by Elle Kennedy
No one had an answer.
Trevor reached for his coffee mug. The liquid was lukewarm from sitting out, but he gulped it down anyway, needing the caffeine fix. When footsteps sounded, the men’s heads shifted toward the door.
“Sean’s on the phone. He says he’s got something for us.” Isabel walked out with brisk strides. She was trailed by Noelle and Juliet, who didn’t look so bored anymore.
Trevor’s muscles instantly tensed. “What did he find?”
“Don’t know yet.” She quickly spoke into her cell. “Hey, Sean, I’m putting you on speaker.”
A moment later a deep male voice greeted everyone. Sean Reilly sounded exactly like his twin brother, Oliver, whom Trevor had met in New York. Same Irish brogue, same deep timbre, same sarcasm.
“You sound well rested, luv. Could it be because you weren’t up all bloody night, chatting with every slimebag in the mercenary cesspool?”
Isabel laughed. “Hey, you’re the one who chose to go into this line of business.”
“Yeah, well, I’m charging you double.”
“Quit being a brat and tell us what you’ve got,” Juliet said.
Sean sounded delighted. “Jules, is that you? How come you don’t visit me in Dublin anymore?”
“Oh, Sean, you know I’ve always been partial to your brother,” Juliet said mockingly. “Now what the fuck did you come up with?”
Reilly’s tone went from flirtatious to professional in a split second. “Can’t be one hundred percent on this, but I think the man you’re looking for is Tomas Meiro.”
Frowning, Trevor set his mug on the table. “Tomas Meiro? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Who am I talking to?”
“Trevor Callaghan. I work for Morgan.”
“Callaghan. Yes. Right. You dealt with my brother last year.”
“I did. Now who’s this Meiro dude?”
Noelle, who was smoking a cigarette near the terrace doors, was the one who answered. “Casino owner. Originally from Lisbon, but based in Monte Carlo now.” Usually so composed, she now seemed troubled. “I haven’t been able to get a read on him. He appeared on the scene fairly recently, a year or two ago. Came out of fucking nowhere.”
Sean’s voice joined in. “I can’t tell you much more than that, but like I said, I think he’s the one who hired Lassiter.”
“You got evidence to back that up?” Trevor asked.
“I’ve traced Lassiter’s movements for the last three months—I figured this hit on your compound, it had to be a recent transaction, right?”
“Most likely,” Trevor agreed.
Unless the ambush had been in the works for months, years even. In which case . . . fuck, he didn’t even want to consider that possibility right now.
“Lassiter’s last few deals were with a Dominican cartel, a new outfit that needed some muscle to prove a point to the Haitians. I didn’t find any connection between Morgan and the cartel—granted, I only did a surface probe, but I don’t think the Dominicans give a shit about Jim Morgan.” Sean paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “Anyway, after half a dozen meetings with the cartel, Lassiter flew to Monaco. He stayed at the White Sands, was spotted in the casino, the bar, the fitness center. On his last night, casino security cameras caught him in what looked like a hush-hush meeting with Claude Roussel. Roussel is Meiro’s number two. He’s ex-military, worked as a bodyguard for a while, now serves as Meiro’s henchman and representative.”
“Did Lassiter set foot in Meiro’s casino?” Noelle inquired.
“Negative. In fact, our man Eddie visited every casino but the Crystal Palace, which I find mighty suspicious.” A rustling noise filled the line, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lighter being flicked and a cigarette being inhaled. “I e-mailed a copy of the security footage of Lassiter and Roussel to Paige, and another copy to you, Iz.”
Isabel pursed her lips. “So we think Roussel was meeting with Lassiter on Meiro’s behalf?”
“Roussel handles the shadier aspects of Meiro’s business. I can’t imagine why else he’d be dealing with a middleman like Lassiter if not to hire the man’s services. Again, couldn’t find a connection between Meiro and Morgan, but I’ll keep digging. Oh, but how’s this for fishy? The day after Lassiter met with Roussel, your boss Morgan dropped off the face of the planet. Last known whereabouts were D.C., right?”
“Right,” Trevor said warily.
“My brother’s going to check it out, see if he can track Morgan’s movements, but don’t hold your breath. Jim Morgan can be very sneaky when he wants to be.”
No kidding. And Morgan had taken off on his own so many times before that Trevor and the others had no way of knowing if the boss was truly in trouble or simply off on another one of his secret missions.
Granted, Morgan usually did inform Kane when he planned on being out of touch. A heads-up he certainly hadn’t given this time around.
“That’s it for now,” Sean said. “I’ll stay here for another day or so to chat with a few more folks. See if I can find a stronger link between Lassiter and Meiro.”
“Wait—you’re in Monte Carlo?” Isabel asked.
“Yessiree, luv. I flew in a couple of hours ago. And FYI? I expect compensation for the five grand I lost at the craps table earlier.”
“The check’s in the mail,” Noelle drawled.
Isabel spoke up again. “Thanks for everything, Sean. Call when you have more, okay?”
“You got it, sweetness.”
The call disconnected with a click.
Trevor rose from his chair, suddenly feeling on edge. He paced the dusty clay-tiled floor in the open courtyard, his brain filtering through the details Sean had just fed into it.
He addressed Noelle. “What else do you know about this Meiro guy?”
The blonde lit another cigarette and sank into the chair Trevor had abandoned. “Like I said, he’s new on the scene. He owns a chain of casinos, or rather his wife does. He married a French heiress, a really unfortunate-looking girl. But Wifey’s daddy was filthy rich, and she inherited the family casinos after his death. Daddy also ran a high-class prostitution ring and dabbled in human trafficking—I assume Meiro deals with those aspects of the business as well.”
“So he’s bad news,” Trevor said flatly.
Noelle turned to Juliet. “You crossed paths with him in Lisbon last year, didn’t you?”
Nodding, the brunette reclined in her chair and twined a long strand of hair around her fingers. “He’s very charming,” she admitted. “Smart, too. And he has no shortage of mistresses. I met him at a charity gala. He showed up with his wife.” She grinned at Noelle. “You’re right. The woman is plainer than oatmeal. But I hear he only brings her out to serious, media-heavy events. We both wound up at the after-party, and Wifey was nowhere to be found. He brought a delicious piece of arm candy to that party.”
“They do say he has a weakness for beautiful women,” Noelle said thoughtfully.
“And he’s very mysterious,” Juliet added. “Debonair, sexy in a dangerous sort of way. Very Gatsby-esque.”
Trevor had to smile—he rather enjoyed Juliet’s comparisons—but his good humor faded fast. “I’ve never heard Morgan talk about a Tomas Meiro.” He checked with the other men. “You?”
D shook his head, then dragged his hand over his buzz cut. “Not a peep.”
“Maybe they have a history we don’t know about,” Ethan said in a tired voice.
Noelle’s throaty laughter made them all frown. “Oh, you boys. So fucking naive. Haven’t you figured out by now that Jim has a history with everyone?”
Trevor lifted a brow in challenge. “Including you?”
She ignored the question and kept talking. “If there’s a connection between Jim and Meiro, the Reilly brothers will find it. For now, we have to explore the Meiro-Lassiter link. We need confirmation that Meiro was the one who hired Lassiter.”
“Recon,” D said curtly, getting to his feet. The man was in
fighting form again, his head injury nothing but a fading red scab at the base of his skull, and he’d been looking antsy all morning. Itching for action.
“I haven’t been to Monte Carlo in ages.” Juliet’s almond-shaped eyes twinkled like dark gems.
Ethan shot her a surprisingly evil look. “This isn’t a vacation, sweetheart.”
“Gosh, I love it when you call me that. It makes you sound so grown-up.”
Noelle held up a hand before the bickering could start. “Either get a room, you two, or shut the fuck up.” She spared D a pithy look. “Yes, recon. My pilot’s on call—we can be up in the air in two hours, tops.” She turned to Trevor. “Arrange for your men to meet us there. Port and Macgregor.”
Trevor nodded. Sullivan and Liam would be happy to hear that; they’d been chomping at the bit to join the group. None of the men on Morgan’s crew enjoyed sitting idle, and the two mercs had been calling to bitch all morning, just like Luke.
“What about Luke?” he asked.
“Tell him to stay put for the time being. We’ll hammer out a more solid plan once we’re in the air. For now, let’s—”
Isabel’s phone buzzed, causing the glass tabletop to vibrate. She leaned in to check the display, then frowned. “It’s Sean.”
A second later, the Irishman’s voice once again floated out of the speaker.
“Me again.” He sounded downright chipper, but Trevor picked up on the grave note beneath that cheerful brogue. “We’ve got ourselves a little development here, boys and girls.”
“What is it?” Noelle said sharply.
“Seems like a couple of policemen fished a body out of the marina about an hour ago.”
Trevor’s stomach clenched. Oh shit.
“Unidentified male. Caucasian, late thirties or early forties. That’s all I know. Body was taken to the morgue.” Sean sounded momentarily jazzed up. “It’s been years since I broke into a morgue. Send me a current photo of our man Jim and I’ll see about identifying the stiff.”
The click on the line indicated that Sean had hung up.
Trevor exchanged a look with D, whose expressionless black eyes didn’t fool anyone. The man was worried about the boss, just like they all were.
Well, maybe with the exception of Noelle—the woman hadn’t even blinked when Reilly mentioned the dead body in the harbor.
A long silence descended on the group as nobody voiced what they were all thinking.
Finally Ethan pushed his chair back with a loud grating noise. “It’s not Morgan,” he said firmly. “And we’re wasting time. Come on, let’s get this fucking show on the road.”
Chapter 11
Isabel sat next to Trevor in the cabin of Noelle’s private jet, a thirty-two-million-dollar toy that never failed to impress her. The plane accommodated ten passengers and a crew of two, and offered a wide cabin with double club seating, a galley, and a full-size lavatory.
Every time Isabel set foot on the jet, she felt like Donald Trump. Or Oprah.
They were two hours into the six-hour flight to Monaco, and she was watching the security tape of Eddie Lassiter and Claude Roussel for the second time. When the tape neared its end, she entered a few keystrokes to slow down the footage. A few seconds later, she pressed PAUSE.
“Watch this,” she told Trevor.
Trevor leaned in close so he could study the laptop screen. The citrus-and-wood blend of his aftershave surrounded her, made her feel light-headed and weak-kneed. Fortunately, she was seated and therefore in no danger of keeling over from the overpowering desire coursing through her like an electric current.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
She rewound the segment and played it again. “Look at their hands. Roussel slips something into Lassiter’s hand before they go their separate ways. It looks like a flash drive, maybe.”
“Good eye. You’re right. He definitely handed Lassiter something. Question is,” Trevor mused, “did the exchange have anything to do with the attack on the compound, or was it completely unrelated to Morgan?”
“We’ll find out soon enough, I guess.” She bit her lip. “The body in the marina . . . It can’t be Morgan, right?”
There was a split second of hesitation, which told her he wasn’t a hundred percent sure in his response. “Of course not.”
“Isabel.” Noelle’s commanding voice wafted from the other side of the plush cabin, and then the blonde was striding toward them.
“I’ve booked Valerie a suite at the Crystal Palace,” Noelle said briskly. She settled in one of the two seats opposite Trevor and Isabel. “Peterson’s shipping your papers, but there’s a chance they won’t arrive until tomorrow morning. If that’s the case, Valerie will show up at the hotel tomorrow.”
“We should do that anyway,” Isabel mused. “Checking in a day late is just Valerie’s style. She never sticks to a schedule.”
Trevor cleared his throat. “Who exactly are Peterson and Valerie?”
“Peterson’s the lawyer who keeps my various identities straight,” Isabel explained. “And Valerie is one of those identities.”
Trevor didn’t look happy as he glanced at Noelle. “You’re sending Isabel in?” His gaze briefly shifted to Juliet, who sat across the aisle and was listening to their conversation. “Not you?”
“I already told you what my specialty is, and it’s not transformation,” Juliet replied. “Isabel’s better at creating an entire persona.”
Trevor’s jaw seemed unusually tight. His brown eyes flicked back to Noelle. “So Isabel’s job is to cozy up to Meiro. What about the rest of us?”
“We’ll be the eyes and ears. I want at least three of us on the casino floor, the rest posted outside on the strip. Reilly will stick around and gather intel on Meiro and his business dealings, and Reilly’s twin is following the Morgan thread.” Noelle looked annoyed. “Every source I’ve got knows I’m looking for the mighty Jim Morgan. That son of a bitch is gonna owe me big. That is, if it wasn’t his body floating faceup in the Monaco harbor.”
Looking positively uplifted, Noelle headed back to her seat. “We’ll formulate a firmer plan of action when we know more,” she said over her shoulder.
Normally Trevor relaxed once Noelle left the scene, but Isabel noticed that his jaw remained tense. She shifted in her seat so her back was to the aisle, but since the new position offered only the illusion of privacy, she still lowered her voice when she spoke. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he muttered.
She suppressed a sigh. “You’re not happy that Noelle assigned me to Meiro.”
“Not particularly, no.”
The breath she’d been holding slipped out. “This is my job, Trevor. I work undercover.”
He just shrugged, a response she had no clue how to interpret.
“Trust me, you’re going to like Valerie.” Grinning, Isabel slipped into the flawless British accent she’d perfected over the years. “She’s a sassy little thing.”
Trevor cracked a smile, but a second later another black cloud floated into his expression. “Just out of curiosity, how similar is Valerie to Paloma?”
She wrinkled her brow, unsure where he was going with this. He was referring to Paloma Dominguez, the alter ego Isabel had used in Colombia the year before. Make that Paloma Dominguez-Martin. During that job, Paloma had just married Julian Martin, Trevor’s alter ego. They’d gone undercover as the newly married couple to rescue a dozen innocent girls from Luis Blanco, a twisted arms dealer who also had his fat fingers in the sex trade pie.
“Similar, how?” she asked.
“You know, personality wise. Sexpot wise . . . ,” he said grudgingly.
“Aw, come on, Paloma’s not that big of a sexpot.”
His voice lowered as he leaned in close. “As I recall, Paloma had no problem giving me hand jobs in public. Just wondering if Meiro can expect the same kind of special treatment from Valerie.”
His breath was hot on her ear, and once again his intoxica
ting scent grabbed hold of her senses. She was suddenly hit with the vision of waking up to the feel of Trevor pressed up against her, and goose bumps broke out on her bare arms.
Damn it. She needed to get this attraction under control. Pronto.
“Valerie won’t be giving anyone a hand job,” she assured him.
“You sure about that?”
“I don’t use sex to gather intel. Just charm and minor seduction.”
“Same thing.”
“Different thing. Look, Noelle knows where I stand on this—if the target demands sex, I walk away. That’s not how I operate.”
Although he looked relieved, his dark eyes continued to flicker with what she was starting to suspect was jealousy. “Why can’t we go in as Paloma and Julian?”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if we did?” She couldn’t help but grin. “I miss those two. They were such an entertaining couple. But I can’t use Paloma again, not unless she and Julian get a divorce.”
“Not necessarily. I used Julian’s ID to do some minor recon on the Argentina job a few months ago. I just dropped mentions here and there of my feisty wife, Paloma, said she was back home spending my money.”
“So the cover’s still intact.”
“Yes.” He cocked his head. “Which means there’s no reason why we can’t use it again.”
“We can’t do it because Meiro likes arm candy. As in, a beautiful woman on his arm. Not a married couple.”
“I guess.”
“You know, I can’t figure out if you’re jealous that I’ll be spending time with Meiro or worried about my safety.”
“A little bit of both.” He didn’t sound happy admitting to either charge.
Impulsively, Isabel reached for his hand. “It’ll be fine. I’ve done this a hundred times before and I always walk out alive.”
“Doesn’t mean you will this time.”
Trevor laced their fingers together.
Isabel didn’t stop him.
Truthfully, it felt nice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d held a man’s hand.
She stared at their intertwined fingers and her heart did a little flip. God, why did she turn into such a sap when Trevor was around? The man had the uncanny power of making her believe anything was possible. That a messed-up person like herself could actually find peace. Love, even.