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To her right, a long counter separated a security guard from the lobby. Beyond him, a staircase rose to a mezzanine that looked like the first line of defense for the condominiums and office space that occupied the rest of the building.
“May I help you?” The guard’s voice echoed across the marble floors.
She approached the desk and hesitated. She hadn’t thought this through. She could still leave. Could turn around and backtrack through the city until she reached her car, get in and drive home, have tea with her mother.
“I’m looking for Nolan Burke,” she said.
“Is he expecting you?” the guard asked.
“No.”
“Your name?”
“Bridget Monaghan.”
He picked up a phone behind the desk. “”Sir, there’s a guest to see you. Bridget Monaghan.”
She had a moment’s panic. Maybe Nolan didn’t want to see her. Maybe his girlfriend was here. Maybe they even lived together and Bridget would be welcomed into their home, offered something to drink by a woman in expensive loungewear who would look at her with pity.
“Yes, sir.” The security guard hung up and pushed a sign-in sheet attached to a clipboard toward her. “Sign in please.”
She wrote her name.
“Elevator’s just past the stairs,” he said. “Fifty-third floor, unit 5302.”
“Thank you.”
She started for the elevator, her mind surprisingly calm. For the first time in as long as she could remember, there was no incriminating voice. The litany of missteps and failures that had been a soundtrack to her every movement was silent.
The elevator was as nice as the rest of the building. In spite of Nolan’s wealth, the way he carried it like a crown he’d been born to wear, it was hard to see him here. When she thought of Nolan it wasn’t tailored wool and a sea of imported marble that came to mind. It was the jacket he’d once worn around the neighborhood, the leather infused with his scent. It was beers at The Chipp and late nights at Ramsey Park and the shelter of his arms.
The elevator opened and she stepped into a hall with widely spaced doors on either side. One of them was open. She walked toward it and found Nolan standing on the other side of the threshold. He studied her for a long time, holding her gaze until she couldn’t have looked away if she’d wanted to.
“You don’t have to love me, Bridget.” His voice was low and hoarse. “But don’t come in if you don’t want me.”
“I want you.” The words came easily, from someplace inside her that knew all her undeniable truths.
He stepped aside to let her in.
14
He closed the door and waited for her to lead the way.
“Are you alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He watched as she started down the corridor leading to the living room and kitchen, then stopped outside the master bedroom. He’d been reading there, trying not to think about her, about the way she’d looked the night before at Foley’s.
“Is this your room?” She didn’t look at him as she asked the question.
“Yes.”
She disappeared over the threshold and he followed, pausing in the doorway to watch as she walked purposefully to the headboard. She reached for the sconce on the wall that had been illuminating his book and turned out the light.
The room was cast into almost total darkness, the lights of the city beyond the window barely making a dent in it.
She stood with her back to him, silent and still. It was only when she slipped her coat off her shoulders that he realized she’d been undoing the buttons. He waited as she followed suit with her shirt, tossing it onto her coat.
