FACE OF DANGER
When Vivi Angelino closed her mouth over a wide straw and sucked hard enough to hollow her delicate cheeks, Colton Lang almost got a boner.
Almost.
The state of damn-near-hard was status quo around this woman, so in the few months he’d been sending consulting jobs to her firm, Colt had learned a couple of tricks to ensure that almost didn’t become obvious.
He would focus on her outlandish black hair, made even more so today by the helmet and what appeared to be yesterday’s hair gel. Or he’d let his gaze settle on the diamond dot in the side of her nose, concentrating on how much that puncture had to have hurt instead of how it would feel to… run his tongue over the stone.
Or he’d simply remind himself that this skateboard-riding, sneaker-wearing, guitar-playing tomboy happened to have some of the best investigative instincts around, and he wanted to keep the Guardian Angelinos in his back pocket for certain jobs, so acting on a mindless surge of blood to his dick would be unprofessional and foolish.
That was usually enough to quell the erection. Sometimes. Today, finding her in this skate park with a little sheen of perspiration making her pixie-like features glisten and her coffee-bean-brown eyes spark with unexpected interest, the boner might win this battle.
But look at that outfit, Colt. A long-sleeved cotton T-shirt that dangled off her narrow frame and faded green cargo pants frayed at the cuffs. He could never be attracted to a woman who cared so little about herself that she rolled around Boston dressed like she’d shopped at Goodwill.
He preferred a woman who looked like a woman, who wore a little makeup, had hair falling to her shoulders, and maybe strolled – not rolled – through a park in a pretty sundress. He’d bet his bottom dollar she didn’t own a dress.
“All right, I’ll tell you,” she said after swallowing the sip she’d taken. “But I swear to God, Lang, don’t try to talk me out of it because I want this job.”
“What job?”
“You’ve heard about the Red Carpet Killer, of course.”
He held his Coke, frozen mid-way to his mouth. “You don’t buy that malarkey, do you?”
She smiled. “Lang, malarkey hasn’t been sold for forty years. Can you get with this century? And two Oscar-winning actresses in a row are killed in two consecutive years, weeks after winning? You really think that’s a coincidence?”
“One was an overdose, one was an accident. But I do know there’s an FBI task force out of LA with an eye on the possibility of a copycat killer.”
“Exactly.” She pointed at him. “I don’t happen to think there’s a serial killer, either. But even if the first two deaths are mere coincidence, there are five women in Hollywood who are scared spitless right now. They are ramping up security like you wouldn’t believe.”
“You think they’re going to hire your firm for protection?” He tried not to scoff, he really did. But it was ludicrous. “A brand new firm made up of an extended family of renegade Angelinos and Rossi cousins?”
No surprise, her espresso eyes tapered in disgust. “We are not renegades, for God’s sake. I’m a former investigative journalist, in case you forgot, so getting a PI license was a natural move. Zach’s thriving in management, which frankly shocks the shit out of me after all those years as an Army Ranger. And, yeah, our core employee base happens to be a few cousins my brother and I were raised with—”
“Don’t forget Uncle Nino, providing pasta and daily encouragement.”
“Don’t knock my Nino,” she shot back. “And, for your information, we’re interviewing protection and security specialists, including some highly qualified bodyguards. The Guardian Angelinos are experiencing a growth spurt.”
He angled his head in acknowledgment. “I know that, Vivi, especially since I keep throwing FBI consulting jobs at you. I just think the actresses who are worried about being victims of a curse or a killer will hire the biggest and best in the protection industry.”
“Maybe.” She took another drink, her eyes dancing with some untold secret. “What do you think of Cara Ferrari?”
“I think I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”
She looked skyward with a loud tsk. “I meant of her chances to win.”
“I don’t follow Hollywood too closely, but I did see that remake of Now, Voyager. My opinion? She was too melodramatic.”
“Fortunately, your opinion doesn’t matter. She’s got a chance.” She gave him a slow smile, revealing that tiny chip on her front tooth. God, he’d thought about licking that, too. “So I think I have a chance, too.”
He just shook his head, not following, but maybe because his body was betraying him again.
“Look at me,” she demanded, leaning back to prop her hands on her hips and cock her head to one side.
“I’m looking.” That was the problem. She was so damn cute he forgot what they were talking about.
“Look, Lang.”
At what? The way her position pulled the T-shirt just tight enough to outline her breasts? They weren’t big but perky and sweet, just as spunky as she was and, well, even on Vivi some things were feminine. Is that what she wanted him to look at? Because, if he eyed them any longer, his hard-on was poised to make a reappearance.
“Don’t you see the resemblance?” She turned her face to give him a profile, lifting her chin, closing her eyes, and dropping her head back in a classic movie star pose. His gaze drifted over her throat which was… just another fucking thing he wanted to lick.
Jesus, Colt. Get a grip.
She spun her face around and for one insane second he thought she’d read his mind.
“I look exactly like Cara Ferrari,” she insisted.
He let out a soft hoot of laughter. “Are you as stoned as half these other skaters?”
She scowled at him. “Real skaters don’t get high, posers do. And look at this face,” she demanded, pointing to her cheeks with two index fingers. “Is this not Cara Ferrari’s twin sister?”
He chuckled again. “Speaking of posers.”
“Lang, damn it.” Frustration heightened her color, making her even cuter. “Everyone says I look like her. I mean, if my hair were longer and I, you know, had some makeup on.”
“Like a truckload.”
“I get stopped and asked if I’m Cara Ferrari all the time,” she insisted.
“And you believe what drunks say to you in bars?”
“Jeez, you’re as bad as my cousins. Quit teasing me and take this seriously.”
He worked his face into the most humorless expression he had, and he had many. “Cara Ferrari is a movie star, Vivi.”
“So?”
How deep was she going to let him dig himself? “I mean, she’s a gorgeous icon…”
Deep.
“Not that you’re not attractive in your own way….” This was getting worse, but on he went. “It’s just that she’s all glitz and glamour and gloss and you’re…” Not.
“I can glam up.”
Now that he’d like to see. “All right,” he relented, not wanting to hurt her. He squinted at her, and made a camera viewing box with his fingers. “Yeah, I can see the similarity. You both have dark hair and dark eyes.”
She swiped his hands down. “Never mind, Lang. I should know better than to hope you could think outside the box. I should expect you to be all linear, trapped by your rules and the way things are supposed to be done. I shouldn’t ever dream that you might approach something creatively. That would just be asking too much from your structured, formulaic, uninspired brain.”
All right, he deserved that after the insults he’d just heaped on her, but something was really off in this conversation, even for them. “What the hell are you getting at, Vivi? What creative thinking are you looking for?”
“A body double.”
This time he just stared at her, a slow realization dawning. “You’re not serious.”
She thumped her fist on the table. “I knew I shouldn�
��t have told you.”
“Told me what?”
“C’mon, Lang, it’s the oldest form of security in the world. Put a fake—a professional fake—in her shoes until the killer is caught. If there even is a killer, which I don’t happen to think there is. But, still, we bait with a decoy and—”
“Stop it,” he said, his voice low and harsh, not having to pretend seriousness at all now. “For one thing, all kidding aside, you’d need an extreme makeover to pass as Cara Ferrari.”
“Not from a distance.”
“Second, if a decoy or bait was used, the job would go to a trained professional, not an outside consultant, ever. And third, good luck getting to Cara Ferrari. It’s easier to get an appointment with the president.”
A flicker of arrogance crossed her face. “Maybe I already have.”
“What? How?”
She shrugged. “What do they say? Everyone is six degrees of separation from someone.”
“You are not six degrees of anything from Cara Ferrari.” Was she?
She picked up her drink and then set it down again. “Forget it, Lang. You’re right, she sucked in that role. She should stick to the trashy stuff that made her real money.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “Like one of her really early B-movies, the one where she played the undercover cop working as a stripper? I liked that.”
“Of course you did. What man doesn’t love the raw acting talent it takes for a woman to use her mouth to unzip thigh-high boots during a lap dance?”
“You have to admit that was a memorable scene.”
“Yeah, that took mad acting skills.”
“And coordination,” he agreed. “Just think how many college boys she made happy.”
“Were you one of them, Lang?”
“Please. I was in the FBI Academy when that movie came out.” Still, he fought a smile. “But it was a pretty sexy lap dance. Although, I guess that’s redundant.”
She blew out a breath, giving her little Italian hand wave of dismissal. “Yeah, whatever. And can we just forget we had this conversation? It’s moot anyway. They say Kimberly Horne has the Oscar in the bag.”
He relaxed a little as she accepted the truth. “Vivi, you can’t seriously think you could convince Cara Ferrari to let you be her for however long it takes to trap a killer, who, by the way, greater minds than yours don’t think exists. I think you should forget this idea completely.”
She snorted and grabbed her drink. “I don’t care what you think.”
And that right there was the problem with them. She didn’t really care what he thought, what anybody thought. He didn’t respond and she sucked the straw again, this time looking up at him with wide eyes as her mouth closed… kind of exactly like she’d look up from a blow job.
Goddamn his dancing dick.
“Just forget it,” he said, as much to his disobedient organ as his unintentionally sexy consultant. “It’s a cute idea, but—”
“Fuck you, Lang.”
“Sorry, I know you hate anything cute.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
Evidently not. “Get what?”
“What I’m trying to do with this business my brother and I started.”
“How can you say that?” He pushed his drink aside to get closer. “I believe in your business. Hell, if I’m not careful, my boss is going to start questioning just why you guys have had, what, four or five assignments in as many months? We’re supposed to spread the outsourcing wealth, not focus on one firm.”
She just shook her head. “This isn’t about you and your office. This is about me and my office.”
“Seriously, Vivi. You only started this business last fall. What do you expect?”
“Greatness,” she replied without pause. “There are companies doing what mine does and making millions. They’ve got multiple offices and hundreds of investigators and bodyguards and security specialists on their payroll.”
“And that’s what you want?” Somehow, the dream of big business just didn’t fit this skater chick. The raw ambition, like so many things about Vivi, surprised him.
“I always want to be the best,” she told him. “I don’t like to do things half-assed.”
“I respect that, but…” He placed both his hands over hers, damning the electrical charge he got every time his skin made contact with hers. “You’re not starting with Cara and your body double idea.”
She snapped her hands away. “You can’t tell me what to do, Lang. No one can.”
Obviously. “Consider it professional advice, then.”
“Give me one good reason why not, other than the fact that I don’t look like a movie star, as you’ve pointed out with great relish and ruthless candor.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“My job is dangerous,” she replied. “Your job is dangerous. That’s the life we’ve chosen. If we get the assignment, Zach has three excellent bodyguards who can come stay with me twenty-four seven.”
Three guys with her twenty-four seven? Something unfamiliar and ugly rolled through him. Jealousy. “Doesn’t matter. With all the nutcases out there, it’s too risky.”
She pushed back with a disgusted breath. “You are so… careful.”
“You say that like it’s a detriment. I’m an FBI agent, Vivi. Cautious is my middle name. And if you’re going to make it in the security consulting business, you’d do well to adopt the same one.”
“Well, my middle name is Belladonna,” she informed him.
“A poison.”
“A beautiful woman in Italian,” she corrected him, then raised a palm to stop his response. “Don’t. You’ve dinged me enough for one day. My point is cautious doesn’t always work in business, Lang.”
“It does in the security business.” Three bodyguards? Shit, he hated that.
“Nobody gets ahead being safe. It’s like that half-pipe over there.” She tipped her head to the concrete slopes where skaters flew and flipped. And fell on their asses. “You gotta go big and go wild or go down.”
“Yeah, well I’ve gone big and wild, and went down hard.” No, he didn’t go down. The one and only woman he’d ever loved had gone down. All the way down. Six feet under down.
“What happened?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Just don’t take crazy risks, Vivi.”
“Can’t help it, dude, that’s how I roll.” She got up, kicked her board out from under the table and hopped on it. “I gotta head out to my family’s house for Sunday dinner. See ya, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton Cautious Lang.”
“Bye, Private Investigator Viviana Poison Angelino.”
She rolled a little, tugging on her helmet, and threw him one last rueful look. “Thanks for the Slurpy and the advice.”
She zipped off, giving him a perfect shot of her ass as she kicked into high speed.
There went his cock again.
To make the blood flow north to his brain, he forced himself to think about her stupid, foolish, crazy idea. Okay, it wasn’t entirely stupid, but the last time he took a risk like that, he lost everything. Which would also be the last time he let a boner get in the way of his work.
Never again.
The killer she can’t escape…
The heartbreak she can’t forget…
The one man who can
stop them both.
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EDGE OF SIGHT
CHAPTER 1
I understand you got into that little law school across the river.”
Samantha Fairchild scooped up the cocktails from the service bar, sending a smile to the man who’d been subtly checking her out from behind rimless glasses. “Our trusty bartender’s been bragging about me again.”
Behind the bar, Wendy waved a martini shaker like a sparkler, her eyes twinkling. “Just a little, Sam. You’re our only Harvard-bound server.”
Sam nodded to the light-haired gentleman, not really
wanting to start a conversation when Paupiette’s dining room was wall-to-wall with a Saturday night crowd. Anyway, he wasn’t her type. Too pale, too blond, too… safe.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, a Harvard law degree,” the man said. “I’ve got one myself.”
“Really? What did you do with it?”
The smile widened. “Print money, like you will.”
Spoken like a typical Harvard law grad. “I’m not that interested in the money. I have another plan for the future.” One she doubted a guy dripping in Armani and Rolex would appreciate. Unless he was a defense attorney. She eyed him just as two hands landed on her shoulders from behind.
“I seated Joshua Sterling and company in your section.” Keegan Kennedy’s soft voice had a rumble of warning in it, probably because she was flirting with lawyers in the bar when her tables were full. “I’ll expect a kickback.”
“That sounds fair.” She shrugged out of his grip, balancing the cocktail tray.
“I bet he’s a generous tipper, Sam,” the lawyer said as he placed two twenties on the bar and flicked his wrist for the bartender to keep the change. “You’ll need it for the Con Law texts alone.”
She gave him a wistful smile, not too encouraging, but not a complete shutdown, either. “Thanks…”
“Larry,” he supplied. “Maybe I’ll stop in before you start classes with some first-year pointers.”
“Great, Larry.” She forced a more encouraging smile. He looked like a nice guy. Dull as dry toast, but then he probably wouldn’t kick her in the heart with an… army boot. “You do that.”
She turned to peer into the main dining area, catching a glimpse of a party of six being led by the maître d’s second-in-command.
Joshua Sterling’s signature silver hair, prematurely gray and preternaturally attractive, glistened under the halogen droplights, hung to highlight the haute cuisine but casting a perfect halo over this particular patron.
It wasn’t just his tipping that interested Sam. The last time Boston’s favorite columnist had dined here, they’d gotten into a lively debate about the Innocence Mission, and he ended up writing a whole article in the Globe about the nonprofit. The Boston office where Sam volunteered had received a huge influx of cash because of that story.
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