“I appreciate your confidence in my skills, but we both know I was so consumed with my need for revenge, I wasn’t thinking clearly. If it hadn’t been for you I…”
“I don’t need your gratitude, Regan,” he unexpectedly intruded, his voice harsh. “Just take care of yourself.”
And with that, he was wrenching open the door and disappearing into the waiting shadows.
Stunned by his abrupt departure, Regan grasped a nearby marble statue as her knees threatened to buckle.
Every instinct screamed at her to run after Jagr and wrap her arms around him. To beg him to toss her over his shoulder, and cart her to his hidden lair.
To…
With a crack loud enough to wake the dead, the arm of the statue snapped off in her hand. With a muttered curse, she hastily tossed the dismembered limb onto the floor.
“God, I’m such an idiot.”
Chapter 23
One month later…
The quaint pub near Wrigley Field was the trendy sort of place that attracted locals, as well as a number of tourists who came for the hot wings and stayed for the cold beer.
Regan had quite literally stumbled across the joint when she’d been on the search for a place to live, and before she knew it, she’d rented one of the retro-shabby apartments above the pub and was working as a dishwasher to supplement the money that Darcy had adamantly insisted she take before leaving the mansion.
Not that she regretted her choice.
The owner of the building and pub, Tobi Williams, was a tiny, thirty-something woman with short, spiky pink hair, dark eyes, and enough piercings to make a metal detector explode.
In many ways she reminded Regan of her sister. She was perky, incurably optimistic, and yet a shrewd enough businesswoman to have taken a dilapidated building she’d inherited from her father and turned it into a raging success.
She also had a heart as big as Chicago.
Within two days of Regan moving in, Tobi had not only offered her a job washing dishes, but she’d badgered and hounded Regan to allow her to sell the drawings that Regan had created to fill her long, lonely nights.
Regan had been reluctant at first.
The simple ink-on-canvas etchings of local streets and various tourist spots were more doodles than masterpieces. Who the hell would waste their hard-earned money on them?
Only a week later, however, Tobi had managed to sell ten of the smaller etchings and four of the larger ones, handing over a wad of cash that Regan had promptly stashed into her nest egg. Now she could barely keep up with the demand.
Stacking away the last of the dishes, Regan wiped down the stainless steel sinks. It was well past midnight and the kitchen had shut down an hour ago. The bar would stay open until three a.m., but Regan’s duties were done.
Still, she made no move to climb the back steps to her apartment.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love her new home, she grimly assured herself.
Granted it was small, with Brady Bunch furnishings and the constant smell of hot wings, but it was hers. Completely and utterly hers.
Proof positive of her independence.
Yippee kiyah.
Trying to shake her strange sense of melancholy, Regan jerked off the large apron that covered her cotton shorts and skimpy T-shirt. The Illinois weather had taken a turn toward spring, and standing in front of a hot, steaming sink for hours didn’t help. If it wouldn’t have shocked the natives, she would come to work wearing nothing.
She’d just tossed the apron into the laundry basket when the swinging doors were shoved open, and Tobi danced into the kitchen waving around a small business card.
“I told you, I told you, I told you,” she sang as she twirled to a halt directly in front of Regan.
Regan rolled her eyes at her friend’s antics. “Christ, Tobi, you’re making me dizzy.”
Tobi flashed her charming grin, looking about sixteen in her polka dot sundress that revealed her numerous tattoos.
“I told you.”
“Yes, well, you’ve told me that the old man who lives in 4B is actually an alien who missed his ride home on the mother ship. You told me that terrorists are training sharks to attack our beaches. And that your dead mother communicates to you through tea leaves,” Regan said dryly. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”
“Here.”
Taking the card that Tobi shoved into her hand, Regan studied the gilt name etched onto the expensive card paper.
“Charles Rosewood.” With a frown, she lifted her head to meet Tobi’s expectant gaze. “What’s this?”
“He’s waiting for you at the bar.”
“Why would he be waiting for me?”
“He owns a bazillion tourist shops around Chicago. All in the most primo locations, I might add.” She heaved a wistful sigh. “God, I’d kill for his Michigan Avenue store.”
Okay. That explained precisely nothing.
Not an uncommon occurrence with Tobi.
She might possess the business acumen of a Fortune 500 executive, but she rambled like a total ditz.
“He’s a friend of yours?”
“Not hardly.” Tobi ran a hand through her hot pink hair. “He’s way out of my league. I only recognize him from the society pages.”
Regan shifted, uneasy at the thought some stranger was asking to see her.
Was it another trap? Was Caine still hoping he could capture her?
“Then what’s he doing here?” she demanded, openly suspicious. “And why does he want to see me?”
“He’s here because he noticed the etchings in the window, and he wanted to be introduced to the artist.”
“Why?”
“Holy crap, for such an intelligent woman, you can be incredibly dim.” With quicksilver movements that made Regan occasionally wonder if Tobi was more than just human, she grasped Regan’s arm and pushed her out the swinging doors. “Go talk to him.”
“But…”
“Go,” Tobi hissed, shoving her hard enough that she stumbled into the main room.
Intensely aware that a dozen customers had turned to look at her with raised brows, Regan had little choice but to smooth back the damp curls that had escaped her ponytail, and walk with as much dignity as possible toward the bar.
Keeping her pace measured, she wound her way through the wooden booths and small tables that glowed beneath the discreet lighting set in the open-beamed ceiling.
Once she reached the open space reserved for bar patrons, it was easy to spot the odd man out.
It wasn’t just his hand-tailored suit that fit his lean body like a glove, or the perfectly trimmed silver hair that framed his lined, still-handsome face. It was the way he held himself, and the cool arrogance with which he studied his surroundings.