Nobody's Fool (7 page)

“I'm sorry,” she called out to the shut door. “I got a fright and took your head off and I'm sorry.”

Nothing.

Holly turned away and let out a soft whistle of appreciation. The old loft had been turned into an open-plan condo with exposed brick walls and large industrial ductwork running along the ceiling. One side of the condo boasted floor-to-ceiling vaulted glass windows facing Lake Michigan. A stainless-steel and granite kitchen ran along the opposite wall. The furnishings were minimal. The big leather couches looked comfortable, and the dining room table crouched ready to seat any number from one to twelve.

One or two large modern canvases took pride of place on the bare brick walls. Holly promised herself a closer inspection in the morning. She turned in a circle and took it in. The condo was beautiful, but there was a sense nobody lived in this space. The kitchen counters were clutter free and spotless; there were no socks or coffee cups left for someone to clean up.

Holly grabbed the bottle of water and wandered over to an open doorway. It was an office, dominated by a massive oak desk. Again, ruthlessly tidy and contained. The top of the desk was clear of paper and a laptop sat front and center on the leather blotter.

She crept to the next door and saw a bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it was a showpiece. She eased her way into the room.

All white bedding contrasted sharply with the deep mahogany sheen on the furniture.

Holly slipped off her shoes and put them carefully beside a formidable tallboy. She stopped and bent to neaten them up. It didn't help. Her soaked black Converses stuck out like a set of dog's balls in the pristine perfection of the room.

A large vase of lilies made dramatic sweeps against the dressing table.

“Ah, bugger.” The mirror was not her friend. Her hair hung like a tattered old mop head down her back. Dark, tired smudges underlined her eyes like a raccoon's, and Josh's clothes hung on her as if she were a child playing dress up.

It wasn't good.

She edged around the jamb of a door set beside the mirror and peered inside. A black marble and glass bathroom, large enough for a decent frat party, glared at the intruder. The cool floor caressed her feet as Holly tiptoed across it. The shower bristled with chrome. Spigots, showerheads and faucets gleamed at her. It was too much to hope for a simple on/off lever.

Holly turned away, defeated, and slunk back into the bedroom. A shower would have to wait until the morning. Portia would have to wait, too, and as much as she hated to admit it, she needed sleep. Outside the bedroom window, people were still out and about. The thick glass deadened sound in the condo.

The bed wasn't exactly welcoming her with its arctic white, but Holly was past the point of caring. The apartment was cool and comfortable after the humidity of the night, and her feet carried her to where they wanted to be. She should get undressed, but she was warm and dry in her borrowed finery and the idea died instantly. Holly flipped back the duvet and slid beneath in one quick movement, trying not to touch too many surfaces on her way in.

She gave a small whimper as expensive orthopedic support met her tired body. The sheets were clean and fresh, and a goose down duvet wrapped around her like a maternal cloud. At least she was sure it was goose down because it cradled her as close to heaven as she could get right now.

Tomorrow she would find Portia and deal with a pissed-off stud muffin. And if she, somehow, managed to achieve half of that, she may as well give world peace a crack.

Chapter Eight

Holly woke up still tired and with a dead weight in the center of her chest. She lay still, listening to the small sounds of someone, probably Josh, moving about on the other side of her bedroom door. The events of the previous day filtered back to her. She had to find Portia, and find her today. With a groan, she rolled over and grabbed her phone.

Fourteen missed calls, thirteen of them from Emma and one from Steven.

Holly suppressed a twitch of guilt. She'd barely waited long enough to leave Steven a message yesterday before heading for Chicago. Steven got rabid about roaming charges, so she texted instead. Holly kept it brief, explaining where she was and that she'd be back in a day or two.

Emma answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Em.”

“Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for hours.”

Holly jammed the harsh words back down her throat. Worry made Emma unnecessarily brusque. Holly rubbed her gritty eyes before answering. “We were looking for Portia last night. It got very late, so I was probably sleeping.”

“But you didn't find her?” Emma's voice wobbled.

“No, Em, we didn't,” Holly said softly, not wanting the threatening tears to start on the other end of the phone. “I'm going to try again today. I promise I'll call as soon as I have something.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Are you okay?”

Emma heaved a laden sigh. “No, I'm awful. I'm nearly sick with anxiety. I think I might even have an attack. I haven't slept since Portia left.”

Holly opened her mouth to ask why, if Emma had been so concerned about Portia, it had taken three days for her to tell Holly her sister was gone. It seemed unkind; instead, she asked, “Did you get the message I left last night?”

“Yes.” Emma's voice got higher and more overwrought. “Your car was stolen?”

“Uh-huh, and everything in it.” Holly kept it calm.

“Oh my God.” Emma paused. “Everything?”

“Yup.” Holly tried to stretch the cricks in her back. “Clothes, money, and my passport.”

“What are you going to do?” Emma whispered.

“I'm going to need your help.”

“Me?” Emma's voice rose on a squeak. “What can I do? I'm here in London and you're all the way over there in Chicago.”

“Em.” Going into a screaming frenzy wouldn't help this situation any.

“You know I'm not good at this sort of thing, Holly. You know that about me; it distresses me.” Emma cranked up the panic.

“Emma.” She put some starch in her voice. “Listen to me carefully.”

Emma whimpered and went silent.

“Are you listening, Em?”

“Uh-huh.”

Holly wasn't convinced, but she forged on. “Emma, I am going to need you to organize away for some money to get to me. I think you can use PayPal or something similar.”

“Holly.” Emma went all breathy. “I don't know how to do that.”

“Neither do I, but if you go to the bank they'll tell you how to do it.”

Holly counted slowly to twenty.

Emma sniffed. “Okay.”

“While you're there, I want you to get the credit card sorted out.”

“It's your credit card,” Emma said. “Why can't you do it from there?”

“Because.” She would have to spell it out clearly. Emma wasn't stupid, but if she could possibly get somebody else to do the thinking for her, she would. “I have no identification. My entire wallet was in the car: driver's license, passport, everything.”

“But—”

“And you are the other account holder, and as such you have rights on the account.”

“Oh? What about the car?”

“I'll call the insurance from here.”

“Good idea.” Emma sounded relieved.

“Do you think you could look in my files and send me the policy number?”

“Yes,” Emma said.

“Good, Em.” At least it was a step in the right direction. “Do it as soon as you can and text it to me.”

“Okay, Holly.” Emma went quiet again. “Will you find Portia today?”

“I'm going to do everything I can.” Outside the window, the city moved into a new day. The sounds from inside the apartment grew louder. It was time to go. “You keep calling the police and . . .” The words got stuck, and she forced them past the knot in her throat. “You might want to start calling hospitals.”

“Holly.” Emma's voice quivered. “You don't think she's—”

“Don't.” Holly couldn't stand it if Emma voiced the unthinkable. So far, there'd only been that one incident, right before they'd got her sister on medication, when Portia had veered too close to hurting herself. Those were two hours Holly never wanted to live again.

“What the hell were you thinking?” It slipped out of her mouth before Holly could stop it. “You know how unstable she is and you let her go.”

A long, dead silence followed, and then a sniffle. “You're so mean.”

Dread fastened its claws around Holly's throat as the sniffle grew to a sob. Emma was crying. It's what Emma did when confronted. It's what Emma did when she was sad. It's what Emma did when she was angry. It's what Emma did all the bloody time, and Holly didn't have the patience for it this morning.

“I'm here in Chicago and I have a place to stay, but I would like to be able to take care of myself.” Holly steeled herself. “I need some money, so please organize it as soon as you can.”

And she hung up.

The phone weighed in her hand. She almost called back to check if Emma was all right. She shrugged it off. Emma would be fine because she was sitting at home in London in an apartment Holly paid most of the rent on, with all her things around her. Emma wasn't in another country, wearing someone else's clothes, and relying on a man who'd gone to bed angry with her.

What was needed here was caffeine and a shower. Both of which were going to involve Josh. But first there was an apology owed. She hated the idea, but there it was.

She found Josh in the kitchen, standing beside one end of a central island and staring at his open fridge.

He wore a pair of exercise shorts, some running shoes, and nothing else. The chorded muscle on his arms and chest slid beneath smooth tan skin as he leaned into the fridge. His athletic shorts hung low on his lean hips beneath a perfectly ripped set of abs. He must have been exercising. A fine sheen of sweat created a light-and-shadow play across his upper body.

He tipped back his head and drank from a bottle of water. His throat moved as he drank and, right on target, a large trickle of water escaped over his chin, stroked his throat, and disappeared into the carved groove between his pectorals.

Holly followed the drop into a line of coarse, dark hair disappearing beneath his shorts. She peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth.

He turned and caught her standing there like a starstruck tween.

Holly dragged her eyes away; a guilty blush crept up her neck. She didn't like the whole muscle thing. Much.

“Good morning.” His greeting was polite enough, but missing a smile or any trace of warmth.

Holly stopped halfway to the island. “Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?” He tossed his empty water bottle into the recycling bin. The bottle hit the sides of the bin with a clatter and dropped.

“Yes, thank you.” Jeez, so polite she almost bobbed a curtsy.

“Would you like juice? Coffee?” His smile stopped way short of reaching his eyes.

Holly trod the few remaining steps to the island warily. She was at a distinct crabby and grimy disadvantage. “Coffee, please?”

Dark stubble shaded his jaw, and against the warm tan of his face, his eyes were piercingly blue and colder than a blast from the air conditioner. “What kind?”

“Hmm?” Holly tried to regain her balance. The combination of his crazy, sexy body and detached civility wound her up tight.

“What kind of coffee would you like?” He indicated a stainless-steel beast squatting against the far wall like it belonged in an Italian café.

“Oh?” Of course he had one of those. “Latte?”

His body was, honest to God, sculpted like one of those men you saw in aftershave commercials. What was the matter with her?

“Sure.” He turned to the coffee machine and twisted and pulled at knobs and levers. Rippling, lovely things happened beneath the skin of his back.

Holly pulled up a stool and enjoyed the view. “Um, Josh?”

“Yes?” He half-turned to glance at her over his shoulder.

“About last night?” Holly had to raise her voice above the hissing and gurgling of his machine. “I wanted to say sorry for taking your head off.”

“Whatever.” He frothed the milk. There was no point in trying to talk over the noise. Holly regrouped as she waited.

“Look.” She tried to catch his eye as he put a steaming cup of caffè latte in front of her. “I was tired and worried and I had a knee-jerk reaction. It was nice of you to go to the trouble of carrying me up here and—”

“Don't sweat it, Holly.” He reloaded coffee grounds. “I'm going to help you find your sister and then we'll go our separate ways. There's no need to even get into this.”

Holly opened her mouth to argue and shut it again. She didn't have to be friends with Josh to find Portia. She didn't have to get any closer to him than politeness demanded. She could keep him at a healthy distance and still benefit from his help. It was the perfect deal.

Except it didn't sit right.

Josh made an espresso for himself.

He didn't look mad. His movements were smooth and controlled, no jerking or slamming things about. An impassive mask settled over his face, as if she had ceased to exist outside of the realm of the strictly necessary.

“I really am sorry.”

“Fine. Apology accepted. We were both tired.” He shrugged one muscular shoulder and leaned his hips up against the counter.

The lure of coffee won and she took a sip of her latte. Holly moaned. A man who made a cup of coffee like this was worth risking the bear cave. She drank half the cup in the loaded silence.

Josh thumbed through his phone.

She should probably leave him alone to get over himself. But she wouldn't be Holly Partridge if she did that. “No, it's not fine. Because you were great to me last night and I behaved badly. I was tired and cranky, and I have this propensity to shoot off at the mouth before I think.”

He sipped his espresso and studied her over the rim of his cup.

The heat spread all the way down to her toes. At least he'd made eye contact. “I'm sorry I was such a bitch.”

“You think I slept with your sister,” he said.

“I was probably wrong about that.” Holly managed to look contrite.

“Probably?” He glowered. “Definitely.”

Wow, he was seriously pissed about that. “Look, Josh, what was I supposed to think? Given the past and what I know of you.”

“I'm not that kid anymore. I cleaned up my act after—” He clenched his jaw. “I cleaned up my act.”

“Okay.” Holly held up her hands in surrender. “You didn't sleep with my sister.”

“And you called my car a penis.”

Holly opened her mouth and shut it again. “I shouldn't have said that.” The car
was
a penis, but she kept it to herself. “Are you done being mad now?”

“I'm not mad.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I. Am. Not.” There was a glimmer of life through the permafrost.

“Are, too.” Holly poked.

“Holly.” He stopped on the cusp of yelling at her, but at least he couldn't freeze her out when he was irritated.

“I'm not worth the sulk,” she said.

He groaned and dropped his head forward. “You are the most irritating woman I know.”

“Gosh.” Holly went back to her coffee. “That's quite something, considering all the women you know.”

He strode forward and planted his elbows on the island, putting his face level with hers. “Someone should have wrung your neck by now.” Up close she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were. A ghost of a smile chased across his face.

“Most people find me easy to get along with,” she said.

“Oh, yeah?” He folded his arms over his chest.

Holly's eyes strayed over the bulge of muscle the action initiated.

“Name one.”

She had to think. “Steven.” Most of the time. “He's always saying I'm easy to get along with.” For always, substitute sometimes, but still . . .

“And Steven is?” He kept it light, but Holly sensed a sudden tension creep back into the kitchen.

“My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” There was nothing alarming in his tone, but Holly got a shivery sensation over her skin.

The loaded atmosphere in the kitchen made her want to babble. “Technically not a boyfriend. He doesn't like that term, but, yes, we have a long-standing arrangement.”

Something hot and primal flickered across his face but was instantaneously gone again. “Is he going prematurely bald from all the hair you make him pull out?”

“Ha, ha.” She attempted to lighten the atmosphere. “Steven has a full head of hair, thank you.” It struck her how close his face was to hers. She would only have to lean forward a small bit. Until her mouth touched his mouth. Holly sat back and raised her cup.

“What do you mean by arrangement?” The weird tone was back in his voice.