And it was a miracle, but he listened.
Cel lived in a four-story walk-up,and when I turned the corner on his floor, I was surprised to see him at the door, talking to a man holding a bouquet of two dozen long-stemmed red roses. What was interesting was that the door was only open halfway, so evidently this guy I’d never seen before in my life was not invited in.
“Hey,” I called down the hall, louder than needed, closing in on them.
“Oh, Eli,” Cel said cheerfully, gesturing at the man, “this is Darren Sullivan, one of our wonderful donors who gives so generously to the CBC, and Mr. Sullivan––”
“Darren, please,” he corrected, smiling at Cel.
“Darren,” he amended, presenting me, “this is Deputy US Marshal Eli Kohn.”
Normally, he would have just said Eli. When he added the title, he wasn’t necessarily trying to scare someone, it wasn’t quite that, but give them something more to process. It worked. Mr. Sullivan’s eyes went from my face, to the holster on my hip, and back to Cel.
“Well, since, as you said, you have plans this evening, I will leave these with you, and please do call me.”
“I certainly will,” Cel assured him, taking the expensive flowers from the well-dressed man standing on his doorstep.
“Sorry for the misunderstanding,” he told Cel as I reached the door. “But Senan Weaver seemed certain you were free this evening when I spoke to him.”
“Well, these were last-minute arrangements,” Cel replied, being careful with his words. This man was a donor to the ballet, so Cel didn’t want to offend him by confessing that Senan Weaver was a liar who was trying to screw him over. And where the hell did he get off giving out Cel’s home address? “I’m sure Senan heard me say I was free this evening.”
“Of course,” Darren said graciously, taking a step back as I took one forward, needing to be closer, illogically concerned that the man was going to try and push past Cel to get into his apartment. “My number is on the card, so again, do please call.”
“Yes,” Cel lied, and I knew he was because I could tell all the different sounds in his voice.
Mr. Sullivan gave me a nod as he walked by, and I turned to watch him make his way down the hall.
“Stop growling,” Cel ordered, taking hold of my hand and tugging gently. “Come inside.”
I breathed my anger out through my nose and followed, slamming the door behind me. “What the hell?” I barked at him.
“Don’t worry about it.” He shook his head as he laid the bouquet gently on his kitchen counter. “That’s just my buddy Senan at work,” he informed me, walking to his one folding chair where his suit jacket was hanging. “It’s not the first time he’s done this to me.”
“Other men have come here?” I was nearly frothing at the mouth as I watched him pull on his asymmetrical-cut jacket that hung to his thighs, fiddle with the cuffs, and roll his shoulders.
“No, not here, but to my dressing room on opening night. You know we normally see fans and donors at the after-party, but Senan just sends them on back.”
“Cel––”
“It’s just another irritation in his arsenal of bullshit,” he explained dismissively, like it didn’t matter a bit. “And really, this worked out in our favor.”
I was scowling at him. “How?”
“Well, now we have flowers to take to Lydia Grainger,” he announced, smiling wide. “How fortuitous is that?”
“I don’t want men coming around thinking you’re available to––”
“You’re being dumb,” he said flatly. “Now let’s go before we’re late.”
As we walked out the door, I had more questions. “Why did you even open up for that guy?”
“I peeked through the hole and saw flowers,” he replied, walking beside me down the hall, holding my arm. “I thought it was you.”
“I would never bring you roses. You hate roses.”
“I don’t hate them,” he commented as we started down the stairs. “I just prefer daffodils, as you know.”
“I do know,” I stressed, my voice gravelly and hoarse. “That’s why I always send those or get them or––”