Aching for Always (17 page)

“Sorry,” LaWren said. “I'll lock it for you. There. Do you see it again?”

“Yes. Got it.” What was he looking at? He seemed to be examining the edge of the map, as if looking for an artist's signature. Then he stepped away and moved out of camera range. “Where's he going?”

“Let me check.” Joss heard LaWren punch a button. “Got 'im. He's in the contact room.”

The contact room was a long stretch of glassed-in hallway with a few chairs and some magazines. It was where visitors were sometimes placed to await their host. Joss saw the image appear on her screen.

In the brighter light of the contact room, Joss could see Hugh was dressed in black from head to toe, and she realized it was the same outfit he'd been wearing the evening before. She wondered if he'd been planning to break in then. She wondered if that's why he had walked with her. She thought of his murdered brother and felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. She had cried—cried!—and now she barely believed he had a brother, let alone one who had been murdered.

“So, who is he?”

“Pardon?” Joss said, shaking off the humiliating thoughts.

“You said you knew him. Who is he?”

“He's . . .” What would she say? What would she tell Rogan when he asked about her new wedding dress? Her mind went in quick, tight circles around an impossible track. There was nothing else she could say. “He's a tailor. . . . My tailor.”

“Oh, Joss, did he find the key in something of yours he was working on?”

“Yes.” Essentially. She felt a hot anger begin to stir in her gut. It was one thing to embarrass her—something he'd done thoroughly and completely. If there were an Olympic medal for betrayal, he'd win the gold. But it was another to embarrass her in front of her people. And while she hadn't mentioned the dress, how long would it be until the gossips could add that detail?
Poor Joss. Tricked by her wedding dress maker into giving up her security key. I hear he told her she'd look like a Greek goddess. And now she doesn't even get the dress.

She felt her hand balling into a fist around the handle of her umbrella.

Hugh was contemplating the breadth of the office floor through the thick glass wall, evidently planning his next step. He pressed his hands together and began making his way toward the offices at the opposite side of the building.

“Can you block the doors?” Joss said suddenly.

“What?”

“Block them. Can you block them with a code or something?” There were two security doors, one at each end.

“I can't block them, but you need a key card to get them open.”

“He's got a key card. Mine, remember?”

“Not if I deactivate it.”

The sound of a keyboard clacking came over the speaker.

“Done,” LaWren said triumphantly.

Hugh held the card in front of the reader. Joss couldn't see it, but she knew what appeared. A little red light with a tiny, dismissive
click.

Ha!

He stepped back, confused, then looked around.

It sucks, huh, to think one thing is happening then discover it's something entirely different?

“What about the PA?” Joss asked. The public address system was used only for important announcements—“The holiday party begins in fifteen minutes”—or true emergencies: “The north bank of elevators have lost their power.”

“I got it.”

Joss heard the static
pop
of the speaker being turned on.

“What about targeting it?”

“Just to the contact room?”

“Yep.”

“That I believe we can do. Your father put that in after he got tired of hearing about cars in the Brand Industries parking spaces with their lights on.”

Hugh was trying the other door now. Sadly for him, that didn't work either.

“All right. Tell him he's about to be arrested. Tell him the police have been called.”

The feed Joss was looking at didn't include any audio, but she didn't need it. Hugh jumped about a foot at the sound of LaWren's voice, then pounded the wall in disappointment.
Perfect.

“Now, do you want me to call the police?” LaWren asked.

“Can he hear you?”

“No. I got my finger on the button.”

“Good. I don't want him to know it's me. No, I don't want you to call the police. They'd just arrest him. I've got a better idea. Ask him if he has any weapons on him.”

LaWren complied. Joss could see Hugh shake his head on the screen. “Tell him you don't believe him. Tell him to turn around, then lift up his pant legs.”

Hugh's head spun back and forth. He was trying to determine where the camera was. When he lifted his gaze to the ceiling, he was looking straight at Joss. She almost jerked the phone away.

With a visible sigh, Hugh turned, his hands held loosely in the air. When he'd made a full circle, he raised
each pant leg to mid-calf. Other than a pair of dark socks and shoes, there was nothing of interest.

“He's clean,” LaWren said.

“It's hard to tell sometimes. Tell him to take off his shirt.”

Joss felt the slight pause. “His shirt?” LaWren said.

“Yes.”

She gave the command.

Hugh unbuttoned his cuffs, jerked the shirttails loose and pulled his shirt over his head.

His chest was broad and taut, with a light dusting of copper hair that ran from his sternum past his belly. He looked like someone who spent all day doing work far harder than lifting a bolt of silk to the cutting table. And though the resolution on Joss's screen was something akin to gazing at the
Mona Lisa
from outside the ladies' room two galleries away, she could see a particularly ugly scar running across the thickest part of his arm.

“Man,” LaWren said. “Sure beats the thieves we got on the South Side.”

“Tell him to turn,” Joss said.

“Turn, please,” LaWren said.

When he did, they both gasped. The scar on his arm was nothing compared to the web of silvery lines on his back.

“My God,” Joss said.

“He's a
tailor
?”

“No, obviously not. He's at least a thief. I don't know what else.” The picture was quite stunning, Joss had to admit, especially with nothing left but a pair of close-fitting trousers, though that seemed to only make her angrier. “Can you see? Is anyone else still working?”

“George on forty-seven. Chris on forty-seven. And Mary on forty-six—Wait, no, she's got her coat on. She's heading for the elevator.”

“That's good.”

“Well, I'm not too worried. I'm mean, he's stuck where he is, and it's pretty clear he doesn't have any weapons on him. That is,” LaWren said, lowering her voice, “unless you count—”

“I don't.”

Joss considered her options. At this point, he'd gotten nothing of value. He knew he was caught. The key would never work again. But there was still the matter of a deeply bruised ego.

“LaWren, I'm not done here.”

“Oh boy. I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“I want his pants.”

“You know he's gonna balk.”

“You're attributing a pretty high level of fastidiousness to a guy who just went through my drawers.”

Joss could feel the unspoken witticism in the silence that followed, and another bolt of heat shot to her face. “You know what I meant.”
Christ, he's embarrassing me without even trying now. Well, two can play at that.
“Pants.”

LaWren sighed and opened the mike. “Would you mind removing your pants, sir?”

“Sir?” Joss squawked. “Now he's a sir?”

“I thought I'd give him a little break. He's going to be standing there in nothing but his shorts in a min—
Whoa.
”

Joss jerked the phone closer. Hugh had kicked off his shoes and was unbuckling his belt. There was something
hypnotizing about the way he handled the leather, briskly and without ceremony, before unzipping his fly. His boxers were blue with yellow stripes, like a banker's shirt, only that waist and those thighs were nothing like Joss had ever seen at her neighborhood branch. He dropped the trousers to the side, threw his shoulders back and gave the camera a withering look. The rest of him was decidedly
un
withered.

“Wow.”

Joss had to agree, though she'd have cut her tongue out with tailor shears before admitting it.

He said something. Joss couldn't hear. “What did he say? What did he say?”

“He asked who's detaining him. He's got one of those sexy British accents. ‘May I have the pleasure of knowing who is detaining me?'” She imitated him in a deep voice. “You know, all PBS.”

“Oh yeah. He's a real Regency hero. Tell him to piss off.”

“Can I make it like a question, so I can hear him answer?”

“No.”

LaWren complied, then made a worried noise. “He looks
mad.
”

He did, and Joss was glad there was a glass wall, forty-six storeys and an iPhone between them.

She'd almost decided he'd had enough, then her eyes fell on the gold sandals she was wearing—in November!—the sandals she'd run to three stores over lunch to find. “I want the rest.”

“Joss!”

“Look, he was supposed to be my Mr. Mistake.”

“Boy, you got your wish, sister.”

“No, I mean before my wedding. Not to sleep with. To flirt with. To have a
thing
with. My last
thing
.”

“If that's your last thing, I think you should rethink the rules of engagement.”

“Would it make any difference to you to know that he conned me into trying on a dress by telling me I looked like a Greek goddess, watched me strip naked, made an appointment for tonight so that he could see me ‘one last time' before I got married, then stole my key card and left me waiting in his shop while he came here?”

LaWren clicked the mike. “Drop your shorts, asshole. There's a map missing, and we're not stopping until it's found.”

Hugh's face turned six shades of purple.

“Off with 'em, pal. This isn't my only gig tonight.”

He threaded his thumbs along the waistband and dropped the fabric to the floor.

LaWren exhaled first. “Are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

“Yikes.” It was riveting.

“No map there.”

“Nope.”

“Not unless it's rolled up pretty tight.”

“Yep.”

“What are those things on each side of his stomach? They look like little cliffs.”

“Hell if I know. Never seen 'em before.”

“I like cliffs,” LaWren said. “Very scenic.”

“Anyhow, you can see why I wouldn't want to tell the police.”

“I can see why you wouldn't want to tell Rogan.”

“The guy's an asshole
par excellence
.”

“You got that right.” LaWren blew out a puff of air. “I think we should have him turn around. I mean, that map could be anywhere, right?”

“Suit yourself.”

“My sweet Lord,” LaWren said an instant after she gave the command. “That's a rear end you can take home to meet the family.”

Joss dragged her eyes away from the screen. “I think we may have done what we needed to do here.”

“We have. Definitely.”

Neither woman spoke.

“Well, certainly now,” Joss said.

“Right.” Another two beats passed. “I'm not seeing an exit strategy here,” LaWren said.

“Well, let's think. We know he doesn't have a map.”

“Yeah, that's pretty clear.”

“And we know I don't want to call the police.”

“Yep,” LaWren said.

“So, why not just unlock the doors . . . and run?”

“Oh, the fourth-grade strategy?”

“Yes.”

“I'm liking it.”

The rain had stopped. Joss closed the umbrella. “Tell him you'll be watching until the elevator door closes. And tell him not to do anything funny, or we'll call the police.”

“I don't suppose ‘anything funny' includes getting dressed?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“Shoot.”

“Only if necessary.”

Joss hovered out of sight on the far end of the outdoor concourse. She told herself she wanted to be sure he'd left the building, but she knew the real reason she was waiting and she hated herself for it.

He emerged from the doors in long, purposeful strides that spoke of a life where there'd been little room for diversions, though, of course, she reminded herself, he'd made room for a diversion with her when it had suited his purpose. She waited until he cleared the outside steps before heading into the building. She signed in and stopped to see LaWren, who gave her a hug, told her she deserved a much better Mr. Mistake and offered to make her a copy of the security tape.

Joss declined and made her way to Rogan's office, stopping at the vending machine for a bottle of water. He had a private bathroom. She was going to dump her tote, refresh her makeup and zip down to the History Center.

She tore the annoying plastic seal off the top of the bottle, popped the valve and squirted some water into her mouth. Of course, Rogan said everything about bottled water was annoying, but where else were you going to find chilled refreshment that doubled as a watering can? She squeezed a healthy dose into the fern in the hallway.

Sighing, she pushed open the door and put down the bottle. Then a force like a freight train hit her, and she was slammed into the wall, arm pulled taut behind her, with an overpowering weight holding her in place.

“Frightened?”

It was Hugh.

Her heart was pounding and the wall was cold. She must have dropped her bag, because she didn't feel it on her shoulder anymore. It was clear in the blink of an eye that with the office emptied out she was terrifyingly alone. “Yes.”