a year now and he had his own drawer in her apartment here, there were limits of propriety.
Kat sat atop the closed toilet, her head resting in her hands.
“Kathryn…”
She glanced up, plainly startled at the intrusion. “Monk!” She leaned to the door to push it the rest of the way closed.
He blocked it with his foot. “It wasn’t like you were using the bathroom.”
“I was waiting for the shower to warm up.”
Monk noted the steam-fogged mirror as he entered. The chamber smelled of jasmine. A scent that evoked all manner of stirrings inside him. He stepped and knelt again before her.
She leaned back.
He placed his hands, one flesh, one synthetic, atop her knees.
She would not meet his eyes, head still hanging.
He pushed apart her knees, leaned between them, and slid his hands up along her outer thighs and cupped her buttocks. He pulled her to him.
“I have to—” she started.
“You have to come here.” He lifted her and lowered her to his lap, straddling him now. His face was a breath from hers.
She finally met his eyes. “I…I’m sorry.”
He leaned closer. “For what?” Their lips brushed each other’s.
“I should’ve been more careful.”
“I don’t remember complaining.”
“But this sort of mistake—”
“Never.” He kissed her hard, not in anger but in firm assurance. He whispered between their lips. “Never call it that.”
She melted into him, her arms entwining behind his neck. Her hair smelled of jasmine. “What are we going to do?”
“I may not know everything, but I do know that answer.”
He rolled to the side and lowered her down to the bathroom rug beneath him.
“Oh,” she said.
7:55 A.M .
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
Gray sat in the café opposite the small antiquarian shop. He studied the building across the street.
SJÆLDEN BØGER was stenciled on the window. RARE BOOKS . The bookstore occupied the first floor of a two-story row house topped by a red-tile roof. It appeared identical to its neighbors, lined one after the other down the street. And like the others in this less affluent section of town, it had fallen into disrepair. The upper windows were boarded up. Even the first-floor shop was secured behind a steel drop-gate.
Closed for now.
As Gray waited for the shop to open, he eyed the building more clinically, sipping what passed for hot chocolate here in Denmark, so thick it tasted like a melted Hershey’s bar. He searched beyond the boarded windows. Though the building had faded, its Old World charm persisted: owl-eyed dormers peered out from the attic, heavy exposed beams crisscrossed the upper story, and a steep pitch of the roofline stood forever ready to shrug off a long winter’s snowfall. Gray even spotted old scars below the windows where flower boxes had once been bolted.
Gray contemplated ways of renovating the house back to its original glory, rebuilding it in his head, a mental exercise balancing engineering with aesthetics.
He could almost smell the sawdust.
This last thought suddenly soured the daydream. Other memories intruded, unbidden and unwanted: his father’s woodshop in the garage, working alongside him after school. What usually started out as a simple renovation project often ended up in shouting matches and words too hard to take back. The warring had eventually driven Gray out of high school and into the military. Only lately had son and father found new ways to communicate, finding common ground, accepting differences.
Still, Gray was haunted by an offhand remark of his mother’s. How father and son were more alike than they were different. Why had that been bothering him so much lately? Gray pushed the thoughts away and shook his head.
With his concentration broken, he checked his watch, anxious to get on with the day. He had already canvassed the auction site and secured two cameras at the front and rear access points. All he had to do was interview the shop owner here about the Bible and take some snapshots
Kat sat atop the closed toilet, her head resting in her hands.
“Kathryn…”
She glanced up, plainly startled at the intrusion. “Monk!” She leaned to the door to push it the rest of the way closed.
He blocked it with his foot. “It wasn’t like you were using the bathroom.”
“I was waiting for the shower to warm up.”
Monk noted the steam-fogged mirror as he entered. The chamber smelled of jasmine. A scent that evoked all manner of stirrings inside him. He stepped and knelt again before her.
She leaned back.
He placed his hands, one flesh, one synthetic, atop her knees.
She would not meet his eyes, head still hanging.
He pushed apart her knees, leaned between them, and slid his hands up along her outer thighs and cupped her buttocks. He pulled her to him.
“I have to—” she started.
“You have to come here.” He lifted her and lowered her to his lap, straddling him now. His face was a breath from hers.
She finally met his eyes. “I…I’m sorry.”
He leaned closer. “For what?” Their lips brushed each other’s.
“I should’ve been more careful.”
“I don’t remember complaining.”
“But this sort of mistake—”
“Never.” He kissed her hard, not in anger but in firm assurance. He whispered between their lips. “Never call it that.”
She melted into him, her arms entwining behind his neck. Her hair smelled of jasmine. “What are we going to do?”
“I may not know everything, but I do know that answer.”
He rolled to the side and lowered her down to the bathroom rug beneath him.
“Oh,” she said.
7:55 A.M .
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
Gray sat in the café opposite the small antiquarian shop. He studied the building across the street.
SJÆLDEN BØGER was stenciled on the window. RARE BOOKS . The bookstore occupied the first floor of a two-story row house topped by a red-tile roof. It appeared identical to its neighbors, lined one after the other down the street. And like the others in this less affluent section of town, it had fallen into disrepair. The upper windows were boarded up. Even the first-floor shop was secured behind a steel drop-gate.
Closed for now.
As Gray waited for the shop to open, he eyed the building more clinically, sipping what passed for hot chocolate here in Denmark, so thick it tasted like a melted Hershey’s bar. He searched beyond the boarded windows. Though the building had faded, its Old World charm persisted: owl-eyed dormers peered out from the attic, heavy exposed beams crisscrossed the upper story, and a steep pitch of the roofline stood forever ready to shrug off a long winter’s snowfall. Gray even spotted old scars below the windows where flower boxes had once been bolted.
Gray contemplated ways of renovating the house back to its original glory, rebuilding it in his head, a mental exercise balancing engineering with aesthetics.
He could almost smell the sawdust.
This last thought suddenly soured the daydream. Other memories intruded, unbidden and unwanted: his father’s woodshop in the garage, working alongside him after school. What usually started out as a simple renovation project often ended up in shouting matches and words too hard to take back. The warring had eventually driven Gray out of high school and into the military. Only lately had son and father found new ways to communicate, finding common ground, accepting differences.
Still, Gray was haunted by an offhand remark of his mother’s. How father and son were more alike than they were different. Why had that been bothering him so much lately? Gray pushed the thoughts away and shook his head.
With his concentration broken, he checked his watch, anxious to get on with the day. He had already canvassed the auction site and secured two cameras at the front and rear access points. All he had to do was interview the shop owner here about the Bible and take some snapshots
Similar Books
