Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0)

by Jennifer Bene

  “Not usually the reaction when a woman gets a designer dress, but, you’ve never been predictable.” Smith shrugged as he started to take other things out of the bags, including a black clothing bag. He hung it on the bathroom doorframe and as he unzipped it a sleek black tux was revealed. Also designer by the look of it – and definitely for him.

  “What the hell is this, Smith?”

  “We’re going to dinner. Somewhere very nice.” He pointed at the dress. “You’re going to wear that.”

  “Why?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. They spent all their time hopping in and out of sandwich shops, or stopping at street vendors, or little cafes and diners. A nice dinner? The kind of dinner that required a dress like that?

  “Because, C, jobs can take you all over the world, into a variety of different situations. You won’t always be able to wear yoga pants and a t-shirt on a job.” He shook his head slowly, mumbling under his breath as he took the suit out from the bag. “Think of it as a game. There will be a bunch of rich people there, and your goal is to blend in. Watch how they talk, watch how they move, and mimic them. Figure out how to make yourself invisible.”

  “Why does my fucking game involve heels like this?” Camille tilted a box of shoes towards him and he sighed.

  “First, you need to learn to walk in heels. Second, I guarantee no one will be using language like that at dinner. Why don’t you start practicing now?”

  “Jesusfuckingchrist…” she muttered as she dropped the heels back on the bed. Looking at the dress laid out, with the tall, spiky heels beside it, she felt horrendously self-conscious. How in the fuck was she going to fit in with a bunch of fancy New York assholes? This was insane. “Smith, I don’t even have make-up, or anything for -”

  “In here.” He tapped a foot against one of the big shopping bags. “Pretty much all the make-up I think you’ll ever need, and a flat iron for your hair.”

  “I -”

  Smith walked over to her, stopping when she had to tilt her head back a bit to meet his eyes. “C, do you think I’d put you in a situation I didn’t think you could handle?”

  “I’ve never even worn a dress like that, Smith, and I have no fucking clue what to do around people like that.”

  “That’s the point. You’ll find yourself in a lot of different situations, and you need to learn to mimic, be a chameleon so you’re invisible. You’re incredibly observant, and I know you can do it. Remember, people who blend in don’t get remembered during police reports.” He gave her a wink, and walked towards the bathroom. “I’m grabbing a shower first, but we have to be there in a couple of hours. Why don’t you start figuring out the make-up?”

  “Right.” She watched as he shut himself in and then she hauled the heavy bag up onto the bed and dumped it out. “Sure, I’ll just figure out the fucking make-up thing. No challenge there. Nope, so fucking easy.”

  Turning over one of the boxes she opened it up and found a round container of powder, which probably went with one of the six brushes she could see through the plastic surrounding them. Groaning she tossed it back onto the bed.

  “This is such bullshit…”

  An hour and a half later Camille was staring at herself in the mirror, more confused by her reflection than she had been earlier in the day when she’d been talking to it. The woman in the mirror was someone else, had to be someone else, because the woman in the mirror was – beautiful.

  Fucking hot, actually.

  The dress fit like a glove, and there was a slit that came up the side to just above her knee, which worked out well since she had a massive bruise an inch or two above that, and of all things she wasn’t sure of when it came to the elite of New York City – she knew for sure that rich bitches did not have bruises the size of a man’s fist on their legs, or their ribs.

  Regardless, her hair had been tamed by the flat iron, which she’d had to look up how to use properly, and with some other research on make-up she’d done a pretty good job of using the things in the packages. Just as she was trying to smudge her eyeliner a little more so it matched the other eye, Smith rapped his knuckles on the door for the second time. “We’re going to be late. Please tell me that just by putting you in a dress I haven’t somehow activated the need for women to take forever in the -”

  With a groan Camille yanked the bathroom door open, and Smith stopped speaking instantly, his mouth hanging open. “No need to be a dick, I’m ready, alright?”

  “You – um,” Smith swallowed and then stepped back from the doorway. “You look great, C. I’m – well, I’m glad the dress is the right size, it fits you very well.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Slipping past him she sat on the end of her bed and slid the heels on, already hating the way they pinched her toes, but the one advantage was that when she stood up Smith would only have a few inches on her. As long as she could stand in them anyway. With a careful movement she pushed herself off the bed, and immediately felt herself wobble on the narrow points. Groaning, she looked up at him. “You do realize I’m going to kill myself walking in these fucking deathtraps, right?”

  “You can run through obstacle courses without tripping, I think you’ll be able to handle heels, C.” Smith rolled his eyes, and that was when she finally took in how he was dressed. A sleek black tux, tailored to fit his strong body, a bright white shirt, and a tie that seemed hand picked to match her dress. When he picked up his gun from the dresser beside him, checking it and flipping the safety on before he tucked it away in the small of his back – she had to remind herself to breathe.

  Tanned skin, cool green eyes, that short but messy brown hair that always seemed to ignore the laws of gravity. Smith looked like a male model who had been crossed with James Bond, only Smith was deadlier, which only made him hotter.

  This is absolutely, fucking ridiculous. No one is allowed to be that attractive.

  “Come on, we’re going to be late.” He was standing at the door, waiting, and she was just staring at him. Fucking drooling over him. Idiot.

  Camille took a step towards him and then she paused. “Wait, where’s my gun?”

  He turned back towards her and those pale green eyes roamed over her from head to toe. “Where exactly would you keep a gun in that dress?”

  “Where exactly would I keep a fucking gun in this dress if I were on a job?”

  “Touché.” He sighed and walked back towards his bed, sliding out the duffel from underneath. The clatter of metal as it landed on the comforter almost made her smile. Always well-armed, and ready for anything. “Alright, you’re not going to be able to carry it, and you’re not bringing a purse. Let’s see if this thigh holster shows under the dress, and I’ll figure out a gun. You can’t carry your normal 9mm. Too big… how about the P238?”

  “The Sig Sauer? Sure, as long as I’m armed.” When he handed her the thigh holster she simply hiked the dress up on the side without the slit and started to pull it on. Smith’s eyes immediately averted from her exposed skin and she had to bite her tongue so she wouldn’t pick another useless fight over him not wanting her. Hot James Bond model or not, he had made his opinion clear.

  “See how well you can walk if it’s on the inside of your thighs, it will be less noticeable.” He glanced over at her as she swiveled it to the inside, and then he handed her the small weapon.

  With a huff she slid the gun home and stood up straight. It was definitely noticeable to her, but the dress seemed to lay fine on the outside. “Well?”

  “It doesn’t show.” He threw the duffel back under the bed and then nodded towards the door, hurrying to open it before she could stall anymore. “We really do need to go.”

  “I just want to be clear, if anyone sees me fall in these heels, I’m going to fucking shoot them.”

  Smith stared at her as he held the door open, not even rewarding her with a reaction.

  “Just giving you fair warning.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “This is definitely not a
restaurant, Smith.” Camille glared up at the large building perched at the top of a long set of stone stairs, huge lights illuminating the old architecture of the front. It looked like a museum, or a government building, or something, but definitely not a restaurant.

  “So observant.” They glided forward a little further in the line of cars waiting for the valet, and she couldn’t stop fidgeting. It was one thing to blend in when you were sitting at a table in a restaurant, but this looked like some kind of fucking event.

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  “A benefit gala.” He glanced at her from the other side of the car. “For underprivileged youth in the city.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…” A groan rumbled in her chest as she watched women in beautiful gowns ascending the steps on the arms of men in tuxedos. So many couples, most of the women dripping with jewels that caught the lights. They were here for underprivileged youth? As if any of them knew what it was like to be poor, or homeless, or vulnerable – and of all people there was no way in hell Camille was going to be able to pretend to be one of them.

  This is going to be a disaster.

  “That kind of foul language is not going to help you here, C.” Smith threw the car into park just as a young valet rushed to their side. Another young man appeared to open her door and she almost ignored his hand as she climbed out, but then she felt the heels wobble and grabbed onto him to make sure she didn’t break an ankle.

  “Miss?” The young man helped her up and onto the sidewalk, but she let go of him as soon as she was stable.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  Smith offered his arm as he came around, the valet hurrying over to the next car, and she hooked her arm through his, gripping hard to ensure she wouldn’t fall if she tripped on the stone steps. Just as they neared the line to enter he leaned down, his lips close to her ear. “Look at the other women, C. Watch how they move, walk, talk, laugh.” He tugged at the death grip her fingers had on his arm. “You’re a better liar than this. Observe and show me what you can do.”

  His breath against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and she knew that he was challenging her on purpose, baiting her so that she’d perform. It was the same shit he pulled during sessions – but he was right. She was stomping in the heels, while the other women seemed to glide delicately, heel to toe. They made it look effortless.

  Fuck.

  “C?” Smith prompted her as they neared the man checking names off a list.

  “I heard you,” she muttered under her breath, and then she rolled her shoulders back and studied the woman in front of her. Likely in her early thirties, beautiful and elegant in her maroon gown. When the woman turned towards the entrance she seemed to kick the bottom of the dress away before she set her foot down, heel to toe, making each movement a flourish, almost a dance. Clearly, the woman had been raised in this world.

  Rich, elitist, over-privileged bitch…

  With a muttered curse, Camille forced herself to relax her grip on Smith’s arm, resting her hand carefully instead. A light touch, barely there, but present.

  The mere existence of these other women grated her nerves, but she knew one thing for sure – that delicate, effortlessly feminine woman in front of her couldn’t take a man down who was twice her size, or throw a knife, or fire a gun with any kind of accuracy. No, she was nothing more than a pretty package, and Camille was so much more than that. She was an assassin, she was Smith’s partner, she was C.

  “Smith, John and Caroline.”

  The man holding the clipboard of papers flipped through, made a mark with his pen, and then nodded towards the door. “Welcome to the gala, enjoy your evening.”

  As they moved forward Camille couldn’t hide her smile. “John Smith? Really? Was John Doe already taken?”

  Smith surprised her by flashing a grin. “Oh sweet Caroline, why don’t you stop focusing on what I’m doing and show me what you can do?”

  “Dick,” she whispered under her breath as they entered the building. There was a large hallway that seemed to extend off into the distance, but there were balloons surrounding the well-lit doors just to her left. The sound of a crowd poured out of it, and she almost tugged them to a halt, but this was just another part of Smith’s world. The nicer side, he’d said, and just like she’d spent two years proving to him she could fight, could take a beating, could kill – now she had to prove to him she could follow him anywhere. Whether it was a seedy warehouse down by the docks, or a fancy event that required uncomfortable, miserable heels.

  “Wiping the death glare off your face might help,” he whispered as they entered the room and she rolled her eyes at him but managed to channel every irritatingly peppy cheerleader she’d ever seen on television – and smiled.

  Cue the dumb blonde routine. It never fails.

  Inside the massive room there were tables set up leading towards a stage at the front, where she assumed some pretentious fucks would be giving speeches about the state of the youth of the city later in the evening. The back and sides of the room were already filling up with people carrying drinks and chatting, the city’s elite gathering to stroke each other’s egos and applaud their bullshit generosity. The dull roar of the room was almost overwhelming, blending with the string quartet set up in one corner, and the tinkling glass of the bar opposite.

  A bar? Maybe this event wouldn’t be such a shit show after all.

  “I’m getting a drink,” she muttered and released his arm. For once he didn’t even make a comment about it, and instead followed her a few feet behind as they meandered towards the elaborate set up. Two men and one woman manned it, smiling politely as they poured top-shelf liquors into glasses and shakers. Camille was so focused on the opportunity to get a drink to dull her nerves, that she didn’t even realize she’d started walking almost normally in the heels. She still lacked the grace of the other women, but at least she didn’t sound like a linebacker in them anymore. “Vodka, with lime.”

  “Blanton’s,” Smith ordered as he stepped up next to her, both of them turning to look out over the throng of rich assholes. It seemed remarkably organized for a party. Long tables lined the outer walls, monitored by men and women in the uniforms of the servers, and everyone seemed to fit in, even Smith was already blending in perfectly, while Camille still felt out of place, edgy, like her skin was itchy. Hopefully the vodka would remedy that quickly enough. After a moment Smith spoke softly, “What do you see?”

  “Are we really playing that game right now?”

  “Absolutely.” His gaze didn’t even flick towards her, speaking quietly out of the corner of his mouth, and she was about to snap at him when the blessed bartender handed her the drink.

  “Thanks,” she smiled sincerely at the guy and then took a sip. Perfectly made with a better quality vodka than she’d probably ever had before. Camille knew exactly what Smith wanted her to do. SLLS. Stop, look, listen, and ‘smell’. Smell usually mattered more when you were heading into a house that could double as a meth lab about to explode, not so much at fancy parties. Either way, he wanted her to figure them out, to be capable of blending in, and that meant careful observation. Taking another drink Camille kept her eyes moving and her ears open, memorizing their hand gestures, the rise and fall of their voices as they spoke, the words they chose – and she slowly learned that even the prettiest of worlds could be just as ugly as the streets.

  A perfect example of it was close enough to hear. There were a pair of women at the bar near her, both meticulously put together, but they were vapid and cruel, and completely ignorant of the fact that she was listening to them.

  “Did you see Nina’s dress? The green Versace?” The woman in the white dress leaned close to her friend, whispering loud enough to be heard over the dull roar of the crowd.

  The second woman smiled into her martini, her voice dripping venom. “Of course, how could I miss it?”

  “It really is beautiful,” the first woman spoke softly, and then la
ughed a little. “I just didn’t think Nina would be cheap enough to wear it twice in the same season. I saw her in it at the Coillard’s dinner just a few months ago.”

  “Are you serious?” That woman laughed, clearly delighted by the cruel gossip. “Well, I guess her husband’s firm isn’t doing quite as well as she’d like everyone to believe.”

  “I know!” The two floated away from the bar, giggling and taking their snide comments with them, and Camille felt a wave of disgust wash through her. It took several slow breaths before she was able to rein it in and restore her neutral, bored expression – the same one worn by ninety percent of the bitches in the room.

  “Well?” Smith prompted, and she glanced over at him before setting her empty glass back on the bar. It was scooped up to be refilled without a word from the female bartender.

  At least there were some benefits to this charade of an event.

  “If it were possible, I hate them more now.”

  “Hate them all you like, C, can you act like them?”

  “You mean can I act like a vapid, shallow, useless bitch?” She shrugged as she snagged the renewed glass of vodka from behind his shoulder, and then flashed him her perkiest smile. “Absolutely!”

  “Good. Let’s test it.” Offering his arm, Smith guided them into the fray. Nodding and smiling at several groups, until he finally found one he seemed to choose. Two couples facing each other, talking loudly.

  “ – and then she called me up and asked if I would go with her to that dismal little spa on the second floor of the Calina Hotel! As if I’d be caught dead there!” A brunette with her hair pulled up into an elaborate updo was already laughing at her own story as they approached. She was clearly a few too many glasses of wine into her evening to keep her voice down, but Camille tried to maintain her smile – even though she wanted to shout at the bitch about how shallow and pointless her life was. Hell, the stupid woman was complaining about some expensive spa while she was at a benefit for poor, street kids. Irony, anyone?