Caught

by Tessa Vidal

  Table of Contents

  Caught: A Second Chance Lesbian Romance (Cherished Choices, #4)

  Copyright & Legal Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Caught

  A Second Chance Lesbian Romance

  by

  Tessa Vidal

  LOVE WON'T LET YOU get away...

  Veronica's nemesis is back in town.

  The one who got away with a million-dollar gemstone by charming the pants off a baby bodyguard.

  But Veronica is now a highly trained FBI agent. She won't be distracted again.

  Doesn't matter that the older, more experienced Clarissa is more charming than ever. Doesn't matter that she's now an A-list movie star who knows exactly how to make her fans fall in love.

  Veronica is not a fangirl.

  And Clarissa is going down.

  Under another name and wearing another look, Clarissa was once accused of a bold heist she didn't commit. The old Clarissa had no choice but to flee Hollywood in disgrace.

  But now she's back and on top of the world as an Oscar-nominated A-list movie star.

  And she plans to stay there.

  Even though her old enemy is now an FBI agent― the perfect job for framing others for her audacious crimes.

  Clarissa's going to put a stop to it.

  And she's not above using her movie-star wiles to lure Veronica into the perfect honeytrap.

  Caught is a high-steam 60,000-word second-chance enemies-to-lovers lesbian romance novel complete with movie industry intrigue, high-stakes passion, and the world's floofiest Tibetan Mastiff. This standalone novel includes no cheating and no cliffhangers, and it comes complete with a happily ever after.

  Copyright & Legal Note

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone, any time, or any place is not intended and is merely coincidental. Cover models appear for illustration purposes only and have no relationship to any events in this story. Brief mentions of real persons, places, events, or products are used fictitiously and in accordance with fair use. All trademarks remain the properties of their owners. Some locations and a great many facts have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes.

  Pinkie, the pink bottlenose dolphin of Louisiana, was first spotted as a calf in 2007 in Lake Calcasieu and continues to appear in the estuaries of southwest Louisiana. In 2017, the first unconfirmed report appeared stating she'd been spotted with a pink calf of her own.

  The Bahia Emerald, valued at anywhere from one hundred to nine hundred million dollars, is a genuine uncut specimen. At the time of writing, almost every other fact about the stone remains in dispute.

  Text ©2019 Tessa Vidal & Lovebird Press

  Cover Design ©2019 Lovebird Press

  Please respect the hard work of the author, and don't post this book to free, sharing, or pirate sites.

  Prologue

  Twelve Years Earlier

  Ronnie

  As I turned in a slow circle, I felt an unfamiliar chill on my bare legs. The stylist had put me in a silver sheath with a hem that fell to mid-thigh. An inconvenient length for concealing a weapon, especially paired with matching silver ankle boots.

  Johannes DeWitte twinkled his pale blue eyes in approval. “You'll fit right in. Indeed, you could pass as a model yourself.”

  “Hardly.” The walls of the vault around us were stacked floor to ceiling with steel lock-boxes, so I lowered my voice to reduce the echo. “I still think I would look more professional in...”

  “My dear, we've had this discussion.” Whip-lean, he'd dabbled as a male model in the late seventies and still considered himself fashion-forward. The stylist had been one of his finds. “You're twenty-two. You're not wearing an off-the-rack pinstripe pantsuit to a Sean Sheen photoshoot.”

  As Johannes never ceased to remind me, Sheen wasn't your grandmother's luxury jeweler. He styled himself as young, cool, and hip, an expert at inserting ridiculous over-the-top luxury items into everyday life― if your idea of everyday life was being a pop singer, a rap artist, or an A-list actor.

  “Does anyone still say, ‘pantsuit?’” I asked. “It's a suit. And a thirty-million dollar stone demands...”

  “It demands a beautiful model accompanied by her beautiful friend.”

  This so-called beautiful friend was tempted to roll her eyes― perfectly ordinary brown eyes under perfectly ordinary brown bangs. I was the tall, plain smart girl who was all legs and no chest. As a student studying gemology and the history of jewelry design, I'd expected to work in offices, bank vaults, and upscale retail stores identifying and appraising fine gems.

  Then the legendary Johannes DeWitte took me under his wing, and my job became a whole lot more.

  “I'm the bodyguard in this movie, Johannes.” A nervous first-time bodyguard, secretly concerned the heels of my Chelsea boots could conceal nothing more dangerous than a two-inch ceramic blade. Johannes was a second father to me, but no man could understand how challenging it was to hide my slimline Glock 30S under the scanty fabric of a designer dress. “Your Navy SEAL buddy didn't teach me to bring a knife to a gunfight.”

  “You'll do fine. You'll make me proud.”

  “I certainly intend to.”

  The gem was calling me again. Picking up my loupe, I took another long look into the square-cut twenty-carat red beryl at the center of the Sean Sheen platinum choker. Found only in a single mine in the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, this blood-colored stone was even more costly than its famous cousin, the emerald.

  Costly enough to have a name. The DeWitte Red Beryl.

  A bell chimed. Tiny lights flashed red in a small electronic box next to the door.

  “It's showtime.” Johannes used a twenty-four-karat gold USB drive to enter a code.

  I closed my eyes for a second or two, long enough to center me. The red light was still blinking when I opened them again. And then green. The heavy steel door swung outward on silent hinges.

  Breathe.

  Two members of our security escort were moonlighting LAPD officers, but I was only aware of one of them. Bailey Flowers, my once and future ex. Tall and solid, built for endurance, she was one of those women you first meet in a bar when you're looking for a hookup. Somebody who looks like fun, somebody uncomplicated.

  Funny how being uncomplicated gets so complicated. We'd already broken up and gotten back together twice before. I told myself three times would be the charm.

  This time it's really over.

  We avoided each other's eyes. Bailey, who was serving as the team leader today, pretended not to see me, but my naked legs made me feel exposed.

  For insurance reasons, the DeWitte Beryl was always accompanied by armed security whenever it left the vault, even if i
t was going no farther than the lab down the hall. The final run through the electron microscope was another requirement. It didn't matter how good my eyes were or how many certifications I'd achieved as a gemologist. Lab-grown fakes had been good enough to confuse even the master's eye for decades. Thus the series of checks and double-checks each time the stone was signed in and out.

  Bailey accepted the box, and her team marched out of the vault. They turned right, while Johannes and I turned left. I forced myself not to steal a final glance their way.

  Our large reception area was furnished in beige and chocolate leather, making it resemble a first-class airport lounge with better-than-average light. A new intern was already circling the room with a silver tray of champagne. Her dress was shorter than mine, and her legs were longer. I waved off the alcohol. Started to check out the legs.

  And then Malory Maine came through the door, and everybody else's legs became irrelevant.

  So many models underwhelm in person. Their coltish legs and big heads photograph well, but in real life they can look downright lanky.

  Malory Maine did not underwhelm. See, the thing is, I'd seen her file, both the stills and the video of a recent strut down a New York Fashion Week runway. It should have taken off the edge. Should have prepared me.

  But nothing could have prepared me.

  Twenty. Razor-cut cheekbones. Hair dyed some trendy shade of green buzzed almost to the scalp because her complexion was too perfect for her to need any hair.

  According to the file, she came from an ordinary middle-class background― mom a fifth grade teacher, dad a manager of a retail athletic wear outlet. And yet her very walk projected a strong, “Dream on, you can't afford me” vibe.

  When she shook my hand, she looked into my eyes, giving me a thrill of pleasure. She was gazing into me the way I'd gazed into the red beryl. Such attention is a form of flattery, and I couldn't help but respond.

  “I'm so pleased to meet you, Veronica.” Her brown eyes were warm, her voice sincere.

  “Nice to meet you too, Malory.”

  Because of my work with fine gemstones, I had a habit of noticing tiny reflections on translucent surfaces. An odd glint around her irises caught my attention. She was wearing circle contacts. Who the hell wore brown contacts? The hair, the eyes... everything was calculated to deliberately underplay her striking looks. Only a genuine beauty could get away with that.

  The handshake went on longer than it should. It seemed as if neither of us was willing to break contact. Even when the phalanx of security escorts entered the room, she made no move to reclaim her hand, and I took my time about releasing her grip.

  “Some ground rules,” I said. “Sean Sheen's insurance requires the gem to never be more than twenty feet away from an armed security escort.”

  Malory, her gaze as searching as any police patdown, looked up and down my silver sheath. “But I thought you were my escort.”

  I touched her chin, and we locked eyes again. “I am.”

  She never saw the Glock materialize in my hand until I stepped back.

  “Wow.” She stepped back too. “Where did that come from?”

  “The hand is quicker than the eye.” Johannes was pleased with his investment in my education. He was the one who'd found The Amazing Darrell, the close-in Vegas magician who taught me that move. “Meet the magical Mademoiselle Kitty Kait.”

  She couldn't look away from the Glock. “Kitty Kait. That's an interesting street name.”

  “Crafting names probably wasn't my teacher's area of strength.” I had to laugh. “He called himself The Amazing Darrell. But he knew his game. He tested me regularly at the Santa Monica pier.”

  “Tough crowd,” she said. “If you screw up there, they'll let you know about it.”

  “Oh, yes.” It was time to get her eyes off the Glock. She was trying too hard to figure out the trick. I talked a little faster. “Anyhoo, in addition to my extensive knowledge of how to make things appear and disappear, I have two thousand hours of training in hand-to-hand combat. I have multiple certifications with my weapon, and I have a current concealed carry permit for the state of California and the municipality of Los Angeles.”

  “Well, like I said. Wow.” Malory tapped a pink polished index finger against the clasp of my silver clutch. A good guess, but the answer was no. The clutch was barely big enough for a credit card and a phone. If I really cursed and swore, I could squeeze in a tiny tin of Rosebud lip balm, about all I bothered with in the way of cosmetics.

  Smiling, I flicked it open to flash its minimal contents. A small distraction but enough. She never saw me tuck the Glock away. Or where I tucked it.

  “People think if they stand close, they'll see more,” I said. “The opposite is true, if you're dealing with a trained master of illusion.”

  “You really are amazing.” Malory wasn't ashamed to be impressed, unlike so many standard sulking beauties. This close, her scent tickled my nose. It was something familiar, but her body heat distracted me too much to put a name on it.

  “So,” I said. “Back to the ground rules. You're there to walk the catwalk, show off the dress and the gem, and then get the hell offstage and back in the limo to return the gem. You do not linger, you do not mingle. You do not ever leave my field of view. If you do, the assumption is that you're attempting the robbery of a multimillion-dollar necklace which, I probably need not inform you, is a serious felony in the state of California.”

  “What if I need to attend to, um, the basics?” Those brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “If you hear the call of nature, you will alert me and I will accompany you. As long as that stone is around your neck, there will be no private moments.” As she already knew from her contract.

  The security team had arrived from the lab. The back of my neck prickled, and I knew Bailey was glaring at me, but I kept my gaze fixed on my client.

  We're over, Bailey. Our relationship doesn't exist.

  Johannes brandished his twenty-four-karat gold USB drive with its hundred-character passcode. All of us, including Malory, stepped in close to watch the lid of the electronic box lift in melodramatic slow motion to reveal the precious gem in its platinum setting.

  Drama is everything in the jewelry business.

  Malory's gasp was a gratifying thing. “It's beautiful.”

  “Veronica, will you do the honors?” Johannes asked.

  “Of course.” The stone felt cool when I lifted it from its velvet nest― a delightful contrast to the warmth I felt from Malory's swanlike neck when I stood behind her to snap the diamond-studded platinum clasp.

  Suddenly, I recognized her fragrance. Pure Tahitian vanilla was an expensive ingredient if you were baking cupcakes, but tonight Malory was the cupcake, and even the most costly extract was more affordable for a young model than some three-hundred-dollar-an-ounce French perfume.

  The beryl settled into the hollow of her throat, the scarlet gem a cherry set in cream. I couldn't help but flash on a fantasy of licking the frosting off that cupcake.

  Down, girl. This is a job.

  Bailey's team vanished, and I didn't even see them go. I was the security escort from here on out.

  The gold limo Sean Sheen sent was A-list actress, not Z-list unknown model. A driver in a matching gold tuxedo opened our doors to help us into wide leather seats that smelled like new money. That was about the DeWitte Red Beryl making a grand entrance, not about us, but I could still enjoy the ride.

  “You do this a lot?” Malory's bare knee swung out accidentally― or was it an accident?― to press against mine. Distracting.

  “Do what a lot?” I tactfully scooted my knee out of range. Just an inch or two, which meant we could both still feel the warmth between us.

  This close, I found myself gazing into her eyes again. Yes, those were circle contacts. Worn for cosmetic reasons, to change the eye color. What was her real eye color?

  I couldn't help but wonder.

  “You know. Do yo
u escort a lot of people to events? Do you pit bull a lot of high-end jewels? I bet you have, I bet you've met all kinds of famous stars.”

  No bodyguard will ever tell you it's her first time. “That's the job. But, you know, confidentiality. We're not supposed to gossip about the clients.”

  Her improvised perfume tickled my nostrils. Despite the wide back seat, we were still sitting too close, and our bare legs found themselves pressing against each other again.

  Her eyes flitted toward the front, where the driver had the barrier up to give us privacy. His eyes avoided meeting ours in the rearview mirror. Sean Sheen's limo driver undoubtedly had all kinds of practice not noticing the various goings-on in the back seat.

  Her hand drifted down to squeeze my bare thigh.

  “I'm on the job.” I don't know how I forced the words out.

  “Me too. But sometimes it's fun to get away with some kind of something.”

  Those sparkling eyes. Those long bare legs...

  Her words should have been a warning. You don't talk about getting away with some kind of something when you're wearing somebody else's multimillion-dollar choker.

  And yet, for all my two thousand hours of training, it never crossed my mind the night would end with Malory Maine under arrest for grand larceny.

  Chapter One

  Ronnie

  “I'm concerned about the chain of custody in this case, Ms. Rales.”

  “I'm forced to interrupt.” I projected my voice to echo across the crowded courtroom. Shrinking violets need not apply to testify for the prosecution in big, splashy federal cases.

  “Excuse me, but you're not allowed to interrupt.” Criminal defense attorney Whittaker Sims did everything but pound his chest like a silverback gorilla.. “Your honor, explain to the witness that she will allow me to finish asking the question.”

  Sims was no shrinking violet either. Giving instructions to the judge was a gutsy move. Maybe not all that smart, but plenty gutsy.

  “Your honor, Mr. Sims is well aware that I prefer to be addressed as, ‘Special Agent Rales.’”

  Judge Bustamante, who looked every day of her sixty-four years in the black robe, slammed down the gavel. “I'm growing very tired of the posturing. This is not Judge Judy, and we are not playing to a live television audience. The next person who violates the rules of this courtroom had better be prepared to get out their checkbook. Mr. Sims, you will address the special agent by her title. And the special agent will wait for the attorney to ask his question. Are we clear?”