Secondhand secrets, p.5
Secondhand Secrets, page 5
She took the vase from his hand and proceeded to trace a thumb over the etched-in, geometric details. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll introduce you to Gerry next time we’re at Maynard’s. He married Darleen Hayes fresh outta high school, and they have three kids together with another one on the way. You wouldn’t know it though, not with all the time he spends hiding at the bar, chasing any new female unfortunate enough to catch his notice.”
Chip kept a straight face but raised a brow of mild interest, even though he wanted to laugh at the recap on his unofficial high school rival. “So, Gerry found his niche?”
“And he quit being a pretty boy in favor of questionable personal hygiene. But of course, he still thinks he’s all that and more.” She shrugged before reaching out and patting his bicep, the heat of her hand warming his skin. “So, let’s just say, you win, Chip.”
Her stare held him, and he could have sworn his heart skipped at her apparent awareness of his insecurities. “Is that your way of saying you’ve developed a preference for geeky smiles?”
She took her hand back, her laugh turning tight as she rolled her eyes. “These days, I prefer nothing over nothing. I’m good being single, thanks.”
He waited, but her gaze didn’t meet his. “Sounds like you’ve been through some things.”
Her eyelashes fluttered through a quick, stunned pause, only for her to flick hair from her eyes in a seemingly self-fortifying move. “Nothing major. In fact, I have a lot to look forward to. Seems you do too.”
But the husky dip in her voice once again contradicted, as did her sudden flurry of steps toward her bed, where she sat on the edge and patted the spot next to her for him to sit also.
The muscles over his face tensed, and the rest of him failed to move. He took a moment to gather his bearings and play casual about joining her. On her bed.
“So, want to tell me what your family’s planning down there?” His heartbeat drummed loud in his ears, even as he leaned back and propped his hands into the white faux fur blanket behind him.
Despite all stereotypes about geeks, he’d learned to hide his eccentricities well enough to be with other women and even turned down a few over the years.
He also never really got nervous about being around any of them, his take on physical intimacy being that it was little more than an act to satisfy biological urges. Fun? Sure. Still, nowhere near the magical experience so many of his fiction books described.
Only Ally hinted at rebutting this theory. And they’d never engaged in anything more than a plutonic touch.
We just have history, that’s all.
The red vase still in her hand, she lowered it onto her lap and lifted her face to him, her sudden bright expression akin to a cheerful cloudless day. “I’m about as clueless as you are about what my parents have planned, but we’re in my house, and they are my parents, so I have more reason to worry here. I’m just hoping they don’t pull out an album of embarrassing childhood photos.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He refocused on her makeup table again, a piece of furniture not there years ago. “Your folks don’t do things by halves. At least give them the credit of having multiple big albums of embarrassing childhood photos. Hey, what’s that?”
He pointed at a matching chair tucked under the table and squinted at some garment draped over the top, distinguishing the details of filmy lace and midnight blue shiny satin, his teeth clamping down on his inner cheeks the moment he discerned what he looked at.
Ally’s gaze hit the same spot, and she drew in a quick gasp. “You’re not allowed to check out my underwear.”
She grabbed his face and wrenched it toward her, only for him to jokingly fight back, even though he preferred the view of her wide blue eyes over any inanimate set of underthings.
Either way, he ticked one corner of his lip upward in a disappointed gesture. “I would have figured you more a sensible tank top and cotton panties type.”
Her face stilled before a distinctive and alluring deep blush bloomed up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Chiiip?” She dragged his name down to a low warning. “Why are you even figuring anything about my choice of underwear?”
He gave an easy shrug, although the heat trekking through his body likely had him mirroring the rosiness of her face. “I didn’t until I was confronted with your stray wardrobe. You may want to tidy up occasion—”
“Do you want me to boot you from this room?” Her deliberate stare dared him to let loose with another joke, but the dry scratchiness in his throat kept him from doing that. Meanwhile, his smile fell at her hands still touching him.
He liked a joke as much as the next guy, but he liked this more. The delicate banter. The sudden shifts and uncertainty. Time alone with her.
So, he held her stare and shook his head, offering a rough, “No.”
Her gaze danced about his face, as though she too could feel her blood coursing at the constant push and pull between who they’d once been to each other and whatever seemed to linger now. “Chip?”
Her gaze dropped to his lips, and his heart damn-near burst. She offered a clue on where her thoughts went, but he had no words. All he had was the slight lean of his torso toward her and raw hope.
But her impossible stillness shot holes through his hope, at least until her pupils expanded into wide, black pools, and her next words poured out on a breathy exhale. “I want you to kiss me.”
Electricity shot through his arm, and he lashed out a hand, hooking his fingers to the back of her neck and pulling her in, her eyelids snapping shut in an open invitation.
He closed the final distance and brushed his lips over the silkiness of hers, that tentative first caress already pushing his heartbeat to an erratic thunder. Suddenly, ten years of suppressed emotion surged through every inch of his body, and he gave in to unspoken longing, deepening the kiss.
After a lifetime of her in his orbit, no time or distance could dull this thrill.
Where she offered a sense of gentle femininity, he countered with his hard and shameless need. Though she took a moment to join him, her fingertips soon curled either side of his face and she demanded more of him on a low and hungry moan.
Impulsive. Impossible to contain. She, and this kiss, surpassed everything he’d imagined. The exchange didn’t live only in his head but existed as real as the heat off her body and the warm wetness of her mouth. Every time he penetrated her with his tongue, her taste seemed designed to increase his yearning, so lush and addictive.
And yearn he did. With a mind skilled at conjuring possibilities, he grew desperate for relief, hot need rushing his veins so that his length hardened.
Though her mother’s voice called for her from downstairs, he didn’t let Ally go, and she didn’t pull away either, so he dared to take this further. Dared to grasp for what he wanted most right now. Her in his lap.
But his quick tug at her body brought the sharp sound of shattering clay. She broke the kiss, leaping from his hold and onto the mattress at his side. Her gaze fused down to the wood floor beside the bed, her glossy stare quick to hit him next.
Sure enough, the red vase she’d held in her lap, lay in a cluster of broken pieces.
“Ally?”
She shook her head silently, her tongue darting out to lick her red and kiss-ravished lips, as though she sought to confirm what had just happened.
Never wanting to destroy one of her pieces, he wished to apologize. But truth be told, his only true regret was that the kiss had ended. So, the only honest thing he could think to extend was an offer to help clean up.
“Have you got cotton in your ears, girl?” Her dad burst through her closed door, his presence forcing a metaphorical gulf between them, one that had Ally leaping back even farther away from Chip.
Her dad’s brows dipped in the middle, and he passed his gaze between Chip, Ally, and the shattered clay, his voice momentarily stammering before he spoke again, “You two come on down, the surprise is waiting.”
His attention held for a moment longer, and then he slowly turned and padded out the door.
Ally’s incredulous stare dropped to the mess on the floor again, then sprung back to Chip, her mouth hanging agape. “Oh God. That shouldn’t have happened.”
The shock in her eyes indicated she spoke of more than the broken earthenware. As in, the kiss shouldn’t have happened.
If hearts could sink, then his most certainly did—along with his instinct to reassure her—since reassuring came close to convincing, and he sure as hell wouldn’t do that. Not now. Not ever.
Besides, her silence spoke volumes. It said that they’d been apart too long to call each other friends, and one kiss didn’t make for lovers.
“Come on.” Burying the internal sting from her regret, he stood and reached for her hand. “The mess can wait. Your parents won’t.”
Eight
Mark Farro settled into the brown leather chair in his new home office. His scowl landed on the mahogany bookcase to his right before he trekked his gaze along the leather-bound tomes, intersecting with the occasional antique alabaster bust or brass armillary globe.
Just as he preferred, everything he’d carted over to Boston from New York screamed luxury and expense. Only his beautiful setting didn’t at all fit with the video call he was set to take.
He would have liked to visit his cousin Luciano in person. They’d lived apart for close to a decade, their branches of the Syndicate stretching opposites sides of the country, but now that Luciano resided in a Minnesota prison and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future, Mark had new priorities.
Though Luciano’s arrest struck a genuine blow, Mark would deal with his anger in the best way he knew how. Productively. With research. With a plan. Hence his move to Boston, where his presence would make a far bigger difference to Luciano’s problems than any fleeting prison visit.
A notification appeared on Mark’s open laptop browser, Luciano’s call connecting. Within seconds, the man’s joyless face appeared on the screen, his complexion gray and the skin beneath his eyes wrinkled and wary.
Mark fought an unfamiliar battle to find words, but then Luciano spoke first. “You gotta plan?”
Mark nodded through the weight of a heavy frown, his attention sliding from his cousin’s once meticulously slicked black hair, now sporting an inch of silver regrowth. Mark’s own image mirrored back to him in a smaller window on his screen—his thick, bronze waves and his tailored, navy-blue oxford shirt—a styled contrast to his cousin.
“Nice to see you too, Cousin.” He cleared his throat and told himself to get a grip.
“Now, that’s a lie.” Luciano gave a soulless laugh, the small jolt of his shoulders bringing focus to his bright orange prison suit. “What are we gonna do about this?”
He motioned to the world around him, to the fluorescent lit room behind him with sickly, mint-green painted walls. Two other men stood in the background, also busy on video calls, other men lined up on a long bench behind, presumably waiting on their turn.
Though Mark knew full well who and what he was—a professional criminal motivated by money—few people got his compassion like Luciano did.
Luciano Conti, a decade older, with a head-start in the Syndicate, had made countless sacrifices for his family. Though his money wasn’t from clean or legal dealings, what he’d done with that money was provide for Mark in ways his parents couldn’t.
Unlike Luc, Mark had a college education and abilities and vision that outstripped his cousin’s. One day, he would break from the Syndicate but not until it was safe. Not until his obligations were fulfilled. Not until he had reinforcements strong enough to keep the Syndicate away.
Despite Luciano’s assumptions over the years, Mark didn’t look down on him. He owed him. Now Luc’s skinnier face, compared to the past, came as a cold reminder of what the stress of being incarcerated had done to him. That Mark should have taken better care of his cousin. Or at least, taken Luc’s troubles in Harlow more seriously.
But Luc’s famously heavy-handed approach didn’t always work, especially not against someone stealthy like Dean Holloway, which was why Mark had no choice but to get involved.
For payback.
For his own damn freedom.
“I can’t bust you out of prison.” Mark paused to replace the hollow edge in his tone with something more substantial and stoic. “But yes, I have a plan.”
Luciano gave a tight nod. “I’m not safe in here. Not until we make things right with the boss.”
Luc couldn’t mention Rudolph Manzinni’s name from inside prison, but he didn’t need to.
“I’m keeping the boss informed.” Despite the tension drawing at his muscles, Mark plastered on an unmoved expression. “I closed a deal today that will make everyone more money than ever. Better yet, this deal will leave the entire town of Harlow suffering.”
Appease Rudolph. Avenge Luciano. Make a ton of money… Get away from this entire clusterfuck altogether.
Mark wanted to smile but wasn’t the type to get ahead of himself, even if he had stumbled upon an ingenious means to hurt Dean Holloway and make truckloads of money in the process.
This job was only just getting started, and he had a lot of lost ground to reclaim with the Syndicate. Luciano—and therefore, Mark—had already failed twice. First, there’d been the botched mission to blackmail money from Emilia Bonacci, which resulted in Anthony Stucco’s death. Then there’d been the ensuing national news coverage. Amongst it all, Dean Holloway had escaped the Syndicate, the recovery mission to stop him then leading to Luciano’s arrest.
If Mark failed again, the consequences would be lethal.
So, there was no boundary he wouldn’t break. And not just with Dean. Mark would crush them all. Emilia, Blaine, the sheriff involved in Luc’s arrest… Dean’s woman, Sarah Overton.
Mark’s move to Boston was just the beginning, and one day, only when the job was done, he would celebrate.
“So, don’t you worry, Luc.” He smiled for the first time this conversation, feeling at ease. “I’m not stopping until we hurt every person who hurt us. Not until every last resident leaves Harlow, and that entire malignant town is leveled to the ground.”
Nine
Ally plastered on her brightest smile and stood before the couch, hovering like a weirdo above Chip’s sleeping face. In typical Minnesotan fashion, her parents had kept him from leaving last night, surprising him with the Star Trek board game they’d once reserved especially for his visits. Only last night’s rematch also included the pointy Vulcan ears and flight crew outfits they’d bought as his Christmas present that final year in Harlow but never had the chance to gift him.
Smile waning, she rolled her shoulders back and straightened the hem of her loose hot-pink t-shirt. Not that a wonky hem mattered all that much when teamed with the disarray of her t-shirt’s two fluffy, white kittens on the front, plus her bare feet, and her short gray pajama shorts.
“Still a fan of banana pancakes?” She startled a little at her own overly cheery tone just as Chip jolted, and his eyelids flung wide open.
He blinked at her awhile, like he needed a moment to remember where he was. “Ahh, yeah.”
He shuffled and groaned into a seated position, the green wool blanket at his chest slipping to reveal a strong set of shoulders and pecks. “I could do pancakes.”
A good few seconds passed before she noticed her attention still stuck on his far-too-appealing torso.
“Great.” Her voice shot up as fast as her gaze. “Just great.”
She spun away to hide the heat quick to engulf her face, although at least he couldn’t hear the panicked beat of her heart. “I’ll… ummm… get to cooking, then.”
Jeez Louise. That man. He’s just too beautiful…
Did I really kiss him last night?
My childhood best friend… also… a fudging amazing kisser!
Fearing her thoughts might somehow escape her mouth, she cleared her throat and went about disappearing behind the kitchen counter.
“Don’t you ever wear shoes?” Blankets rustled from Chip’s general direction, but she refused to look at him just yet. Not while her lips still tingled every time she recalled that kiss.
She glanced down at her watermelon colored toenails and shrugged. “Why would I? I’m in my own home.”
Forgetting her vow not to look at him, she peered up and was punished with a view of gently defined back muscles, her racing pulse forcing her next blurted rebuttal. “Don’t you ever wear a shirt?”
He pushed his feet into the brown plaid slippers borrowed from her dad and merely chuckled, the man far too comfortable in her home, much less his semi-nakedness.
She pressed her lips together and hid behind an open cupboard door, her stream of uncharacteristic shyness less about immaturity, more about the searing need still winding through her body. That need screamed at her to get way too comfortable right back at him. Perhaps in his lap. Just as he’d wanted her to do last night.
“Better?”
She startled at his voice and poked her head out from the cupboard door. Chip now stood in her kitchen, too close, albeit with his white t-shirt from yesterday now on.
Abandoning her attempt to hide, she pushed the cupboard shut, careful not to brush him as she squeezed past on her way to deposit a bag of flour onto the dove-gray counter.
“Here you go.” She reached into a drawer and passed a glass bowl to him before pointing to a small bunch of bananas in the nearby fruit basket. “You can help. Get mashing.”
His gaze shifted from the bowl, to the fruit basket, and then onto her, his attention holding for a beat too long. More a question about last night than the task she’d just lumped on him. He wanted to talk. She did too. But what to say exactly?
At least her parents had taken Whitney out early, first to the morning markets and then back to Laila’s house for lunch. No one would be around to witness the awkwardness of what would be said.
