“Jack. Say it.” He ripped open my blouse, sending buttons pattering across the floor like raindrops.
“You ruined my blouse, Jack.” I tried to feign annoyance, but I was almost vibrating with excitement. No man had ever wanted me so badly he’d torn off my clothes.
His dark eyes smoldered. “I want to ruin you in every way a woman can be ruined.”
“Does that mean you’ve been seduced?” I reached for his shirt and pulled him down.
“You didn’t have to seduce me,” Jack said. “I was yours the moment we met.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
?I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of gravel crunching outside the window of the basement suite, the low murmur of voices, and then a thud on the door.
“Jack, you bastard. Open up.” The man outside didn’t sound very happy. Other words came to mind: angry, sinister, menacing, terrifying. Not the kind of words you want associated with a man who is trying to break down your door.
Jack moved with almost preternatural speed. He leaped off the bed, yanked on his jeans and T-shirt, and stepped into his shoes. By the time my body had caught up with my brain, the front door was splintering, and Jack was flying past me.
“Gotta run, sweetheart.” He shoved my jeans into my hand, kissed me hard, and sprinted for the bathroom.
“Wait for me.” I instantly regretted my lack of attire. When canoodling with a thief, always wear pants. “What happened to doing anything to keep your beautiful, smart, and capable woman safe?”
He slammed the bathroom door, shouting through the wood, “They won’t hurt you. They’re after me.”
“Seriously?” I yanked on my clothes, anger washing away my fear as I stumbled after him. “You’re going to leave me alone while you hide?” I pulled on the handle to the bathroom door just as the lock clicked into place. Bastard.
I had just enough time to grab my phone before the front door gave way with a loud crack. Two men in hotel uniforms rushed into the room. One tall and ginger haired. The other short with an extremely unflattering beard and a slightly less unflattering mustache.
“Where’s Jack?” Ginger asked.
I was tempted—so, so tempted—to tell them where he was. My mouth watered with desire, the word just dancing on my tongue. But he was part of my crew and I needed him alive for the heist. Besides, if anyone was going to kill the selfish jerk, it was me.
“I don’t know any Jack,” I snapped. “If you take one step closer, I’m calling the police. You’ll spend the next few years in prison. You may want to run back to the hotel and grab a few bars of soap so you’re ready when they catch you.”
“Whoa.” Mr. Mustache held up his hands, palms forward. “No need to involve the cops. We just want to talk to him.”
“When I want to talk to someone, I don’t break down their door.” I took a few steps back, putting some distance between us. “What’s this all about anyway? Is this a new thing? The hotel sends out a couple of dudes to break your legs if you forget to pay for the Pringles from the mini bar?”
I was seething now, any concern for my safety totally subsumed by utter rage. Why did Chloe get the ex-military dude who installed a freaking security system in her house, and I got the coward who ran and hid at the first sign of trouble?
“Where’s the necklace?” Ginger’s gaze swept over the bare room, lingered on the bag I’d filled with clothes.
“What necklace?”
His expression darkened. “You really want to play that game?”
I didn’t want to play any game. I wanted Jack to come out of the bathroom and tell these dudes to get the hell out of my apartment. I wanted Gage and his guns or Chloe and her bottle of bleach. But it was just me. Alone. Abandoned. Like always.
“The only necklaces I have are from Etsy,” I said. “There’s a great designer from San Diego who can do incredible things with metals. Feel free to search around. You’ll notice there’s almost nothing here.” I curled my fingers around my phone, ready to press the buttons that would automatically call 911.
“What’s Etsy?” Mr. Mustache shot Ginger a questioning look. I decided he wasn’t the brightest light bulb in the box, and I should focus my attention on his red-haired friend.
“She’s messing with you,” Ginger said. “Search the place. If it’s not here, then he’s got it on him, he doesn’t have it yet, or he’s already given it to his fence. We might have to go to New York to track it down.”
“New York?” Mr. Mustache and I asked at once.
“That’s where the best fences are,” Ginger said. “Jack’s not gonna give a high-ticket item to a fence in Chicago.”
“Are you kidding me?” My hands found my hips. I didn’t care if we were talking baseball, basketball, pizza, hot dogs, rivers, rappers, or fences. Chicago and New York were age-old rivals, and I would defend my city to the death. “We have the best stuff in Chicago, and because we have the best stuff, we also have the best criminals, and the best criminals need the best fences. The criminals in New York come here looking for fences. Our fences don’t need to travel. New Yorkers come to them.”
“I think she’s saying he got a local fence,” Mr. Mustache said to Ginger.
“I’m standing right the fuck here,” Ginger said. “We’re all speaking the same language. I don’t need a translator.” He pulled out a gun and motioned me away from the bathroom. “Get away from the door.”
Maybe that kind of thing works in New York, but we are born tough in Chicago. Floods, snowpocalypses, killer waves, heat waves, frigid temperatures, tornadoes, twenty-four-hour traffic jams, gunfights, fistfights, and one hundred eight years without winning a world series. Nothing can rattle us. If only one city is left standing in a postapocalyptic world, it will be Chicago.
“Why are you pointing a gun at me?” I shouted again so Jack would know that my life was now at risk. “Have you even thought it through? He’s such a coward, he’s probably already gone, so you’re gonna shoot me for nothing and spend the rest of your lives in jail, and that’s only if my bestie’s new boyfriend doesn’t find you first. And he will come looking because she’ll be devastated that I’m dead and he protects the people he loves, even from sadness. This guy is so scary, there is no line he won’t cross. He does the work other people don’t want to do, and I’m not talking about working retail.”
“He’s gotta be back there,” Ginger said, ignoring my outburst. “Get out of the way.”
“Come any closer and I’ll call 911,” I warned, bending down to pick up a warped floorboard. I was done with these morons. Done with trusting people to have my back. Done with even hoping someone would actually stick around when I needed them.
Ginger let out a string of curse words and snapped at Mr. Mustache. “Check behind the fucking door.”
I held out my free hand and motioned them forward like I’d seen in the movies. Of course, in the movies the good guy is “the One” or has some secret martial arts or military fight skills. I had a floorboard with nails sticking out of it, and it wasn’t even straight.