Chapter 6: The Penthouse

Rafferty's penthouse took up the top two floors of a glass tower above the Allegheny.

I stood in the entrance hall in a ruined plum dress and bare feet, because I had lost my shoes somewhere between the terrace and the elevator.

The floor was pale stone, and a long window showed the whole river lit up.

"Guest room's at the end of the hall," Rafferty said. "I'll find you something to wear."

"You live alone?"

"Mostly. My housekeeper comes at nine."

"And you take in strangers regularly?"

"Just the one." He dropped his keys into a small brass dish on the hall table. "Bathroom's through the door. Towels are in the cabinet."

He disappeared into another room and came back with a folded grey T-shirt.

I took it from him, and my fingers brushed his.

I buried my face in the cotton before I could stop myself.

Cedar and clean laundry.

It smelled exactly the way his jacket had, and exactly the way a certain borrowed shirt had, and I told myself again that many men use the same soap.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said, too brightly. "I'm sleeping in a billionaire's apartment in a stranger's shirt. This is my best week."

"Technically I'm not a stranger anymore."

"Technically you're a man who lied to me."

"Technically I told you I wasn't from an agency."

"Goodnight, Rafferty."

"Goodnight, Thora."

He did not smile, but something in his face eased.

The guest room was bigger than my room at home, with a white bed that sat in the middle of the floor.

I washed my face, tied my hair up with a rubber band I found in a drawer and lay on top of the covers in his T-shirt.

My phone showed forty-one messages.

Fourteen were from Hollister, and I read none of them.

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