Maelstrom

Chapter 52: Good Planning

As we flew by block after slushy Manhattan block, always heading north, I began to suspect where Ivan was taking me. True, it probably wasn't on the shortlist of "New York must-sees" for the typical gangster, drug dealer, or money launderer, but I was beginning to expect the unexpected from Ivan. I tightened my arms around his lean waist, wishing there wasn't quite so much clothing between us, and that his face wasn't separated from mine by two helmets' worth of polycarbonate polymers.

As I leaned into another abrupt lane change with him, I noted that riding the Ducati was easier today than it had been that first time. Perhaps it was because it was my second time on the bike, or maybe it was a result of my increased familiarity with Ivan's body and how it moved, how to mold myself to him and just flow with each powerful, poetic motion. My insides melted into a simmering liquid heat just thinking about the lessons in how he moved that had brought me to this new point of understanding.

The small island was whizzing by at an alarming speed. It was a good thing I was more comfortable on the motorcycle, I thought wryly; straddling a rocket on the Henry Hudson Parkway was no joke.

Before long, we were passing the George Washington Bridge and hurtling down the exit labeled Fort Tryon Park – The Cloisters. Site of innumerable movies, novels, comic books, school field trips, artist and history buff pilgrimages, and lovers' trysts, the Met's medieval-inspired outpost loomed bleakly into view.

Though I had visited with almost predictable regularity as a student at various private academies, I hadn't been back here in quite some time; the last time, I recalled, was when I'd provided the music at Ulrike's wedding a few years ago. Of course, The Cloisters was completely unchanged. It withstood the march of years with nary a blink.

My shudder caught me by surprise. I knew it was just a rush of adrenaline – maybe from the death-defying trip on the bike, or from Ivan's nearness, or from yet another collision between my real life and Lex's – but the shiver brought to mind Mormor joking about someone walking across my grave.

I shook off the ominous feeling; Lärke thought this way, not Lex, I told myself savagely. Lärke was aware of the danger of my position: undercover and alone with a career criminal who seemed, at times, weirdly and dangerously intuitive, simultaneously betraying both him and my oath to the New York Police Department. Lex, on the other hand, was on a dreamy, romantic, multi-day date with an intelligent, gorgeous man she was rapidly developing very strong, rather complicated feelings for. Be Lex, I told myself fiercely. Be Lex.

The Ducati's motor sputtered to stillness beneath us, leaving only that incredibly rare phenomenon in Manhattan: silence. This deep in winter, even the sparrows who called The Cloisters their home were absent. I dismounted and pulled off my helmet.

"The Unicorn Tapestries?" I guessed.

Ivan doffed his helmet and gave me a slow, sensuous smile that warmed me from the inside out. "No." He wrapped his gloved fingers in mine. "The gardens."

I looked up at the threatening gray sky as we loped hand in hand up the walkway to the entrance. The gardens, I thought; once again, he'd managed to surprise me.

Ivan paid for both of our admissions, of course. I squashed my discomfort at this with the thought that I was playing the role of a kind of cultural Robin Hood: taking money from horrific drug cartels and funneling it into a museum for the arts.

Though in all fairness I should have been the one funding our outings – never mind my bartender's income and my police officer's salary, just the money I controlled as my parents' heir and a one-third shareholder of Hellström Industries made me positive that I was by far the wealthier of the two of us. But Ivan only knew me as an overeducated drink-slinger who lived on tips and a New York City food server's reduced minimum wage. He was being chivalrous; I struggled not to feel like I was taking advantage.