“Let me think about it. Maybe I’ll come up with somebody.”
“Yes. Yes, you think.” He stood up and yawned. “I know it’s barely past five, but I’m wiped out. You got a place for your old man to crash?”
“Nope,” I said. “But come on. I’ll get you settled in a motel.”
His mouth curved down into what could have been a pout.
“Forget it, Daddy Dearest. It’s too risky for you to stay here. You have a mafia boss sniffing around you. Do you really think I’m going to let Flynn get caught in the cross fire?”
He made a noise that sounded like agreement. Reluctant, maybe, but agreement nonetheless.
I shook my head, exasperated. “It’s a motel, Dad. From the story you told me, you should be glad it isn’t a prison cell.”
“If it doesn’t have room service,” he said with a sigh, “it might as well be.”
nine
Evan Black lived on a boat before he moved into the high-rise condo he now shared with Angie. Tyler Sharp rented a suite in The Drake hotel that had once served as the residence for royalty.
But as far as I was concerned, Cole’s house put both Evan’s and Tyler’s addresses to shame.
He lived in Hyde Park near the University of Chicago and, yes, near the famous gang-riddled South Side that the old song about Bad, Bad Leroy Brown had made famous. I knew Cole had grown up in that part of the city, but he didn’t live in the dicey area now. Instead, Hyde Park was funky and eclectic. A place where pretty much anything goes.
And Cole’s house stood like the topping on a very delicious and exotic dessert.
It had been designed in the late 1800s by Frank Lloyd Wright, and with the straight lines, sharp angles, and overall geometric design, there was no mistaking the architect’s work. The place had come on the market about five months ago, and Cole had immediately snatched it up. I had no idea what he’d had to pay in order to acquire it, but I had a feeling that no amount would have deterred him.
At the housewarming he’d told me that Frank Lloyd Wright was as much a master as Michelangelo or Da Vinci, and that there was no way he could have passed up the chance to live in something created by genius.
Now, standing just outside the huge wooden door surrounded by intricate stonework, I once again thought how much the house suited Cole. Not only was it artistic but it was impenetrable without being off-putting.
And wasn’t that the same as the man? Because unless he let you past his walls, there was no getting inside Cole August.
I hadn’t called first because I didn’t want him to make an excuse not to see me. Liz had assured me that he planned to spend the evening at home catching up on some paperwork, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d told her his actual plans.
For all I knew, he was at the Firehouse. And as intrigued as I might now be by that place, I wasn’t quite ready to go search for him there.
I hesitated another moment before knocking, feeling a bit like a fool. I wanted to see him—hell, I wanted to hear his voice. That smooth, sexy voice that had pushed me over the edge just the other day.
At the same time, though, I feared his reaction. He couldn’t have been more clear about his intent to stay away from me if he’d taken out an ad in the Chicago Tribune, so finding me at his front door might not brighten his evening.
Then again, this wasn’t about me and it wasn’t about him and it damn sure wasn’t about sex.
This was about my dad, and Cole was the only person in my life right now who might actually be able to help him.
And that meant that whatever issue Cole had with me at the moment was going to have to be shoved aside. I needed help. And Cole would just have to deal with it.
I rang the bell.
At first, there was no answer. Then I heard his voice crackle through the intercom. “Be right there.”
I waited, and a moment later the door opened to reveal the man himself wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips. “Kat,” he said, and for a moment, I saw heat flare in his eyes. Then his expression turned carefully blank.
My mouth went completely dry, while my more southernly parts had the completely opposite reaction.
“Kat,” he said again, in a voice that suggested neither pleasure nor irritation. Just confusion. “Sorry—I thought you were the messenger. I should have checked the monitor.”
As if on cue, a skinny guy in a Speedy Messenger cap hopped off a bicycle at the curb. He trotted to the front door and passed a thin, manila envelope to Cole along with a clipboard. Cole signed the receipt, handed the clipboard back to the guy, then looked at me expectantly.