Chapter Fourteen

October 9

New York City

I t was a lovely autumn night. Clouds drifted past the crescent moon, and a gentle breeze signaled the coming cooler weather. Pumpkins decorated stoops, and the small trees in the sidewalk beds had just begun to change color. The street was quiet, and light glowed from the windows of the surrounding brownstones.

Clara strolled beside her date, an entomologist named Alfie Simmons, trying to pay attention to the story—his cycling trip in Moldova. No, it was Monaco. The excursion sounded fantastic; she just couldn’t seem to focus on the details.

She couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that they were being watched.

“We stopped at this little seaside town called Essaouira. Best seafood I’ve ever eaten in my life. It’s funny to think that the Atlantic is their West Coast.”

“Hmm?”

“The Atlantic Ocean. It’s Morocco’s West Coast.”

“ Morocco . Right.”

Clara glanced over her shoulder, the action causing her blonde ponytail to brush her date’s face. He laughed and followed her gaze. “Everything okay? Did you forget something at the restaurant?”

She stared at the empty street behind them as she reassured him. “No, no, it’s fine. I thought I heard something.”

“That’s New York for you. Never quiet.”

Facing her date and walking backward for a few steps, Clara returned her attention to Alfie. “Yes, it’s bustling at all hours, that’s for sure.”

“This is you?” He gestured to the cement stairs leading to the door of her Harlem pre-war building.

“This is me,” she confirmed.

“We’ll have to save my crazy adventure in Marrakesh for the second date.” He said it like a statement, but there was a question in his eyes.

Clara liked him. She did. Alfie was a researcher who, they discovered, coincidentally lived in the same building as her Department Head. He volunteered at a no-kill shelter and enjoyed travel. They shared a love of Indian food and eighties music.

Now, she was about to accept a second date with a handsome, articulate, well-dressed man. He was pretty darn perfect. So what if he didn’t give her butterflies? In Clara’s experience, the flutter in her belly was a sign of nausea, not love.

“Marrakesh it is,” she said.

“Cool.” He bent his head, and Clara met him halfway, redirecting his mouth from her cheek to her lips.

The kiss was nice. She imagined Alfie would be a gentle lover. That was her endgame, after all. To have a lover.

“I’ll call you. A friend of mine works at a gallery downtown. Maybe we can go check it out next weekend.”

“I’d love that.” Clara gave Alfie’s hand a reassuring squeeze and hurried up the stairs. He waited on the sidewalk until she was safely inside, then waved and walked off. Through the door glass, Clara watched Alfie leave, then, out of habit, scanned the block. Across the street, a man stood in the shadows beside a trendy sports bar. Nothing particularly unusual about that, except that he wasn’t smoking or fighting—the typical reasons people were outside the place. He was also staring directly at her building or, more precisely, at her. Safely on the other side of her secure door, she backed away with a strange shiver and retrieved her mail.

Clara took the elevator to the third floor with a smile. She let herself into her cozy two-bedroom and tossed her keys in the dish on the table by the door. Clara loved her apartment. The main room was a hodgepodge of thrift store purchases, cherished items from home, and street art. Cluttered and colorful, it was a luxurious flat for a twenty-something student, but her father insisted she live, as he put it, above the poverty line . She hadn’t put up much of a fight. Reynard’s home, her home , was a literal castle. From the age of eight, she had lived like a princess. And not just her brick-and-mortar surroundings; Reynard had made wishes come true that she hadn’t even known she had. He hadn’t contributed to her DNA, but Reynard was the best father anyone could ever want.

He had saved her life. Then he had charmed it.

Her thoughts returned to her date. Finally, she had landed on a winner. For the past few months, her dating luck had been horrible. Eight first dates, zero second dates. Even the ones who had promised to call hadn’t. It was exhausting and disheartening. So, even if she was only mildly enthusiastic about Alfie, she was eager to break this streak. As soon as he followed up on his offer to take her to the gallery, her first-date curse would be broken.

She kicked off her shoes and set the kettle on the stove to boil. Her gaze traveled the room, settling on one of the two large windows that faced the street. Bothered by that loitering man, Clara crossed the room and peeked through the cranberry-colored curtains. Her side of the street was quiet. An old man was walking a dachshund. A woman Clara knew from the neighborhood was picking aluminum cans from the trash. Across the way, business had picked up at the bar. The bouncer was checking IDs, and some guys were getting high near the curb. The man she had seen earlier was thankfully gone. Looking further down the road, Clara caught the silhouette of her date walking around the corner and coming to an abrupt stop.

The tea kettle whistled.

Shaking herself from this unusual foray into paranoia, Clara returned to the kitchen. She would have a soothing mug of chamomile and do her darndest to get excited for her next date. As the tea steeped, her eyes drifted to the window, a curious thought crossing her mind. The lurking man’s presence hadn’t really frightened her at all.

M iles scratched his chest through the fabric of the cheap shirt, certain the polyester was giving him a rash. He wore a leather jacket over the offending garment, and his hair was slicked back. A heavy gold chain completed the look.

When Reynard first called to ask him to keep an eye on Clara, Miles easily agreed. He owed Reynard; he always would.

However, once he began fulfilling his obligation, something happened. A bizarre possessiveness had overtaken Miles. It started innocently enough. During the summer, he had driven a wedge between Clara and a young man she was seeing by recruiting her to help with a con he was running. Miles had monopolized every minute of her time, and the would-be boyfriend was history.

Truth be told, Miles had been chasing off potential boyfriends for nearly a decade—long before Reynard had requested his help. He had monitored Clara’s social media and kept watch on her at boarding school and college. When necessary, Miles had subtly discouraged the boys sniffing around Clara. She wasn’t some notch on a dorm room bunk.

He wasn’t stalking her; he was protecting her.

This summer, however, something shifted. Working every day with Clara had triggered some sort of strange obsession. She had transformed from a girl to a woman, from a prankster to a partner. Seeing Clara in a new light had seized Miles in an irrational grip.

So here he was, dressed like a seventies porn star and giving up his Saturday night to intimidate yet another loser. Yes, Clara’s father had asked him to keep an eye on her, but Miles had perhaps over-invested in the assignment. For the past three months, he had chased off every one of Clara’s dates. It may have been overkill, but Miles rationalized it by telling himself he was doing what he had been asked.

Besides, he reasoned, Miles was doing these guys a favor. Clara Gautreau was impossible. She was difficult and rude, and, above all, she was a thief.

She was also impossibly beautiful, which made his job that much harder. Guys were falling over themselves to be with her. In twelve weeks, Clara had been on eight first dates. She had actually gone out with a man she met buying cereal at her corner market. What was she thinking? Why was she so desperate to date?

Shaking off his tumbling thoughts, he got to the matter at hand.

He couldn’t believe Clara had kissed this scrawny asshole. Miles lingered in the shadows momentarily, a haze of anger surging, then receding. He cut off Clara’s date as he rounded the corner onto Broadway to hail a cab.

“Excuse me, Alfred Simmons?” Miles could easily find the names of Clara’s companions by accessing her online dating profile.

Clara’s date turned away from the open cab door and squinted in the darkness. “Yes. Who are you?”

Miles did his best wise guy impersonation. “Who I am is not important. You just went on a date with my employer’s daughter. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” Miles leaned down and whispered the name of the notorious crime lord.

“Oh.” Alfred swallowed. No law-abiding gnat like Alfred would ever catch the eye of the mob. But guys like him had all seen the movies.

Miles didn’t elaborate. He was a master of manipulation and knew a person’s own mind created the most frightening scenarios. He pulled a toothpick from the inside pocket of his jacket, revealing just the edge of the holster. “My employer would prefer that the one date be the extent of your interaction.”

It was always the same—fear masked by bravado, finding a way to save face. A solution dawns. “Yeah, that’s not a problem. I wasn’t interested anyway.”

Yeah right. Miles let Alfie escape with his dignity intact. “Good. Then we have no problem. Her father has people watching, so if you change your mind…” Alfie hurried to the curb as he replied, “I won’t.”

Miles had never seen a guy dive into a taxi so quickly.