Objects of My Affection (20 page)

I say now to Niko, “Torch could have at least tried not to laugh.”

“C'mon, even you were about to lose it.”

“Okay, true. When she started waving it at him as she was yelling, I had to bite the inside of my cheek to hold it together.”

Niko sits back and levels a look at me. “You're good with her.”

“With Marva? Yeah, right.”

“I mean it.”

“She fights me on everything.”

“But now sometimes you fight back.”

We continue to chat until the band restarts. It's so easy being with Niko. I can't help but contrast it with my earlier talk with Ash. To be with someone and yet have no junk between you—except in the literal
sense. It's making me feel almost … what's that experience I keep craving? Ah, yes. I take another sip of my beer. Normal.

I don't recognize the song being played, but a few brave (read: drunk) souls hit the dance floor. An elderly couple rocks out next to some blonde in a red halter top dancing by herself. I'm content to lean back and enjoy feeling buzzed when the band switches to a hip-hop song and Niko grabs my arm. “Old-school! We've got to dance to this one.”

Old-school? I vaguely recognize this song—it can't be more than a couple years old. It packs the dance floor—and by
packs
, I mean a dozen or so people. Everyone knows the steps, such as they are, involving a crisscrossing and then leaping as though flying. Luckily, it's silly enough that everybody is as terrible as me, including Niko, who repeatedly crashes into me.

The song ends, and the band moves directly into a slow song. I start back to the table.

I've barely turned around when Niko's arm tugs at my waist, and his other hand clasps mine. It's so smooth I spin right into him, as if I meant to do it. His shirt smells of fabric softener. I wonder if his mom does his laundry.

“Where'd you learn how to dance?” I ask.

“I'm Greek.”

“And … ?”

He looks baffled that I don't accept that as the entire answer. “So that's why I can dance.”

He walks me home soon after that, steering me with a hand on my neck. It feels extra-nice because it's nippy outside. It's sweet, too. It may have been a long time since I've thought about romance, but I remember how guys do that—look for excuses to touch a girl when they like her. It occurs to me he might actually try to kiss me.

“Whew, I've had too much to drink,” he says, when we get to the bungalow. “It might not be such a good idea for me to drive. I'm not drunk, but I don't need a DUI.”

“Oh, okay … well …” I'm not sure what he's getting at.

“It'd probably be smarter for me to spend the night here.”

Ah. That's what he's getting at.

Boy, he's smooth.

Kind of nervy, too. I mean, we've never even kissed. And he's hinting to spend the night? Sure, it sounds yummy, but my “going for it” is typically a whole lot slower than that.

Then again, I can't let him drive drunk.

“I guess I don't mind if you crash on my couch, but truthfully, Niko, I don't know you that well. This is all pretty fast. And I—”

“Whoa, sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “I didn't mean sleep
here.
I meant at Marva's. In the man cave. I go in through the cellar entrance. I've done it before—she doesn't even notice I'm there.”

I am instantly mortified. Of course he wasn't coming on to me. I'm so much older than him! I'm merely a woman he works for!

“Of … of course …,” I stammer.

He grins wickedly. “But, hey, if you're offering …”

“Nice try. Now off to your cave,” I say, easing the door shut, no longer embarrassed. “And thanks for tonight.”

T
he next two days are filled with overseeing Smitty's and Niko's crews. I'm exhausted, and my feet are killing me. It's my own stupid fault for wearing such high heels. To my shame, I am, as they say, peacocking—that is, fanning my feathers to attract the opposite sex. It seems to be working. There's enough sexual charge between Niko and me to light a small city.

Not that I'm acting on it.

I'm too busy moving the auction items out before Marva gets back from the hospital. The theater room has already been cleared of everything Marva approved to sell. My work hours have been long, but for the first time since I took this job, rather enjoyable.

Smitty flits down the stairs, clipboard in hand, following two workers carrying out part of an enormous art installation. I stop him in the foyer.

“This one's called
Umbrella
by … Imelda Elder, correct?” I say.

“Yesiree, and that's the last of it for now.” Looking out toward the nearly full moving truck outside, he says, “Quite an interesting collection so far. Although I'll admit I'm a tad disappointed. We could've fetched quite the price for those Meier Rios's.” Smitty had been particularly careful identifying the four paintings of Marva's tagged to go. He'd scrutinized her blocky MMR signature so long I had to fight the urge to offer to bring the artist herself to verify them. His enthusiasm had dipped greatly when I told him they weren't for sale. “Are you positive your boss wants me to arrange an endowment to a museum? It seems such a waste.”

“Sorry, but
he
,” I say, keeping up the ruse that this is the home of a software tycoon, “was adamant that they not go to private collectors.”

“As I told you before, I could find a museum willing to buy. You'd have full approval.”

“He said donate. Wants the tax write-off, I guess.”

“Pity. At least
Woman, Freshly Tossed
isn't part of this collection. Giving that one away to a museum would be a travesty.”

“Yes, imagine allowing ordinary people to enjoy a great work of art. Next thing you know, they're going to demand the right to vote.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, my dear. I simply mean it would be thrilling to say I handled the sale of it. A moot point, since it's not here. I do wonder where it
is
housed. Have you any idea?”

“Nope.” Given Marva's abrupt dismissal of the subject the one time I asked her, it's clear she doesn't have it. I got the distinct impression that she doesn't even know where it is—or if she does, she's not happy about its whereabouts. This is a woman who wants to make sure her spare flashlight goes to a good home—surely she wouldn't be happy about her life's greatest work being in the wrong hands.

“Let's work to discourage any more charity on the next go-round, shall we? A fellow's got to make a living.” Smitty hands me the clipboard and a pen. “We're almost out of your hair. Need a signature on these.”

As with everything he's taken yesterday and today, there's a ream of paperwork to pore over—release forms, verification of authenticity, it goes on and on. We're both being careful. Hundreds of thousand of dollars is making its way out the door. Possibly more than a million, but I can't wrap my head around that big a number. (Although it was fun seeing the look on Will's face when he stopped by and I told him Marva was giving her paintings to the art museum for free. There's nothing he can do about it, though. They're hers to give.)

It's twenty minutes before Smitty's semitruck pulls out. I shut the door behind him. It's quiet except for the faint strains of a TV coming from Marva's bedroom, where Niko is rearranging furniture. I take a moment to spin around the living room—I can do that now. It's still not empty, but it's getting there. Only, ow. My feet. I tug off my shoes. If I'd had any sense, I'd have gone the low-cut-blouse route.

Hmm … and speaking of the reason I'm tarted up … I head barefoot to Marva's room to give Niko a hand.

As I walk in, he's lying on her bed watching a basketball game.

“Hey! What's with the slacking?” I grab the remote from a dresser and click off the TV. “Marva could be here anytime.”

“Has anyone ever told you, you're cute when you're bossy?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Well, you are.”

“Then I'm about to get cuter, because we need to move that bed to the middle of the room. Which means you need to get off of it.” For some reason, with Niko this is my idea of flirting. Next I'll be pushing him down on the playground the way I did to Grant Smith in the third grade (who annoyingly didn't recognize it as the flirtation it was and ratted me out to a teacher).

Niko rolls off the bed. “Like I said, bossy.”

“I'm not doing this for the fun of it.” I crouch down and tug the bed while he pushes on it. It's a giant, four-poster number and weighs a ton. “This room looks too empty as it is,” I say, huffing.

“So bring some junk back in.” Niko throws muscle into the job,
and it does not go unnoticed that he has lovely muscle with which to do it.

“Not a chance. I'm creating an illusion of fullness.” We manage to shimmy the bed into place. “See?”

“Whatever you say.”

I'm hyperaware that Niko and I are alone in the house. In a bedroom, to be specific. Standing on either side of a bed.

Stay focused, Lucy.
“Help me move the shelf.”

Once I get the furniture where I want it, I start unloading the remaining collectibles onto the shelves. It doesn't need to look pretty—just fluffed up. I want Marva to get the effect of having one room completed. I'd even had the guys put any clothes that didn't fit in the closet in the dining room to sort through later. She'll take one look at this room, beam with pride, and say, “I can't wait for the whole house to look like this!”

Hey, a girl can dream.

I'm reaching to place a decorative box on an upper shelf when I feel Niko behind me.

“I've got that,” he says. He's brushed up against me as he sets the box on the top shelf. I don't move, although every nerve ending in me just stood on end. “Anything else up here?”

I point to—oh, I don't care what … magazines. He reaches down and grabs them, and I pretend to shuffle knickknacks about while I feel him setting the magazines on a shelf above me. My insides are buzzing and popping.

“You unload the rest,” I say, wriggling out from in front of him. “I'll sweep!”

I grab a broom and start sweeping like Cinderella—that is, if she were really, really horny and had no idea what to make of it. I try to ignore Niko, stealing glances at me. In no time, the room is swept, unpacked, and looking …

“Not bad,” Niko says, nodding approvingly.

“You think?”

He takes a step toward me and—did I mention how horribly out
of practice I am romance-wise?—I step back. My foot knocks over a box filled with Styrofoam packing peanuts, sending them spilling.

“Can't have this mess here!” I grab them up in my arms as best I can, then look manically about the room, pretending to drink in my fine work. “Much better! Our first room! Done! And cheers … to the first of many!”

“Good job.” Niko leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “To the first of many.”

I'm debating if that was only meant to be a friendly kiss between coworkers when he cups the back of my neck and kisses me on the mouth.

Then another kiss.

Another … and … my lips part, and my arms reach up to go around his shoulders, sending packing peanuts flying everywhere, clinging to my shirt, my hair, and …
I don't even care.
I rise onto my tiptoes. Niko's hands roam over my back, and I tug him closer. If this is Niko being friendly, he may be the best darn friend I've had in a long time.

He walks me toward the bed, kissing me all the while. I lie down, and, oh, hot damn and hallelujah. He climbs over me, pausing long enough to give an
mmm
, his eyes flickering across my face. Then his mouth finds mine again, and I surrender to the crazy luck that this is, Niko, here, in this house—as if I'd dug through a box of fiber-rich nutritional cereal and found a toy surprise anyway. He's propped on one elbow, his other hand sliding deliciously along my side as he kisses me, maddeningly leisurely. As if he has all the time in the world. As if kissing me is his only destination. As if his mind isn't leaping and bouncing to nastier, more urgent places, like someone's I know.

As his tongue searches mine, I feel him hard against me. I'd almost forgotten it—this luscious feeling of being desired, of having a gorgeous man now kissing me down my neck. As we kiss, that hand of his is growing more audacious, and I think we're both highly interested to know just how bold I'll let it be. Niko's breathing is focused, his want evident, but he's waiting for a signal from me. Anything.
Could be shifting so I'm clearly more accessible … could be sending up a flare. Could be—

My cell phone buzzes in my pants pocket.

Niko gives a muffled chuckle against my clavicle. “Tell me you don't have to get that.”

“I have to get that.” Nelson is supposed to call to give me a five-minute warning so I can prep for his and Marva's return. Scooching from under Niko, I pull out my phone. “Hello?”

It's Nelson, telling me they're in the driveway.

“What happened to my five minutes?” I say, more snappish than I mean, but Niko is lightly running his fingertips along my waist and I'm not appreciating that it needs to end.

I hang up and reluctantly push him away. “They're here.”

“
Here
here?”

“I'm afraid so.”

He groans, but it's good-natured. Climbing off the bed, he says, “I suppose you need to deal with this.”

“Yep.” My brain is already at the front door—letting Marva in and touring her around to show her how much better the house looks—although my body wants to linger. I drag myself up. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck. You need me?”

“No, you should probably go. I have no idea how she's going to react. I need to be ready for anything. In fact, go out the back door, will you?” After Marva so astutely keyed into the past romance I had with Daniel, I don't want to risk her running into Niko now and picking up on our makeout session.