Risking it All (Crossing the Line, #1)(15)

Both of them snorted.

Connor finished pulling the shirt over his head. “Wasn’t expecting you so early.” One dark eyebrow lifted. “You must have slept here or something.”

Bowen made a mental note not to underestimate Connor Bannon. “Or something.” He turned his attention back to Sera. “Get your things. I’m taking you to my place.”

“Doubtful,” Connor said.

“Excuse me?”

“ I said, doubtful.” With a wince, Connor swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I know Hogan spoke to you about our arrangement.”

“Hogan can talk to me if he has a problem with her leaving.” He moved closer to Sera, letting his hand drift across her lower back. A gesture of possession he shouldn’t be making, but couldn’t seem to stop. “Or doesn’t it bother you the girl taking care of you has been sleeping in a broom closet?”

A muscle jumped in Connor’s cheek.

“I don’t make the decisions.”

“Yeah? That’s all I do.” He felt Sera studying him and looked down at her, reeling a little over seeing her face in the light of day for the first time. Those gorgeous big brown eyes hit him like an uppercut, the scattering of freckles making her so fresh. So beautiful. So out of place in this world. He needed to stop staring, but not absorbing every nuance of her face seemed like the worst crime.

“Hey, Ladybug.”

“Don’t ‘hey Ladybug’ me.”

He couldn’t contain his grin. Shit, he was in trouble. Still not taking his gaze off her, he spoke to Connor. “She’s coming with me. You want to check in on us, that’s up to you.”

A drawn-out pause. “Oh, count on it.”

“Great.” Bowen laced his fingers with Sera’s and led her toward the door. “Try and show up wearing clothes when you do.”

Sera followed Bowen up the three flights of stairs leading to his apartment, wishing he hadn’t been so silent on the ride over. He’d waited in the hallway and she stuffed her things into two grocery bags and fifteen minutes later, they

were

in

his

working-class

neighborhood of Bensonhurst. Soon, she would be inside the home of Bowen Driscol, known felon. If she hadn’t been in deep before, she’d just sunk to the bottom of the ocean with no oxygen tank.

He lived above an Italian restaurant called Buon Gusto. As they’d walked past to the adjacent entrance, two porters having a cigarette break greeted him as if he were a god returning to Olympus after winning a battle. They’d watched her with open curiosity until Bowen put a hand on her shoulder, his features darkening. Both cigarettes had been crushed underfoot, the restaurant door slamming as they ducked back inside in their haste. She’d wanted to question him about his behavior, but his rigid posture

hadn’t

exactly

invited

conversation.

It frustrated her she didn’t know where they stood. One minute, he was snarling at anyone who came near her, the next he seemed to be restraining himself from touching her. Last night, she’d sworn she had him pegged. A self-entitled ladies’ man who thought he had the right to “keep her” until Hogan returned. As far as she’d been concerned, Hogan and Driscol were one and the same. Then he’d left her alone last night, even warning her to lock the door behind him when he left. Perhaps his seduction style was to confuse his prey until they grew too dizzy to put up a fight?

Obviously Bowen had been tasked with keeping an eye on her until Hogan’s return, but knowing what she did about Hogan, if he was suspicious of someone, they wouldn’t live to see the next morning. Bowen had intervened on her behalf. But why? If he didn’t plan on pursuing a fling with her, what did he want her for?

The sound of Bowen’s key sliding into the lock dispelled her musings. One hand knocked against his thigh, in a gesture that seemed almost nervous. “I don’t bring girls here during the day. And at night, the lights always stay off.”

She

didn’t

bother

hiding

her

confusion. “Was that meant to reassure me?”

His breath escaped in a rush. “I have no idea. Did it?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well.” He pushed open the door. “That’s probably a good thing.”

Sera hefted her plastic grocery bags higher in her arms and followed him inside. The second she crossed the threshold, she came to a dead stop.

Murals.

Everywhere.

On

every

available inch of the apartment wall, loud, swirling, chaotic colors jumped out at her. So many shades, she could never count them all, careering through the space like a kaleidoscopic dream.

Slowly, she turned in a circle, trying to find a pattern in the chaos. Too many scenes, too much to look at.

Some were abstract shapes painted in dynamic

shades,

wedged

between

almost

frantic

depictions

of

city

landmarks, such as the Brooklyn Bridge.

Yankee Stadium. A subway train. In each vignette, half of the perfectly rendered landmark remained intact, while the other half disappeared in flames. The more scenes she took in, the more the theme became obvious. Two conflicting outcomes: the murals had split personalities. She didn’t need him to confirm he’d been the one to paint them. It was obvious.