by Elle Kennedy
“She also said I wouldn’t live to see my fortieth birthday.”
“She was wrong about that,” Olivia conceded. “But not about this. I mean it, Mom. You’ve got to take it easy for at least a few more weeks.”
Kathleen’s eyes turned sad. “Don’t talk to me about overdoing it. You’ve been working double and triple shifts at the restaurant. You’re the one who needs to rest, honey.”
“I’ll rest when you’re back on your feet.” Squaring her shoulders, Olivia let go of her mother’s hand and stood up. “Now, I’m going to the Laundromat to do two weeks’ worth of laundry. And you’d better be in this bed when I get back.”
Without waiting for the argument she knew would come, Olivia waved a breezy good-bye and hurried out of the bedroom with the laundry sack slung over her shoulder. In the hall she stopped and took a deep breath. God, how much longer could she keep lying? When her mom was in the hospital, it had been easier to hide the truth from her—that Olivia had quit the restaurant twelve months ago and now took off her clothes for money. But with Kathleen in recovery . . .
You’re almost out of there. Three more months and you’ll have your degree.
With a shaky exhale, she headed for the minuscule living room of their tiny two-bedroom apartment and plucked her purse off the couch. In the closet-size front hall, she shoved her feet into a pair of Uggs, picked up the two heavy laundry bags, and left the building.
It was chilly out and she hadn’t bothered with a coat, but the Laundromat was only a block away. She had no desire to drive the BMW Vince had given her. She only took it to and from work, just so he could see how much she valued his generosity. That she got nauseous each time she slid into its leather interior was something she’d keep to herself.
She took off at a brisk walk, lugging her bags and thinking what a pitiful sight she probably made. Her jeans were frayed and riddled with holes, her brown boots clashed with her purple off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, and her hair was a tangled mess, twisted into a bun atop her head. She felt like a total slob, but the hobo getup sure as hell beat the shiny, see-through crap she wore every night.
Whether she liked it or not, her looks brought her a ton of perks—tables at packed restaurants, a job application being moved to the top of the pile—but she’d never wanted to use them to get ahead. She wanted to earn her way with her intelligence, her skills, and it shamed her that, as of late, she’d had to rely on her appearance to make things happen. Sure, she could pretend it was her dancing that won over the customers, but she knew it was her face and her body that convinced those men to open their wallets.
When she walked into the Laundromat five minutes later, the place was empty save for a harried-looking mother with two young girls clinging to her legs. The woman shot Olivia a frazzled smile, then resumed the task of sorting a pile of laundry. Olivia did the same, then shoved a bunch of quarters into two machines and flopped down on a plastic chair to wait. She’d planned on studying for her upcoming midterms, but when she reached into her oversized purse in search of her economics textbook, she realized she’d left the book at home.
“Wanna see my doll?”
She lifted her head and saw the two blond girls skid to a stop in front of her. The question had come from the younger one, who couldn’t have been older than four.
“Fiona, get back here!” the girl’s mother ordered. “Don’t bother that poor woman.”
“It’s okay,” Olivia called. She looked at the little girl, whose hair was arranged in two adorable braids. “I’d love to see your doll.”
The older girl, ten or so, rolled her eyes. “Don’t touch it. It’s covered with jam.”
Yep, it sure was. Olivia smothered a grin as the toddler held up a ratty doll with floppy arms, a knot of red hair, and a jelly-smeared white face. “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”
“Steve,” the little girl said proudly.
She choked back a laugh. “Steve. That’s an interesting name.”
“It’s a boy’s name,” the older girl grumbled. “I think it’s dumb.”
The remark led to a discussion about gender-appropriate monikers, followed by the toddler’s insistence that Olivia must be told the name of every doll, stuffed animal, and toy the kid had ever owned in her short life. The children’s mother kept shooting Olivia looks loaded with gratitude, but she truly didn’t mind entertaining the kids.
If anything, being around the girls brought a pang of longing to her heart. She’d always dreamed of following in her mom’s footsteps and becoming a teacher. She would’ve loved to teach at the elementary-school level—interacting with younger kids came so naturally to her, and she knew without a doubt that teaching would bring her great fulfillment. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t pay well, not unless she lucked out and managed to land a position at an elite prep school where her salary would come out of the pockets of the wealthy parents and donors.
Teaching might be her passion, but law was a far more practical career choice. It might take longer and more work to get there, but the payout was bigger in the end.
Trying not to second-guess the choices she’d made, Olivia focused on the two girls in front of her. She was laughing about something the older girl said when the door swung open and heavy footsteps sounded behind her. Reflexively, she turned to scope out the new arrival.
And felt all the blood drain from her face.
The customer from last night had just walked in.
She immediately swiveled her head back to the girls, hoping he hadn’t spotted her. But oh God, what if he recognized her? It was bad enough that she’d been grinding half-naked on top of the guy last night. Having him glimpse her outside of the club was too embarrassing to contemplate. What if he mentioned the lap dance? In front of the children.
She snuck another peek at him, and her heart skipped a beat. Holy hell—why hadn’t she noticed yesterday how attractive this man was? Actually, with his chocolate brown eyes, messy dark hair, and ruggedly handsome face, drop-dead gorgeous was a more apt description. And his broad chest and bulky shoulders radiated strength and masculinity, something she’d completely overlooked when she’d been grinding away on his lap.
She did, however, remember the endearing awkwardness that he’d exuded and the trace of a Southern accent in his husky voice, which was unusual in and of itself—normally the men she danced for morphed into one faceless blur.
Swallowing, she tried to pay attention to the two girls chattering away in front of her, but it was difficult. From the corner of her eye, she saw the hottie from New Orleans heading toward an empty washing machine. Which happened to be right next to hers. Oh, and look at that, her loads were done, both machines coming to a halt as the cycle ended. She decided to stay seated and pretend not to notice.
Little Fiona squashed that game plan. “Your stuff is done!” the girl announced.
The children promptly darted back to their mother, who was stacking a pile of neatly folded clothes in a big wicker basket. A minute later, the trio made for the door, waving to Olivia as they exited the Laundromat.
Oh great. Now she and the hottie were all alone.
Gritting her teeth, Olivia stood up. She ignored the guy, who was shoving a stack of T-shirts into her machine’s neighbor. Only T-shirts. Like fifty of them. And they were all white as snow and looked pretty damn clean. Okay then.
Keeping her back to him, she removed her wet clothing and shoved it into the dryer. Once that was whirring away, she carried the second wet load to the counter and began putting aside the items that couldn’t go in the dryer.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
The deep voice made her jump. Gulping, she slowly met his eyes and feigned ignorance.
“No, I don’t think so.” She ducked down. Treated the laundry in front of her as if it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.
“You sure?” Her peripheral vision caught him tilting his head, pensive. “Wait. You work at the Diamond Mine. We met last night.�
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She glanced over again. Acted as if recognition had dawned on her. “You,” she said with mock surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He arched a brow. “Laundry, same as you.” After a moment, he extended his hand. “I’m Luke Dubois, by the way.”
She reluctantly leaned in for a handshake. The second their palms made contact, a shiver shimmied up her spine. He had big hands. A man’s hands, rough and calloused and warm to the touch.
“Olivia Taylor,” she replied, her voice doing an annoying little wobble.
“Olivia. I like that better than Livy Lovelace.”
“I’m pretty sure any name is better than Livy Lovelace,” she said dryly.
“You’re probably right.” The corners of his dark brown eyes crinkled in amusement, and then he flashed her a cocky grin. “So, Olivia. How ’bout another lap dance?”
* * *
Trevor woke up with a start when his ass started vibrating. Groaning, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and sat up. Morgan’s number flashed across the screen.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” the boss asked after Trevor grunted out a hello.
“I was sleeping.”
“Where are the others?”
Trevor rubbed his eyes. “D’s crashing on the living room couch. Luke’s tailing the dancer, and Holden and Sully are watching the club.”
“So you’re alone.”
Wariness circled his gut. “I am. What’s going on?”
“You’re rendezvousing with our informant in an hour.”
“The girl on the inside?”
“Yep. She’s got some new information, potentially about Dane.”
Trevor frowned. “And she couldn’t just tell you when you spoke?”
“The call got disconnected.” He could practically hear Morgan’s scowl of displeasure. “She sent a text, though. With an address, a time, and a quick note about sending someone to meet with her.”
“This sounds like a trap,” Trevor said flatly.
“If it were, I wouldn’t be asking you to handle it.” Morgan’s next words rang with confidence. “She’s legit. Trust me. I’m texting you the address now.”
As Morgan hung up, Trevor shook his head in bewilderment. Would it kill the boss to offer a few more details? Like the informant’s name, for Christ’s sake?
Hell, of course it would. Jim Morgan played his cards close to the vest. Always had and probably always would.
Trevor rose from the king-size bed and went into the private bathroom. As team leader, he’d commandeered the master bedroom, despite the grumblings of the other men. The memory made him grin. It felt good to be back in the game, exchanging insults with the boys and kicking some ass again.
This time last year, he’d been nursing a vodka bottle in his condo, staring at a framed photograph of him and Gina, taken in Hawaii. Where he’d proposed to her.
That memory brought an ache to his heart, but not the bone-deep agony that used to slice into him whenever he thought of his fiancée. It had taken a long time, but he could finally think about the woman he’d lost without wanting to put a bullet into his head. Definitely progress.
After he took a leak and splashed some water on his face, he strode out to the living room. D was sprawled on the sofa, but sat up the second Trevor entered the room, alert as a hawk.
Of all the men on Morgan’s payroll, D was the only one Trevor didn’t know very well. What he did know was kind of terrifying. Derek Pratt had been Delta at one point, then moved on to some covert agency that didn’t seem to have a name and of which D never spoke. His training was top-notch, his instincts spot-on, and he could kill a man in the blink of an eye. Everything about the guy screamed lethal. The shaved head, coal black eyes, huge shoulders, and abundance of tattoos. Trevor had never seen the man smile, but Kane and Luke both swore that he was capable of it. He thought they were full of shit.
“What’s up?” D asked in that gravelly voice of his.
“Go back to sleep,” Trevor told the other man. “Morgan’s got me running an errand.”
“Need backup?”
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
D lay back down and closed his eyes. Just like that, end of conversation.
With a wry grin, Trevor swiped his nine-millimeter Sig off the granite counter in the kitchen and slid it into his shoulder holster. He shrugged into a black wool coat and pulled the collar up, then left the apartment.
Outside the building, he breathed in the crisp afternoon air, only to inhale the exhaust of a passing taxi. He grimaced, the bustle of the sidewalks and blaring car horns confirming what he’d already known. He was not a city person. His condo in Aspen was tucked away in the mountains, far from the noise and people and bullshit. Though really, he probably ought to sell the place. It had been Gina’s home too, and now that he was making a conscious effort to work through the loss, it might be good to start fresh.
But not here. He didn’t find the Big Apple the least bit appetizing. Too big and far too loud.
He pulled out his cell phone and entered the address Morgan gave him into the GPS app. Sweet. Only a fifteen-minute walk. He’d way rather trek it to SoHo than sit in some stuffy cab.
He headed west on Canal Street, still contemplating the notion of selling his place in Colorado. He could always move into Morgan’s compound. God knows it had enough bedrooms, and it would be nice having the team around. That way, when his thoughts turned dark—which they still did every now and then—the company could distract him. He tucked the idea away as he turned on Sixth Avenue and headed north, pausing to check the GPS again.
The girl’s apartment should be over on the next block. He passed a corner store with a display of Halloween costumes in the front window, then crossed the street and walked until a converted warehouse building with ivy-covered brick walls came into view.
He climbed the front stoop and scanned the intercom mounted on the wall, then keyed in the numbers 2-3-2.
A static-ridden female voice wafted out of the speaker. “Who is it?”
“Your three o’clock,” he answered as per Morgan’s instructions.
“Come on up.”
The building didn’t have an elevator, so he headed for the stairwell, which was surprisingly clean and smelled like pine. On the second floor, he emerged into a wide corridor with a gleaming hardwood floor. Huh. The place was a lot nicer than it looked from the outside. Apartment 232 was at the end of the hall, and he was about to knock when the door swung open and a pretty blonde with big blue eyes appeared in the doorway.
He didn’t recognize her at first.
Not until she spoke, and that warm, melodic voice met his ears. “Hey, Trevor.”
He swallowed. “Hello, Isabel.”
Chapter 4
As Olivia gaped up at him, her expression a combination of shock and disgust, Luke held up his hands in surrender. “I was kidding about the lap dance,” he assured her. “Just trying to ease the tension.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Tension?”
Sighing, he hopped up on the counter and rested his hands on his knees. “Last night you were dancing on top of me half-naked. Today we’re doing laundry together. I don’t know about you, but I find it pretty damn awkward.”
After a moment she laughed. “Yeah, it’s awkward all right.”
She went back to separating her wet clothing into two piles. Luke gulped when he noticed her pick up a pair of lacy red panties. Fuck, did they have to be lace? He was a total sucker for lace.
He rapidly looked away, focusing on the woman instead of her underwear. Too bad she was as tantalizing as her panties. Some men preferred their women dolled up, high heels and skimpy dresses and all that shit, but he’d choose a pair of faded, ratty jeans over a short skirt any day. It was always sexier when a woman wore clothes that actually covered her up—it got you thinking about all the fascinating possibilities that lay underneath.
But he got the feeling that it was impossible for Olivi
a Taylor not to look sexy. Even now, with her hair up in a haphazard twist and the purple sweater that kept sliding off one shoulder, she was dazzling. Yep. He was totally dazzled.
Stop thinking with your dick. Remember who she is.
His shoulders tensed. Right. This was Vince Angelo’s girl. He needed to remember that.
Though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how a woman like her had fallen for Angelo’s smooth lines and dark, reptilian eyes. It had only taken Luke five minutes in her company to decide that she was much more than some stripper airhead. She was funny and serious and smart, and not the kind of girl he’d picture with a guy like Angelo.
Then again, five minutes of talking—during a lap dance—didn’t mean shit. Maybe she had a thing for slick Italian mobsters.
Well, that’s why he was here. That’s why, when he’d seen her walking into the Laundromat, he’d ducked into a store and bought a fuckload of T-shirts just so he’d have a reason to be here. The reason was simple—find out what Olivia Taylor knew.
“No school today?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
She shook her head. “No classes this week. Midterms start next Wednesday.”
“You’ve got a lot of studying to do, then.”
“Yep.” She continued to divert her gaze. “Do you live around here?”
“A few blocks away,” he lied.
She nodded. “So. Are you following me?”
Yep.
And so was that thug with the shaved head and black trench coat, the one who belonged in a Godfather flick. Luke had spotted the goon five seconds after beginning his tail on the dancer, which made his own task more difficult, since he then had to evade both Olivia and her watch guard. Luckily, Angelo’s man had proven to be totally incompetent, so focused on his target that Luke wasn’t even on his radar.
Nevertheless, he made a conscious effort to angle his face away from the front window. He didn’t want the goon getting a good look at him or snapping a photo, though if that happened, no biggie. Sully could always take his place as the eyes inside the club. And the Australian wouldn’t have a single complaint about it either.