He ground his teeth. “Fine.” Stood. Managed a terse “thanks,” and left without waiting for more.
Kat caught up with him as he jogged down the rear stairs into the parking lot. More snowflakes were swirling down from the patchy clouds overhead; they clung wetly to Toly’s lashes and made him blink.
“Toly,” Kat said, as he hurried to pull up alongside him. “You understand, right? You get that you can’t be anywhere near this or it won’t work?”
Toly halted behind the bumper of a white G-Wagon and met the other man’s gaze with open hostility. “I’m foreign, not stupid. I understand fine.”
Kat didn’t back down. “I understand that this is personal for you, in more than one way–”
“You don’t understand shit.” Toly turned away, shook out a smoke, and tried to decide if he wanted to hoof it, or call a cab.
Boot soles scraped over the grit on the pavement. “If they know you’re involved in this, if they even suspect you are…they won’t kill you outright. They’ll fuck with your head, first. It’s how they operate.”
Anger boiled up in his stomach, and he tamped it down hard, with no small effort. He got his cigarette lit and took a few drags before he turned around. “Don’t you think,” he said, flatly, “that I know that better than you do?”
Kat shrugged, hands in his pockets. “All the knowledge in the world can get jumbled up when your emotions are involved.”
“What emotions?”
Kat stared at him a moment.Really?Then shook his head and glanced away. His keys jangled as he fished them out. “You want a ride?”
He didn’t, no, but he didn’t want to go back to the apartment that was more or less Pongo’s at this point. He had no choice either way.
“Yeah.”
Kat nodded and headed for the driver’s side of the Trans-Am. “I’ll let you buy me lunch.”
“Gee thanks.”
Sixteen
Ian offered to collect Cassandra from school, and Raven let him. She returned to the agency, where she was still attempting to sort a scheduling conflict for next spring’s Fashion Week when the intercom buzzed and Melanie said, “Mr. Ingles here to see you, ma’am.”
Again?
She pulled a compact from her purse and checked her reflection; she’d reapplied foundation to her neck and it had held…so far. She’d been hyper-aware of her shirt collar, and her hair, trying to let nothing brush against the hidden love bites and expose them again. It was one thing for Ian to see them, quite another to have to explain their existence to an employee or client.
Or, even worse, to Greg Ingles.
Not satisfied, but knowing it was the best she could do, she pressed the button and said, “Send him in.”
A moment later, the handle depressed, and in walked Greg, head half-ducked in a premature apology, smile half-hopeful, half-sorry for the interruption. He wore a sharp suit in a shade of brown that was rich and seasonal, rather than drab, and had accented it with just the right waistcoat and tie. His hair was pomaded and side-parted in a retro style that worked on his angled, handsome face.
He looked good.
The sight of him stirred nothing but irritation in her.
Still, she put on her best smile and rose to greet him. “Greg, hello. This is a pleasant surprise.”
He met her in front of her desk, and reached as if to shake her hand, though he clasped and pressed it instead, lips curving upward in a deeply pleased smile before he released her and resumed his apologetic expression. “Seeing you is a pleasure, always.”
Gag.
“But I’m afraid I don’t come bearing the best news.”
Unless you’re about to pass me a severed toe, it can’t be the worst news, she thought. She motioned to the sitting area and said, “Oh no.” Was unable to put any real feeling behind it. “Bad news about what? Not the gala, I hope.”
When they were seated, her purposefully in one of the chairs so he couldn’t sit too close beside her, and him on the sofa across the table, he hitched forward, one elbow on his knee in a practiced pose that suggested intimacy. His face made a polite go at regret – also practiced, by the look of it.
