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“Would it be better if I came over there?”
She glanced at the clock. It was only three, and she didn’t want to wait, but she had more worries than the paparazzi. Her place was a mess and her legs needed shaving in a very bad way. Bouncing on her toes with anticipation, Chloe squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. He wanted normal, and she’d do her best to give it to him. She wasn’t a panic-attacked sideshow freak. She was cool as a cucumber. “If you’re willing to bring dinner, I could fit you in around eight.”
There was a soft sound on the other side of the line. It sounded very much like a relieved sigh. “Is Chinese okay?”
In answer, she gave him the address, her voice steady and cheerful and normal as hell. Then she hung up and threw the phone hard at her couch before dancing around her small room. Oh, yes, she could make it until Monday. She could make it real good.
MAX WAS NERVOUS. Like, going-out-on-a-first-date nervous. It made no sense, of course. He and Chloe had already gone out several times, not to mention all that mind-blowing sex they’d had. Funny that you could lose count of that sort of thing when it was spread out over only three days, but several of those encounters had run together into one long night.
He rubbed his palms against his jeans and craned his neck to see where the taxi driver was taking him.
Her address was 410½, so he’d envisioned her living in one of the refurbished town houses that made up the residential area west of downtown Richmond. They were charming and beautiful and quirky, all jammed in together on tree-lined streets. She probably lived on the top floor, and he could see her curled up in a little window seat, reading in the shade of an ancient oak.
She and Jenn would walk to dinner on their girls’ nights out. On Sundays, Chloe probably went to her parents’ house for a barbecue. Yeah, there was nothing insane or alarming about these little streets.
But the cab rolled past that neighborhood and entered an area of well-kept antebellum mansions. Every house was large and stately, though each stood out as different from its neighbor. Some were white stone with pillars, hemmed in by rock walls. Some were aging brick, the darkness relieved by whitewashed balustrades and balconies.
Max frowned at them all, confused by the transition.
The cab slowed with an ear-piercing squeal of worn brakes. “Here’s 410. The ½ must be in the back. Want me to try to find an alley?”
Max cast a doubtful eye around. The house was only one lot from the corner. If there were an alley, Max could find it. The lampposts along the street were lit and the sun hadn’t quite finished setting. He paid the driver, grabbed the bag of Chinese food and found himself standing in front of a mansion that had seen better days. In fact, those better days may have been in the mid-nineteenth century.
This house was… Max squinted through the overgrown vegetation—red brick. Or maybe it was brownstone. He couldn’t see much past the ivy and moss. The front yard had reverted to old Richmond. Really old Richmond. Like back when only native Americans had lived on this land.
Was this some ancestral family home? Max looked up the street, then down. He found no clue waiting for him, but he didn’t see any photographers, either.
He took a few wary steps toward the wrought-iron gate. Unlike most of the fences on this block, this one rose high. Eight feet high. He reached gingerly for the handle of the gate, but it didn’t respond to his first careful nudge. After trying to no avail, Max shrugged and threw his whole weight into it. The latch finally snapped up and the gate slipped open a foot, screaming against the scarred cement beneath.
“Christ,” he muttered, wondering if you could get tetanus if you didn’t actually have a cut. He wiped a few of the rust flakes off his hand and stepped back, giving up. He clearly needed to go around to the back. Nobody had used this entrance in years. Just as he reached out to tug the gate back into place, a very distinctive clack broke through the silence. Someone had just dropped a chamber into a shotgun. And that someone was very close.
Max’s blood froze in his veins and he was stuck like that, two fingers on the gate and eyes wide as saucers.
“You’d better get the hell out of here if you know what’s good for you.”
“Um.” His eyes rolled, but he couldn’t see anything past the overgrown bushes. “Damn patterazzi.”
Paparazzi. Someone thought he was a reporter. “I’m not—” A deep, dark growl interrupted him, and Max looked down to see a vicious black dog only inches from his legs. A dark rumble of warning bubbled up from its throat while its jowls quivered. “Oh, fuck.” Max dropped the sack of food and slowly raised both his hands as he eased backward. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are, but I’m here to see Chloe Turner.”
“I’ll bet you are!”
“She invited me over, ma’am. I apologize about the mixup. If you can just tell me how to get to 410½, I’ll be on my—”
“Mrs. Schlessing!” Chloe shouted from somewhere within the thicket. “Mrs. Schlessing, that’s Max! He’s my guest.”
A head of gray, curly hair poked out from the bush on the left. “You sure?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Chloe suddenly jogged into view, her cheeks flushed and her hair bouncing from the run. “Brutus,” she ordered in a low voice. “Heel.” The dog spun, its growl morphing into a happy yelp as he trotted back to the old woman.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe panted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I should have told you to come through the back.” She cringed deliberately and tilted her head in Mrs. Schlessing’s direction. The woman, apparently satisfied with her work, had already headed back into the jungle, a flash of pink housedress his last glimpse of her.
Chloe slipped through the gate and tugged it shut behind her. “Come on. I’ll show you the way.” She picked up the bag before heading off.
Max took a few steps with her, then stopped and turned to face her. “What the hell was that?”
“That was Mrs. Schlessing. I rent the apartment from her.”
“Okay, but…what the hell was that?”
