Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(45)

He tensed up before releasing. “What about them?”

“You made them.” Not a question, but somehow I knew he would deny it.

He didn’t disappoint. “Just some random shit to fill the shelves. I figured it was better than a globe from 1873.”

That made me smile. Philip with his guard down was actually a lot of fun. “And a pipe?”

He huffed a laugh. “I do enjoy the occasional import.”

Of course he did. But I wasn’t going to let him get away that easy. “They were…” Thoughtful. And strangely touching. “Interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated drily. “Is that what you’d tell a five-year-old with finger paint?”

“Definitely not. That would be a work of art. The machines aren’t art.” I paused, considering them. They were too utilitarian to be art, all crude wire without any polish. But they were also fanciful. They didn’t serve a purpose, except they clearly meant something to him. “I think they show a part of you that would have been, if you hadn’t…”

“If I hadn’t been a criminal,” he said softly.

I bit my lip and studied the rough skin of his chest. A little farther down, his cut had healed a little, skin held together by invisible threads. My finger traced the healthy skin around it, and his muscles rippled underneath. “Does this hurt?”

“It was a shallow wound. Looks worse than it is.”

Which meant that yes, it still hurt. I had a feeling he could be close to death and still say it looked worse than it was. In fact, he may have been close to death that night. “I didn’t know if I should call 911.”

“You did the right thing. There are too many people who would take advantage of me being sedated. I wouldn’t have made it to the next morning.”

What an awful way to live, distrusting the entire world. “Why did you trust me? I might have taken advantage.”

“You can take advantage of me anytime.”

I smiled but didn’t laugh. A sense of melancholy overtook me. An image had formed in my mind of a man—still large and strong, still confident, but instead of a criminal he was some kind of engineer. And instead of fighting the world, he reveled in it.

He caught my chin and lifted. My gaze met his.

“I’m not a criminal because circumstances forced me,” he said softly, his eyes searching mine—for what? For me to excuse him? Or for me to condemn him? “Maybe at the beginning, but there came a time when I had enough money and enough power to do whatever the hell I wanted. I could have walked away. I chose this life instead.”

He didn’t want me to pity him. I could understand that, because I didn’t want him to pity me. “Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” he said, no reserve in his voice. “There are always people trying to back you into a corner. I own every f*cking corner. How can I regret that?”

“And who do you back into a corner?”

“You have to ask, kitten?” He leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss against my lips. “You.”

A shiver ran down my spine, like someone walking over my grave. “About last night…”

“Adrian can get you a pill,” he said gruffly.

“Oh…oh.” I hadn’t even thought of it, so doped up on sex endorphins and exhausted from him moving in me all night long. “I guess that would be good.”

“You guess?”

Did he think I shouldn’t? I mean, it had been crazy last night, even in a lust-daze. And now it seemed impossible—adding a child to this mixed-up relationship. In a short time, we might not even have a relationship. “Yes. Of course. It would be crazy not to. I mean, two weeks ago our only contact was a blank postcard.”

Silence. His body slowly tensed, the way I imagined a panther would feel before striking—motionless to anyone observing, but powerful. Dangerous.

“Philip?” I whispered.

“That’s what I was missing,” he muttered, already pulling away. “Someone else knew about my obsession with you. Someone knew every f*cking detail.”

Then he leaped from the bed and was gone.





Chapter Twenty-Seven

I HAD NEVER been to the basement, but I knew this was where Adrian slept. There was an entire apartment down here—a small living space and kitchen off to the side. Was every safe house equipped with a space like this? The separation of master and servant. So vital until Philip ripped it away.

He’d left the bedroom in a matter of seconds, pulling on slacks but not bothering with a shirt. He was already at the foot of the basement stairs by the time I’d grabbed a tank top and jeans and followed him.

“Wait. Philip.”

He ignored me, heading to the right. He may not have visited down here often, but there was no hesitation in his step, no doubt who was the owner of this place.

I made it to the narrow hallway—which was dark until light suddenly exploded from the room.

My feet seemed heavy and sluggish. Even though I was running, it felt like it took forever to reach the bedroom. When I got to the doorway, Adrian was on the floor—on his ass, wearing only a pair of boxers. I had always thought he was on the skinny side, but seeing him almost naked, I could see lean muscle. Combined with a handsome face, he was a great catch for any guy. Except here he was, sleeping alone beneath Philip’s safe house.