”

“That’s right,” Nick agreed.

“And when you arrived at the scene, you said you smelled gas, is that right?”

He nodded again.

“What made you suspect that there could be a bomb?”

Frowning, Nick shrugged. “When we were at MIT, Keenan, Milton, and I would build tricks for Milton’s magic shows, sometimes with small explosives. I doubt that there’s a bomb in Blake’s apartment, but it seemed stupid to go charging in just in case, especially with the smell of gas.”

“Milton’s your other partner, correct?”

He and Roland nodded simultaneously.

“Well, I would have liked to avoid the media circus.” She scowled.

“Her captain’s on her ass for the amount of time she spends on a ten-year-old cold case,” Roland informed Nick.

Detective O’Halloran glared at him again, but Roland ignored her. “I spoke with him and he agreed that sending in the bomb squad was not an unreasonable request.”

And the good detective was mad enough to spit nails at Roland’s interference, Nick gathered, reading between the lines. Roland wouldn’t have wanted the press around, either, so Nick was betting they’d gotten wind of it some other way.

“Like I said”—Nick held up his hands—“I doubt there’s a bomb, but someone’s been there and it wasn’t Blake.”

“Does she have any friends? Boyfriends that might have come by without her knowledge?”

Nick shrugged. “I can ask, but she didn’t mention anyone.”

Roland shook his head. “She hasn’t had anyone except me, Nick, or Milton over to her apartment.”

How did Roland know that?

Roland met his eyes. “She’s getting back on her feet from another abusive relationship that ended over a year ago. She hasn’t felt comfortable inviting anyone into her life.” Seeing the questioning look on Nick’s face, he explained, “I was talking to her about it earlier this year, when Milton started seeing Regina.”

“I see.” Detective O’Halloran shook her head, like she couldn’t believe anyone could let themselves be abused. Nick bristled. Blake wasn’t weak, she’d just made some mistakes, and she was changing. Surely the detective could appreciate how difficult it had been for her.

“I’m going to check on the progress,” she informed them. “If they don’t find anything, you’ll be able to collect Blake’s things after the forensic unit has gathered any evidence.”

Roland stepped up close to Nick, his eyes still on the detective’s back as she walked away.

Or was Roland admiring the detective’s ass?

“I doubt they’re going to find much,” Roland said.

Nick nodded. Keenan had never been stupid. He could have gone to MIT himself had he really tried, but other than hanging out with them and writing code or building small weapons, Keenan’s only interests had been in expanding his growing criminal enterprise in Watertown.

“He left a sign that he’d been there on purpose. Probably to scare her,” Nick said.

“Or threaten us,” Roland added. “He knows how much we care about her.”

Nick nodded. That was the problem. Keenan knew entirely too much about all of them.