By the Book, page 20
She led the way into a wide-open, sparsely furnished space with a spectacular view over the city from a wall of nothing but glass to the right. A spiral iron staircase swung up from the middle of the floor to an open second half-floor over an equally open reading room. On the left, behind an iron and wood dining set, a serving counter partially divided off a sleek kitchen. A high art deco ceiling with tiered edges completed the view.
Ben was turning around on his axis, slack-jawed; he couldn’t help it. The woman ignored him. “Hey, Marshall. Was I expecting you back today?”
“No, George, you know perfectly well you weren’t, and it really isn’t my fault,” Marshall said. “So you can remove the steel rod from up your ass and say hello to Bennett Coyne. Ben, this is my neighbor and financial advisor, George Sanders.”
Ben held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Sanders.”
He got a brief nod, and a cool, “Pleasure, Mr. Coyne.” It sounded like anything but.
Nick sighed audibly next to him, and before Ben could answer he said, “My apologies, Ben.” Then, louder, after closing the door: “George seems to be under the mistaken”—he put extra stress on the last word—“impression that you’re a one-night stand. She disapproves of me bringing them here, and tends to excel at making them feel like trash.”
One-night stands, huh? It was a reflection of their weird relationship—if one could call it that—that Ben had never asked himself what Marshall’s love life might look like.
George had turned midstride and raised one perfect pencil eyebrow. Ben got the strong feeling that this was a point they’d fought over many times before. What he didn’t quite get was their relationship. There were undercurrents here that went way beyond employer and employee, or even neighbor. Like why was she in Nick’s apartment? Not that that was any of his business.
“George,” Nick said. “Mr. Coyne is staying for a while.” He paused meaningfully, before adding, “In the guest suite.”
Her eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch higher, but all she said was, “Uh huh. You might want to check that it’s ready. Though I think Mrs. Gibson went over it just last week. At least she’s done my place.” She threw an appraising glance in Ben’s direction, before turning back to Marshall. “I was about to fix dinner. Are you staying in?”
“I’m afraid so. Dinner, breakfast, lunch. We’re stuck here. Is there enough for three, or should I order something up? Would you eat with us? I really need to talk to you.”
Her stance relaxed a bit. “There’s enough. Everything okay?”
“Yes and no. It’s a long story.”
She nodded. “I’ll get dinner ready.” With that, she went to busy herself in the kitchen. So, did she live here after all? Then why not introduce her as a roommate?
Nick was calling the apartment a loft, and this place was certainly a loft space, but if the doors on either end of the entrance connected to whatever lay behind the doors Ben had seen from the elevator, it seemed that Marshall occupied the whole top floor of the building. Or Marshall and Sanders did.
Ben slowly turned back to give Marshall the once-over. “Who the hell are you?”
Marshall had been watching him with a half wry, half wary expression. “Still Nick Marshall,” he said carefully, clearly expecting more questions.
“Right, and the government pays you well enough to cover rent on this thing. Well enough to need a financial advisor?” Ben barely kept himself from making air quotes around that last one. He had no right to the faint jealousy that nibbled at the edge of his consciousness.
Marshall shook his head. Then, just as carefully as before, as if to gauge how much he could tell Ben, he said, “I don’t pay rent, just utilities. My family owns the building.”
“Whoa.” Ben’s accounting brain was trying to come up with a value for this kind of historic building in the middle of Boston, and failed. Also, just utilities for a place like this? Heating alone must be prohibitive. He wanted to ask more, like what family, but it was obvious how reluctant Marshall was to talk about it. And, really, it was none of Ben’s business; Marshall didn’t owe him an explanation. About anything.
“Have you heard the name Morris Williams?” Marshall asked.
Ben’s history knowledge wasn’t famous, but the name conjured a black-and-white picture of a man with a beard and a top hat, in a suit and vest with one of those old pocket-watch chains across his belly. “Wasn’t he a local railway tycoon in the 1920s?”
Marshall nodded. “He was my great-grandfather.”
“No way.” The Williams family made the news every now and then, but in a quiet way, usually connected to some charity, or politics. They were old Boston money. Like, serious money.
“Why in the world would you be working at all?” Ben wondered out loud.
One of Marshall’s eyebrows went up, and that finally kicked Ben out of his wide-eyed reverie. “Sorry, sorry. Absolutely none of my business. It’s all a bit much to take in.”
“I can only imagine,” Marshall murmured, and Ben felt himself blush. George wasn’t the only one who could deliver conversation-ending set-downs.
* * *
Dinner was salad and sandwiches. Fresh, healthy, high quality. Of course it was. The whole place stank of money.
Marshall explained to George who Ben was and why he was here. He didn’t say more than what Ben already knew, but it was interesting to hear the case from his point of view and neatly summed up. It put things in perspective, something Ben had been sorely in need of.
“Okay,” George said when Marshall was done. “I was going to order groceries in the morning. Any dietary restrictions I should know of, Mr. Coyne?”
“Uhm no, no allergies or anything. Not very big on innards, though,” Ben said, surprised.
“That won’t be an issue.” George sounded as if he’d asked her to please not cook cockroaches.
Marshall laughed. “Groceries? Is that all you have to say to the whole thing?”
George thought for a second. “Maybe a new bottle of the Laphroig? Or whatever Mr. Coyne might prefer.”
Ben silently shook his head when Marshall looked at him. They were already drinking wine with dinner. That was enough for Ben. He hated losing control. Especially now. The last thing he needed was too much alcohol on top of everything else. He was very much out of his depth, and it made him extremely uncomfortable.
“Me neither,” Marshall said. “My next drink will be in celebration, when this whole mess is finally over.” He tapped the table with the tip of one finger. “No, George, what I mean is I’ve been telling you all this to let you know that now might be a good time to go on vacation or something.”
George’s eyebrow went up again. “Didn’t you just assure me it wasn’t that kind of arrangement?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m talking danger, not sex noises. We’ve been careful coming here, but I can’t guarantee that you won’t be targeted. Too many people know that you work for me.”
George got up and made to leave the table.
“Well?” Marshall prompted.
“Well, what? You’re obviously done with any relevant information.” With that, she sailed out of the room.
Marshall looked at Ben with the ghost of a fond smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “I think I’ve offended her.” He got up. “Let me show you your digs.”
The guest suite consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, and a sitting room with kitchenette. The whole thing was slightly bigger than Ben’s apartment, and had the same spectacular view of Boston as the loft.
“I feel like Alice in Wonderland,” Ben said, as he dropped his backpack on the bed.
“Well, I hope I’ll be able to safeguard your head,” Marshall said in his Nick voice, the one that made Ben want to undress him and kiss him slowly into puddle of goo. He’d been more Nick than Marshall throughout dinner, ever since they got here, really. Whether that was because he was home, or because of George, Ben didn’t know. But even if it was because of George, there was no reason Ben should feel so left out. He wasn’t part of Nick’s life; why should he be? Because he’s mine! No!
He really wasn’t. Marshall was there to protect him from a bomb or a bullet, nothing else. Tempting, though.
“If there’s anything you need,” Nick said, ending the brief tour, “just let me know.”
As if. Ben made a noncommittal sound and followed Marshall back into the guest suite sitting room. One corner was set up as a mini office with a small desk by the window.
Marshall pointed at a door ahead. “You have your own front door. Keys are on the rack. But I’m asking you not to use it.”
“I won’t,” Ben said. He wanted to say more, but there were way too many things to sort through.
“Good. I’ll leave you to your laptop then. Good night.”
He was almost at the door back to the loft when Ben said, “Nick? Thank you. For everything.”
“Don’t mention it. Sleep tight.” With that, he went back to the loft. Back to her. That should have made things easier, but it didn’t. Ben had so many questions.
* * *
Breakfast was a buffet-style affair that would easily have fed five. George, in a pinstriped business suit, sat frowning at a laptop, but closed it and left for next door when she saw Ben. Marshall, suit porn, as always, was preoccupied with a file folder next to his coffee.
“I’ll need to do some laundry,” Ben said, as he carried his scrambled eggs and bacon to the table.
“Just pile it in a chair,” Marshall said without looking up. “I’ll add it to our load.”
Ben didn’t answer, but letting anyone else do his laundry didn’t sit well with him.
After breakfast, he carried his dirty dishes into the kitchen, only to be met with the stare of death from George. Where the hell had she suddenly come from?
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Coyne,” she said, taking the dishes out of his hand.
Ben felt like an intruder, which was probably the point. “Sorry.” He turned to leave, then changed his mind. “Look, I’m really sorry I’m upsetting everything. I had no idea Agent Marshall was going to bring me here. Believe me, I’d much rather go back to my own apartment, but I can’t; he’s probably right about that.” He shrugged. “I just don’t think I can do this. Having someone cook for me, doing my laundry, washing my dishes? It’s embarrassing and uncomfortable, and I’d much rather do them myself. Or at least help.”
The eyebrow shot up. “I cook because I like it. I don’t do laundry, Mr. Coyne. We have a service for that. But if you want to do the dishes that don’t go in the dishwasher, knock yourself out.”
Oh fuck. Way to step more deeply into it. Who the hell was she? Really. If she and Nick were in a relationship, it was a very open, unconventional one. If not, Ben understood even less. Marshall definitely had some explaining to do. No, it’s none of your business. Fuck!
George had crossed her arms over her chest and stood there, studying Ben like some strange insect until he started to feel himself bristling under her gaze. He straightened his back, and gave her back stare for stare.
Finally, she said cryptically, “Hmmm, yeah, I can see it. Dangerous. Time will tell, I guess.” Then she handed him an apron. “Detergent is under the sink. Don’t mess up my kitchen. In fact, don’t touch anything else.”
With that, she left. Her kitchen, huh?
Ben spent the next half hour doing the dishes, then went back to his rooms, so he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. He tried to settle down with his laptop, but for once couldn’t get into the zone. His brain wouldn’t let go of George, of who she was, what she was to Nick, and he to her, and the fact that Ben shouldn’t be so preoccupied with that. But other than his work on the accounts, there was nothing for him to do here, or even to look at. As interesting as Nick’s loft was, architecturally as well as stylistically, the guest suite was the opposite. High-end hotel room style: all the amenities, but inoffensive to the point of blandness.
Around lunchtime he conceded defeat and went back to the loft to ask about his clothes. Marshall was pacing in front of the window with his phone at his ear.
In the kitchen, George was scrubbing potatoes. When Ben walked in, she barked, “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Ben grinned, much happier with that somewhat aggressive question than with her earlier icy politeness. He sensed a kindred spirit and tried his hypothesis with an affable, “Can I peel those for you?”
She rolled her eyes, but pointed at the kitchen table. “Sit!”
He did, taking the command in stride. He was on her turf; she was in control here. She brought him the colander, peeler, cutting board, and pot. “You do realize that the kitchen is off limits to anyone but me, right?”
Ben serenely grabbed a potato and started peeling. “I thought as much.”
“Uh huh. So, you’re just trying to piss me off.”
Ben dropped the potato and stood. “No, that’s not what I—”
“Sit!” she said, pointing at the table again. “Keep peeling.”
For a second they stared at each other. Her turf, remember? Deal with it.
She waited until he was seated again before she continued. “When you’re done, I want them sliced like chips. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Don’t salute. Keep it together.
She turned away, grumbling to herself, but he thought he’d seen a grin on her face. She let him stay while she prepped a lunch of sandwiches and potato chips. It felt like a win, though he wasn’t sure of what. Only after lunch, when he was back in the guest suite, did it occur to him that Marshall had kept so much to himself, that it was as if he’d been deliberately trying to stay out of their way. To what end?
Feeling vaguely manipulated, Ben flipped his laptop open and hit the power key hard. Or was he getting paranoid? Marshall hadn’t exactly been seeking company before either, so maybe that was just who he was, even at home.
This time Ben was able to immerse himself in what Marshall had called account magic. He’d been working for a couple of hours when he discovered the payments: two thousand dollars, once a month, regular as clockwork, to G. Elston.
Ben let out a loud whoop that brought Marshall to his door. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ben said, trying and failing to suppress his excitement. “Come here, look at this. We got him.”
Marshall pulled a second chair toward the small desk and sat down next to Ben staring at the screen. “What am I looking at? How did you get this?”
Shit! In his excitement, Ben had completely forgotten that Marshall didn’t know about the account mirror. He swallowed hard. There was no way out of this. Only through.
“Venture’s accounts,” he said. “I copied them on a hard drive when things got dicey.”
Marshall raised one eyebrow.
“Hey, I never lied to you,” Ben said.
“No.” Marshall said slowly, with a thoughtful look on his face. “You were very good about that. I was asking the wrong questions.”
Good probably meant clever rather than virtuous. “Look, I’m sorry,” Ben said. “I should have told you, but you weren’t exactly communicative either.”
With a nod, but no further comment, Marshall turned toward the screen. “Am I seeing this correctly? That Greg has been collecting payments from Venture for years?”
Ben nodded. “It goes back almost five years.”
Marshall whistled through his teeth. “You’re forgiven.”
“Thank you,” Ben said drily. God, Marshall was sitting close enough to lean in for a slow, hands-on kiss.
“Well,” Marshall said. “I’m not saying some people wouldn’t call this illegal, but only if they knew about it.” He stared markedly at Ben. “I didn’t see anything here. I’ll make sure someone finds the same thing in the official accounts. You know”—and now there was the echo of a growl in his voice—“the ones that are actually admissible in court?”
Ben nodded. “Understood. I can’t ever tell anyone about this.”
“No you can’t.” Was there an appreciative smile trying to break through Marshall’s frown?
They were sitting so close that their shoulders touched, and to Ben, it seemed that while they were discussing accounts and their legalities, there was a different level to it with a different message. “Because if no one knows about it, it never happened,” he murmured.
Marshall took a deep, but somewhat unsteady breath. “It’s quite, quite illegal,” he whispered, leaning toward Ben.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Ben said, watching Marshall’s eyes flutter closed.
“That’s a bad idea.” Marshall was barely intelligible now.
“Because you don’t want me to?” Ben whispered.
“No, because I do want you to,” came the low response.
Ben raised his hand and ran his thumb across Marshall’s lower lip. No, Nick’s. He was all Nick now. Nick, who groaned. Nick, who sat waiting, eyes closed. Gawd, he was so hot like that.
Ben leaned in and kissed him, lightly at first, then deeper. A shudder ran through Nick’s body, as he responded, slowly, carefully, his lips soft and hesitant. Those lips. Ben licked over them, sucked them between his teeth, felt the tremor of a moan against his own. He grabbed the corners of Nick’s chair and pulled it around to face him. Never breaking the kiss, he slid his knees between Nick’s legs, then ran his hands up Nick’s thighs, thumbs kneading the muscles on the inside.
Nick practically melted against him. A little tug on Nick’s tie was all it took for him to slide onto Ben’s lap, straddling him. He was rock hard in his suit, grinding up against Ben’s own hard-on, making both of them gasp.
