goal to somehow salvage said society. But Trace had no such background at all. Trace was a Beaudry. Despite being a frighteningly good hacker, Sibyl could find no reference to a Comitatus member or family line under that name.
And she’d looked. See: paranoid.
But even meeting non-Comitatus men here, alone, fell under the heading of “Things movies teach you not to do.” Unless the movie was a romance. This wasn’t a romance. Sibyl wouldn’t know what to do with a—
Drinks! She spiraled back down the stairs to the large, open kitchen to look into the formerly empty, stainless steel refrigerator. Again.
It held a six-pack of every major soda she could find and nothing else. Sibyl suspected Trace wouldn’t want any of it—he was just coming to ask a few questions about her research. Besides, he’d seemed like a beer drinker. She’d considered getting beer for him, but knew she’d get carded because of her height. Although even her real ID showed her as legal, Sibyl didn’t like using it. She didn’t like people looking too closely at her.
Trace would look at her, if not closely. Now she ran to the mirror beside the front door and stopped bouncing on the balls of her feet long enough to narrow her eyes at her reflection. Thank heavens she’d let Arden Leigh take her on that girls-day-out to the Galleria last month, which had somehow became a makeover. Sibyl had seen it as a way to coax information out of the beauty queen, who’d only recently learned about the secret society but might eventually allow Sibyl to go through her father’s papers. Also, Arden’s father had recently passed, and the socialite seemed to take comfort in playing fairy godmother.
Sibyl knew from losing fathers—not that she admitted that to Arden. But letting someone drape her in a pink silk cape and massage her scalp while shampooing and then trimming her long hair had seemed a minor sacrifice.
Today she used very little of the makeup Arden had given her, but her hair did seem shinier, smoother. That was something. The oversize shirt in a boxy plaid of autumn colors looked casual but stylish—which, to judge by the price Arden paid, it was. The brown leggings felt comfortable enough. Sibyl had had to buy nail polish remover just to clean her fingers after their mani-pedi, but she’d left her toes alone, and the pretty copper color hadn’t chipped.
She blinked at her reflection, then looked down. Toes. That’s why she’d gone upstairs. Boots!
But Trace rapped on the door—it had to be him—and she was out of time.
“Breathe,” Sibyl whispered to herself. She’d faced down gang members, in juvie, if reluctantly. “Oxygen is fuel.” Surely she could face one guy. One good guy, a hero even. Her hero.
With a groan that had nothing to do with physical effort, she pushed aside the loft’s sliding door—and there he stood. Trace hadn’t changed in the months since he’d fled Dallas, maybe fled her. At six-four, he still towered over her. His hair, a much darker brown than hers, looked like he’d never been subjected to pink capes or scalp massages. Considering her belief that wealth corrupted people, that was a plus. So were his swarthy laborer’s tan and his worn jeans and T-shirt, stretched to accommodate his breadth. He didn’t seem to have shaved for days; give him another week, and he’d have a full beard.
Yes—this was her Trace. His constancy somehow soothed her.
Only belatedly did she notice that he was carrying in one hand something the size of a handful of canes, wrapped in a stained tarp.
He seemed oddly distracted as he said, “Hey, Shortstuff. Can I come in?”
Belatedly, Sibyl backed out of his way, then closed the door behind him as he stepped into the high-ceilinged apartment. She turned to see him pivoting, to take it all in.
He whistled through his teeth. “You live here?”
Sibyl managed to say, “I’m house-sitting,” in more than a whisper. Barely. When in doubt, give information. “It used to be a warehouse. From the 1800s. You went away.”
Wait. That last part wasn’t supposed to be out loud.
“Yeah. The others were—” Trace looked at her more closely. Then he ducked and looked at her, and his already deep voice roughened. “You look different.”
New clothes. New hair. Different makeup. Odd emotions. Sibyl flushed with embarrassment that she hadn’t been subtle enough. Now he’d think it was for him. He’d feel sorry for her or, worse, laugh at her….
“The others were what?” she prompted, desperate to distract him.
He didn’t laugh. He kept staring at her, even as he said, “The others were going full-steam on that plan they had. You know. The one about redeeming an old society full of rich muckety-mucks?”
“The Comitatus,” she proffered, since it was an odd name and so probably hard for him to remember. “Latin for an armed group. Some also cite it as a source for feudalism, an arrangement between the superior and inferior.” He winced at that last word. Oh, please, someone stop her. “Would you like a drink?”
“You got beer?”
She shook her head, afraid to open her mouth.
“Anything’s good. Anyway—” He followed her to the kitchen. She angled her body so he wouldn’t see into her foodless fridge. “Smith and Mitch were all about, ‘we can save them,’ and I didn’t give a crap, so I headed home for a while. Louisiana.”
So he hadn’t fled her? He just hadn’t considered her either way. Maybe he only noticed her when he was rescuing her—or needed information, like today. “Could you look at something for me, tell me what you think?” At least she had information.
She got two root beers out of the fridge and turned back, almost bumping into him. His big body seemed to radiate warmth, after the artificial chill. She wanted to lean against him, maybe snuggle closer.
Don’t snuggle closer!
“I know,” she said, lifting one of the bottles of soda upward in offering. He squinted as he took it, as if momentarily lost in their conversation. “The Comitatus is beyond redemption.” Killers. If they hadn’t killed her father, why would they have railroaded her for the crime?
“You think so, huh?”
That surprised her. “Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t think about it.” But of course he wouldn’t. It was a secret society. Every piece of information she’d collected through the years, she’d gotten covertly. And often illegally. “That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I need the opinion of someone on the outside. It’s easy to know what I’ll hear from the guys.”
“Not much.” So this visit was Comitatus related! “Because the Comitatus take an oath of secrecy when they join, at fifteen.”
“Um…yeah. Hey, wanna sit down?”
This was what came of never having visitors. Sibyl felt herself blush as she nodded and headed toward the living area. She jumped, startled, when Trace touched a palm to her back, as if to guide her. To settle her. It might have worked, if he hadn’t snatched it away.
“Sorry,” he muttered, when she glanced, wide-eyed, over her shoulder.
She shook her head, unsure how to tell him she’d liked it. She hadn’t been touched since…the scalp massage, by the hairdresser. And at one point in the last few months, Arden had hugged her—that had been strange. And then when Trace rescued her from the train. Less than three times in three months.
At least the loft’s real owner only had settees, not sofas. When she sat on one end, drawing her knees up to her chest, and Trace sank onto the other end, barely a foot of stone-colored suede separated them. She watched how Trace folded himself forward, in an attempt to make his big frame comfortable on the low seat, bracing his elbows on his thighs, clasping his big hands. She wished she knew how to draw, to capture the lines of his rangy body. Her brain wasn’t working right.
Especially