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.
"What?" Why was he looking at me? I didn't know what was in the envelope.
"Why are you here?" he said, then added, "Kat? Is everything okay?"
I jerked my head up, realizing that I'd been staring in the general area of his crotch--and the definite bulge beneath the thin, white towel.
Oh my.
I drew in a breath to gather myself, and hoped he couldn't see the way my skin had flushed or the way tiny pinpricks of perspiration now dotted my hairline.
"I need to talk to you," I said. "Can I come in?" When he didn't immediately move to let me pass, I added, "It's important."
He stepped to one side, opening the door wider as he did so. "This way."
I followed him into a stunning sitting room, full of gleaming, polished wood features and modern-style furniture that accented the elegant simplicity of the architecture. The evening light swept in through high windows, and the whole room seemed to glow.
"Have a seat," he said, indicating a blue love seat. He turned to a small bar built into a corner, and as he walked away, I studied the intricate tattoo of a dragon that covered most of his back. I'd seen the entire tattoo only once before at a party on Evan's boat when Cole had stripped down to swim trunks. More frequently, I would catch a glimpse peeking above his shirt on the back of his neck.
The work was detailed and beautiful, and I had no idea why he'd gotten such a large, involved tattoo. I assumed it meant something to him, but when Sloane had asked him once, he'd brushed the question away, and I had never tried to press the point.
Despite the dragon's beauty, the image was edgy, and it gave the illusion that Cole was unpredictable and wild.
Then again, that wasn't really an illusion, was it?
"I'm glad you're here," he said as he brought me a shot of whiskey, straight up.
"Let me guess," I said dryly. "We have to talk."
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "It would be a good idea."
He sat in the chair opposite me, still wearing only the towel that was now stretched taut across his knees. I could see the shadow beneath the towel leading up to the juncture of his thighs. And though I could see nothing in those shadows, I could imagine. And I could want.
And I could get very, very distracted.
I lifted a brow and then nodded toward the towel. "Is this why you're so successful in business? You know how to keep the other party on edge?"
"I do," he said. "Though in most business meetings I'm fully clothed."
"More's the pity," I said, and made him laugh.
"Give me a minute." He got up, then moved to the far side of the room where a pair of gray sweatpants hung over the back of a chair. He dropped the towel, and I drew a sharp breath in response to the unexpected--and quite exceptional--view of his bare ass.
All too soon, he pulled on the sweats and turned back to me, and though he was now modestly covered, the view was still pretty damn enticing.
"I made a mistake," he said without preamble. "The other morning on the phone. And I made a bigger one the night before that."
"You're wrong," I said calmly. "But it doesn't matter. Not right now. That's not why I'm here."
But it was, though. I'd come for me as much as for my father. And I was determined to walk out of this room with everything I wanted.
That was my plan--now I just had to make it fly.
He eyed me uncertainly for a moment, then sat across from me. "All right," he said. "Tell me."
I did,
laying it all out for him. I left out the part about my childhood, about growing up in the grift. But I told him what my dad did. I told him about Muratti. I told him about needing someone to forge the will.
I told him more than enough to incriminate my dad, not to mention pull me into the web for conspiracy. In other words, I put my life and my dad's life in Cole August's hands. I did it because I trusted him. Because I'd seen the good that he'd done for the girls at Destiny, and I knew where his heart lay.
I thought I did, anyway.
I damn sure hoped I wasn't wrong.
"Where is your dad now?"
"I drove him around for about an hour making sure we didn't have a tail, then I checked him into the Windy City Motor Inn. You know. That ratty-looking place about a mile from Destiny."
"I know it," Cole said. "Fake name?"
"Of course. And we paid cash. He knows not to leave the room, not to charge phone calls to his credit card, not to call me on his cell phone, yada yada. I got him a burner in case he has an emergency." I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "He knows the drill."
"Sounds like it. Sounds like you do, too."
I met his eyes. Felt that shock of connection. "I told you," I said. "I'm really not innocent."
I kept my voice low, my meaning clear. And I could see on his face that he knew what I meant--and what I wanted.
Dear god, how I wanted. I wasn't doing anything right then but sitting across from him, and yet I could feel him as tangibly as if he was touching me. The rough calluses on his hands. The smooth, taut muscles of his thighs. Those lips that I wanted pressed against me, exploring me.
How had I come to this? I felt as if my whole life I'd been walking around made of some sort of combustible material, and I'd only just realized it. I'd been safe, so long as I stayed away from a spark.
But then I'd edged too close to Cole and he'd ignited me. I was going to burn--that much was inevitable. But dammit, I wanted to pull him into the fire with me.
He sat watching me, silent, waiting for me to go on. But I didn't know what else to say. "So that's it," I finally said. "Will you help?"
"What makes you think I can?"
"I know about the Da Vinci," I said, referring to a forgery of a famous Da Vinci notebook that I knew he'd created years ago.
His brow lifted almost imperceptibly. "What Da Vinci?"
I cocked my head. "The one that's in Angie and Evan's condo. Do I really need to elaborate? Or maybe I should recite the litany of your various criminal activities over the years? I've been right here, remember? I've seen a lot. And I understand what I see."