Ambrose could barely understand what she said next. “I had to leave him, you understand? I ran out and four men went in and rescued him from under the burning timber. He was unconscious when he came out. I thought he was dead.”
In that moment Ambrose felt the rushing knowledge of the silent organization and agreement of his family, who consistently edited this information out of all their dealings with him. They told him Ethan saved people, glossing over who and skipping ahead quickly to remark on his heroism. Ambrose had been washed away in a tide of agreement, praising his brother, never needling too hard on the particulars of a tender topic. How many did he save or who? These were obnoxious questions. What did it matter? A hero was a hero, whether he saved one or twenty, whether he saved a miner or May.
“I thought you knew.” Her eyes were on the grass, tears on her lashes held back by a twisting mouth. “The reason he’s like that is because of me.”
What Ambrose had thought was pity was actually indebtedness. He’d seen his brother as manipulating her compassion as he recovered in his hospital bed, pulling her strings. He’d never understood why she’d succumbed. It made sense now. Ethan had literally put his life on the line to save hers. How much more can anyone ever ask?
“That’s not how it works,” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“He would have done it for anyone.”
“That’s what he says. I really don’t think that makes it any better.”
“He would have done it for anyone who’s as important to me as you are.”
“As I was,” she said.
“As you are.” And more quietly he added, “I would have done it, too.”
She shoved one hand against his chest, surprisingly hard. “I never could resist you.” She was breathing through her mouth, trying for control.
He smiled at that, enjoyed being irresistible, though she had been nothing but scrupulous. “No,” he said.
“It’s wrong,” she said, and his heart skipped a beat at her thought process.
“Your definitions are small.” It sounded flippant and joking, but he was serious. “Think broader.”
When she turned back toward the house and stormed off down the field, he didn’t follow her.
THE SPEAKEASY
Louis drives Nell downtown to a former speakeasy where the twenty-dollar cocktails are crafted by attractive ladies with full-sleeve tattoos and pin-up makeup.
“Slice of the Northwest, right here in the Midwest,” Nell says when they sit facing the burl-wood vintage bar.
“The lumberjack trope is actually quite close to the steelworker cliché. Brothers from another mother,” he says.
“Sisters from a different mister.”
“Both of which have become mythic recently, right? I had a feeling the lady doesn’t like beer.”
“The lady does not,” Nell says, and orders a sidecar from the leather-bound bar tome.
They’re halfway through the usual date questions, questions about where they went to school and where they’ve been living, where they’ve traveled and where they’re going.
“So this apportionment thing,” Nell says, “I’m thinking it might cut both ways, right? If she knew what it was, she would have planned out the taxes, insured it. Since she didn’t do that, they can make an argument that she didn’t know what it was or what she was doing.”
“I forget you’re smart,” he says, hooking his foot under her bar stool and dragging her closer. She notes he’s finished his cocktail. “Because a civilian in your position would be terrified right now.”
“Having drinks with an attractive attorney? Didn’t know that was military-grade risky.”
“I like that word, ‘attractive,’?” he says, before ordering another drink. “But I just meant she knew what she was doing. I kept asking her if I could see the thing, if she could find the necklace for me. Don’t know if you know, but she played dotty fairly well. ‘I misplaced it.’ ‘I’m looking for it.’ I should have known. She knew what it was. It was up there with her the whole time. Maybe not specifically what it was worth in today’s dollars, but she knew.”
“It’s just so out of character. On so many levels.”
“Tax apportionment is a card for you to play. Also, it doesn’t really matter, because everything I draft is watertight.”
“Like a ship?”
“Like a friggin’ battleship.”
She smiles as his second drink arrives, further loosening his tongue. “It occurs to me that I might have some reporting duty,” she says. “It is stolen, after all.”
“You don’t know it’s stolen. You don’t even know for sure if it’s the Moon of Nizam.”
“I saw it on Reema Patel’s screen,” Nell says.
“Who cares? Doesn’t mean that’s what you have. I’d bet you have a good amount of gray area to play with here. To figure out what’s what before anyone else gets involved.”
“Patel could be calling in the cavalry—UNESCO, Interpol, Homeland Security.”
“Did you just say Interpol to me right now? Like this is Mission: Impossible or something?”
She shrugs her shoulder over into his then, in the middle of the crowded bar, her mind full of squirrelly thoughts. When he shifts his weight into hers in response, with even a little more force, she wants to grin.
“Patel wouldn’t do that. She wants to get her hands all over it as much as you do,” he says with a roguish grin. “Let me look into it for you.”
Really, men are so easy. A slight pressure on the shoulder, a slight something they can fix, a way they can finagle being needed, and it’s on.
There’s a moment before his lips touch hers, before they start down this path, when she thinks maybe the anticipation is enough. The tension. She considers bailing out. And as if reading her mind he says, “It’s good, right? The buildup?”
She kisses him then, because it’s too perfect not to. And it’s a perfect sort of kiss—soft and open and overwhelming in a way that sends blood racing through her body.
Louis leans away from her on his bar stool. “This was stupid,” he says. “I shouldn’t get involved with a client.”
“There’s going to be involvement?” To her delight he actually blushes, and it’s a heady thing to have this man, all sinew and smarts, a little flustered. “I’m not your client,” she says, thrilled and powerful.
“Technically, as executor, you are,” he says pedantically, eyes on her mouth.
She moves in close, going slowly, but the moment still feels fast. And she has a thought for whether she’s reading this situation correctly, whether this whole trip hasn’t been a brewing pot of emotion now about to boil over. When their lips touch again, he tastes as good as he smells.
With closed eyes he simply says, “Come home with me.”
No pretense and no apology, no ramp-up or side winding. She can’t match his bluntness; they’d barrel on with no brakes. Then again, they both know where this is going.
“I think I promised to feed you,” she says.
“Not hungry,” he replies.
“I’m staying out at the farm,” she tries, a lame obstacle.
“Stay with me,” he says, coming in to kiss her again.
“Why so bossy?”
“Why so tempting?”
“I like that word, ‘tempting,’?” she says.
“You are. So come,” he says, sliding his keys across the bar toward her, acknowledging her half-drunk cocktail next to his second. “With me.”