But as far as I was concerned, Cole’s house put both Evan’s and Tyler’s addresses to shame.
He lived in Hyde Park near the University of Chicago and, yes, near the famous gang-riddled South Side that the old song about Bad, Bad Leroy Brown had made famous. I knew Cole had grown up in that part of the city, but he didn’t live in the dicey area now. Instead, Hyde Park was funky and eclectic. A place where pretty much anything goes.
And Cole’s house stood like the topping on a very delicious and exotic dessert.
It had been designed in the late 1800s by Frank Lloyd Wright, and with the straight lines, sharp angles, and overall geometric design, there was no mistaking the architect’s work. The place had come on the market about five months ago, and Cole had immediately snatched it up. I had no idea what he’d had to pay in order to acquire it, but I had a feeling that no amount would have deterred him.
At the housewarming he’d told me that Frank Lloyd Wright was as much a master as Michelangelo or Da Vinci, and that there was no way he could have passed up the chance to live in something created by genius.
Now, standing just outside the huge wooden door surrounded by intricate stonework, I once again thought how much the house suited Cole. Not only was it artistic but it was impenetrable without being off-putting.
And wasn’t that the same as the man? Because unless he let you past his walls, there was no getting inside Cole August.
I hadn’t called first because I didn’t want him to make an excuse not to see me. Liz had assured me that he planned to spend the evening at home catching up on some paperwork, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d told her his actual plans.
For all I knew, he was at the Firehouse. And as intrigued as I might now be by that place, I wasn’t quite ready to go search for him there.
I hesitated another moment before knocking, feeling a bit like a fool. I wanted to see him—hell, I wanted to hear his voice. That smooth, sexy voice that had pushed me over the edge just the other day.
At the same time, though, I feared his reaction. He couldn’t have been more clear about his intent to stay away from me if he’d taken out an ad in the Chicago Tribune, so finding me at his front door might not brighten his evening.
Then again, this wasn’t about me and it wasn’t about him and it damn sure wasn’t about sex.
This was about my dad, and Cole was the only person in my life right now who might actually be able to help him.
And that meant that whatever issue Cole had with me at the moment was going to have to be shoved aside. I needed help. And Cole would just have to deal with it.
I rang the bell.
At first, there was no answer. Then I heard his voice crackle through the intercom. “Be right there.”
I waited, and a moment later the door opened to reveal the man himself wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips. “Kat,” he said, and for a moment, I saw heat flare in his eyes. Then his expression turned carefully blank.
My mouth went completely dry, while my more southernly parts had the completely opposite reaction.
“Kat,” he said again, in a voice that suggested neither pleasure nor irritation. Just confusion. “Sorry—I thought you were the messenger. I should have checked the monitor.”
As if on cue, a skinny guy in a Speedy Messenger cap hopped off a bicycle at the curb. He trotted to the front door and passed a thin, manila envelope to Cole along with a clipboard. Cole signed the receipt, handed the clipboard back to the guy, then looked at me expectantly.
“What?” Why was he looking at me? I didn’t know what was in the envelope.
“Why are you here?” he said, then added, “Kat? Is everything okay?”
I jerked my head up, realizing that I’d been staring in the general area of his crotch—and the definite bulge beneath the thin, white towel.
Oh my.
I drew in a breath to gather myself, and hoped he couldn’t see the way my skin had flushed or the way tiny pinpricks of perspiration now dotted my hairline.
“I need to talk to you,” I said. “Can I come in?” When he didn’t immediately move to let me pass, I added, “It’s important.”
He stepped to one side, opening the door wider as he did so. “This way.”
I followed him into a stunning sitting room, full of gleaming, polished wood features and modern-style furniture that accented the elegant simplicity of the architecture. The evening light swept in through high windows, and the whole room seemed to glow.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a blue love seat. He turned to a small bar built into a corner, and as he walked away, I studied the intricate tattoo of a dragon that covered most of his back. I’d seen the entire tattoo only once before at a party on Evan’s boat when Cole had stripped down to swim trunks. More frequently, I would catch a glimpse peeking above his shirt on the back of his neck.
The work was detailed and beautiful, and I had no idea why he’d gotten such a large, involved tattoo. I assumed it meant something to him, but when Sloane had asked him once, he’d brushed the question away, and I had never tried to press the point.
Despite the dragon’s beauty, the image was edgy, and it gave the illusion that Cole was unpredictable and wild.
Then again, that wasn’t really an illusion, was it?
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said as he brought me a shot of whiskey, straight up.
“Let me guess,” I said dryly. “We have to talk.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “It would be a good idea.”
He sat in the chair opposite me, still wearing only the towel that was now stretched taut across his knees. I could see the shadow beneath the towel leading up to the juncture of his thighs. And though I could see nothing in those shadows, I could imagine. And I could want.