Chapter 2 — One Night, No Promises

"A little longer," I repeated. "That's a dangerous phrase."

Charlotte didn't release my hand.

"For whom?"

"Usually me."

She glanced around the kitchen. "You can start by eating something. Nora told me you haven't."

"Nora collects information quickly."

"It's why I pay her."

She opened the refrigerator as though she owned the house, frowned at its contents, and took out eggs, butter, and a loaf of bread.

"You know how to cook?" I asked.

"I run a logistics company, Connor. I haven't spent my entire life waiting for somebody to bring me a plate."

"Good. Because I burn toast."

She looked over her shoulder. "Then stand there and look useful."

I leaned against the counter. "Any particular pose?"

Her eyes traveled down my chest before she caught herself.

"Quiet would be a good start."

We ate at the small table while evening settled outside. She told me about a warehouse roof that had collapsed during a storm and a board member who considered every decision she made proof that she was too young for her job.

I told her about a loading dock in Tennessee where I'd spent six hours waiting for a man to find a key that was in his pocket.

Both stories were true. Mine was simply missing a few details about the cargo.

"Do you like driving?" she asked.

"I like knowing where the exits are."

"That isn't the same thing."

"It works for me."

She pushed her empty plate away.

"You never answered me about your hand."

"It doesn't hurt."

"There. That wasn't difficult."

"You should hear me answer tax questions."

Charlotte laughed. Then her expression softened.

"I don't want to spend tonight talking about those men."

"We don't have to."

"And I don't want you looking at me like I'm going to break."

I met her eyes.

"I'm looking at you because you're making it hard to look anywhere else."

The quiet that followed was different from the silence in the truck.

She stood and came around the table. I stayed where I was until she rested a hand on my shoulder.

"Is that another bad habit?"

"Probably."

"You have quite a collection."

Her mouth touched mine, briefly, as though she was testing whether I would disappear.

I stood slowly.

"Charlotte."

"I know where I am," she said. "And I know who I'm kissing."

"You know my name. That's not quite the same."

She studied me, her thumb brushing the edge of my jaw.

"Then tell me something else."

I could have told her about men who lowered their voices when mine came through a telephone. About warehouses with no company signs and deals that never reached a public ledger.

Instead, I told her the one thing she actually needed to hear.

"I'm not good at staying."

Her hand paused.

"Then stay tonight."

I kissed her again. This time neither of us stepped away.

Later, rain returned against the windows. She lay beside me with her cheek on my shoulder and the borrowed sweater on the floor. When I reached to turn off the lamp, she caught my wrist.

"Leave it on."

I did.

There were no promises about next week or next year. There was her hand resting over my heart, and the strange discomfort of wanting morning to arrive slowly.

It arrived anyway.

Charlotte woke before me and stole my shirt. I found her barefoot in the kitchen, trying to operate a coffee machine that had defeated better men.

"It hates me," she said.

"It hates everybody."

I reached past her to press the switch at the back. She stayed close while the machine began to hiss.

"You could work for me," she said.

"You haven't tasted my coffee yet."

"I mean driving. I could give you a regular route. Better pay. A place that doesn't require you to sleep beside a steering wheel."

I looked at the buttons of my shirt on her body.

"You're offering me a job before breakfast?"

"I'm efficient."

"I noticed."

She elbowed me lightly.

"I'm serious."

So was I, suddenly. That was the problem.

My phone vibrated on the counter. Miles had sent three words.

Kane knows Savannah.

Below them was a photograph of a man who had worked for us. He lay beside a burned car. I turned the screen over before Charlotte could see.

"Something wrong?"

"A problem I have to handle."

She watched me carefully.

"How long?"

"I don't know yet."

"That sounds more honest than saying you'll call tomorrow."

I took a pen from the drawer and wrote my private number on the back of a receipt.

"Call me if you need anything."

"Only if I need something?"

I looked at her.

"Call because you want to."

She folded the paper and put it in her bag.

At the door, she handed me my shirt.

"I'm keeping the memory of how it looked on me."

"So am I."

She smiled, then rose on her toes to kiss me.

"Come back when you've handled your problem. We can have dinner without anybody chasing us."

"I'd like that."

I meant it. That became the part I hated remembering.

I found her navy ribbon behind the bed while collecting my jacket and tucked it into my wallet. By noon, Miles and I were at a freight property outside the city.

By evening, it was burning.

Victor Kane had been my partner in the brokerage I controlled. He'd spent months diverting money and convincing men loyal to me that they would do better under him. The explosion was his attempt to settle the argument.

Miles dragged me out. I remembered his hands under my shoulders, then very little until a hospital room weeks later.

Five months passed before I could walk without help. Longer before I could look at a bright screen without feeling sick. My phone had been destroyed. The number on Charlotte's receipt no longer reached me.

Owen Shaw, my security director, handled contact outside the recovery house. I asked him to find her.

He returned with photographs of Charlotte leaving an airport, a copy of an engagement announcement, and a report stating she had moved to London with her partner.

"Contacting her will identify her as somebody you care about," he told me. "Kane is watching everyone you approach. She's safe. Let her stay that way."

I stared at the photograph. Her face was half turned away. She looked unhappy, although I told myself I had no right to interpret it.

I should have asked for a conversation with her. I should have questioned the report. Instead, bruised and frightened of what had already followed me, I accepted the easiest explanation.

She had moved on. I had missed my chance.

By the time I saw her again, four years and seven months had passed since that night.

I never stopped thinking about her. I never knew there was a child.

The business survived because Miles kept its legitimate operations separate from Kane's attempted takeover. I survived by staying out of public view while the men who had tried to kill me were identified one by one.

Then an old mechanic outside Savannah needed somebody to cover his garage while he recovered from surgery. I liked the work. Real engines, simple problems, nobody asking permission before speaking to me.

I stayed one week, then three.

That was long enough for Charlotte Hayes to find me.

On a Thursday morning, I lay under a pickup while a woman named April stood beside my boots, explaining why I should let her take me to dinner.

"You're allowed to have a life," she said.

"I have a life. At the moment, it's leaking transmission fluid."

"You could settle down."

"I'm not getting married, April. I'm not raising kids. I'm barely qualified to keep a houseplant alive."

Someone stopped just inside the garage.

I saw black heels, white trousers, and the edge of a handbag that cost more than the pickup.

April went quiet.

A familiar voice said, "That's unfortunate. You're already a father."

I rolled out from under the truck.

Charlotte Hayes stood above me in a white suit, with her hair loose around her shoulders and absolutely no intention of letting me escape.