Against the Dark

by Carolyn Crane

  He looked smart in a black dinner jacket and tie, and his heated gaze made her feel so much in the spotlight that she wanted to run back into the bathroom and slam the door. She forced herself to stay and root through the suitcase for her white woven cover-up. She found it and quickly pulled it over her head.

  When she looked again he was checking his phone. She hated herself for wondering what he’d thought of her.

  “Why aren’t you in a swimsuit?” she asked.

  “Only the bitches swim.”

  She exhaled sharply. “Excuse me? Only the bitches?”

  He walked toward her, slowly. “That’s how it is with the boss’s pool parties. I’ve guarded enough of them to know. The guys talk business while they watch the bitches swim. But now the difference is that I get to go to one instead of guard one. With you.” She knew what he was doing, getting in character, wanting her to. He stopped in front of her, unbuttoned a button on her cover-up. “You look hot as hell.”

  Her mind went again to the scene in the kitchen. He’d made himself sound dominating, relentless, talented...how much of it was based on reality? She buttoned it back up. “Thank you.”

  “So modest,” he added.

  She pasted on a smile, but she was starting to feel nervous about seeing Borgola again.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” she said, smiling through her nerves.

  He looked at her closely, an expression of...what? Concern? “Got sunglasses?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tipped his head at her suitcase. “Bring ‘em.”

  She pulled out the glasses set them on top of her head. “Anything else, commandant?”

  “That’s more like it, baby.”

  Soon they were walking down the hall. Cole looped a heavy arm around her shoulders as they walked, letting his hand dangle down, not quite touching her breast, but he could if he wanted to. Cole the kiss-up caveman guy. It was kind of amusing that he had persona tics for his character.

  They headed through an outdoor patio and into another section of the house, through increasingly lavish rooms into the main part of the house with its airy grandeur that even Borgola and his chintzy naked cherubs and garish art and fakey Italian fountains couldn’t ruin. Some of the main room crown molding was painted gold, or maybe it was even gold leaf, and clouds were painted on the highest ceiling—everything too big, too rich, too made-up. The place was the architectural equivalent of a perfect white rose loaded up with perfume and glitter. She smiled at the thought of White Jenny smashing that vase upstairs. Totally the right idea.

  They strolled through an open set of French doors to a large pool room with a glass dome over it. The air was moist and tropical; florals cascaded over every vertical surface, and obscene statues rose up out of a peanut-shaped pool. Borgola sat at a table flanked by two very tan, very blonde women who looked young and stoned.

  Borgola smiled his little bow of a smile, raking her body with his oily gaze. Angel bit her lip, feeling queasy. Nobody unnerved her quite like Borgola did.

  “Sir,” Cole said.

  Borgola rose. “Call me Walter, please. This is a social occasion.” He held out a hand to Angel. She placed her hand in his and he brought it to his mouth, kissing it with just a little tongue, just as he’d done to Macy.

  “This is Angel,” Cole said.

  “Enchante,” Borgola intoned in the French way. Apparently only the hookers got the racial slurs. “And this is Kitty and Kendra,” he said, motioning at the girls, who smiled at Angel. “Ladies, Angel and Cole.”

  Tell me when it’s safe to chop off my hand, Macy had said when Borgola had applied tongue to her hand. Angel bit back a smile, missing her friends more than ever.

  Cocktails and shrimp hors d’oerves were brought out. The waiter handed her a glass with red liquid and fruit, and it wasn’t Sangria. It smelled strongly of alcohol.

  “Go ahead, make yourself comfortable, stay awhile,” Borgola said, eyeing her cover-up, an obvious command for her to take it off.

  She so didn’t want to take it off for him.

  It struck her right then how out of control she was in this situation. Borgola was a twisted freak surrounded by loyal and sadistic bodyguards, and she was staying under his roof. Robbing him. And Cole was just one man.

  One man who was blackmailing her. Also her enemy.

  Cole slapped her ass, breaking her out of her haze. “Go on, cupcake, sit down and make yourself at home.” Purposefully misunderstanding Borgola’s desire, she thought.

  She sat, cover-up intact, but not loving the ass slap.

  Cole pulled up a seat next to her and slid over the plate of shrimp. “I think you’re going to find that Walter serves the best cuisine for miles around.” He raised his eyebrows at Borgola.

  She took a shrimp.

  She’d have to take off the wrap for Borgola and swim, eventually. She had no doubt slimy Borgola would scrutinize her and think of sick things.

  “So where did the two of you meet?” Kendra asked.

  “Savannah coffee shop,” Angel said, watching Cole dip the shrimp in cocktail sauce. “I was dog sitting.”

  “With Norman the Irish setter,” Cole said, biting into the shrimp. She thought back to the way he’d moved around her kitchen, the imperious, almost elegant way he spread peanut butter on the rice cake. He’d downgraded his manners for Borgola, too, playing the guy’s guy, careful, perhaps, to not threaten Borgola. Even his posture was different; he sat in a way that made him seem smaller.

  Kendra sniffed, “Who names a dog Norman?”

  “My neighbor. I know. Norman.” She turned again to Cole. “And then we pretty much hung out the rest of that day.”

  He crossed his legs, looking smug. “I swept her off her feet. Poor Norman never had a chance.”

  “You were great with Norman,” Angel said. “I think Norman enjoyed the male companionship.”

  He drew a finger along her shoulder. “Not as much as somebody else did.”

  She blushed and sipped her cocktail. It was horribly strong.

  Kendra laughed.

  Well, if nothing else, they were being convincing, she thought.

  “And then we found out we both hate dill and it was all over,” he added.

  “You both hate dill?” Kitty asked.

  “Yes,” she said, easing into things. “Which is a bummer because everyone cooks with it.”

  “Everyone,” Cole echoed. “We might have to start an online petition.”

  She squelched a smile. He’d known exactly how to prepare. It was kind of amazing, like they really did have some kind of a relationship.

  The five of them small talked a bit more. At one point, Cole picked up her cocktail, sipped it, and put it over on his side. A few minutes later he set his nearly empty one in front of her, and when she tasted it, she found it far less full of alcohol. Cole really was a pro at this.

  Giving the women the insanely strong cocktails, though. What a pig. Angel hung back and marveled at how even Borgola’s tone of voice sounded sinister; his words came out too slippery, slightly melodic and lilting, and a pitch higher than what seemed normal for a man. She could easily imagine him doing horrible things while pseudo-calming his victims with that voice, but the voice would upset them instead, and Borgola would like that. The voice gave her a quivery kind of creeps.

  Cole had kept his arm around her and played with her hair, and during a moment when Borgola was looking away, he gently lowered her sunglasses over her eyes, nestling them snugly onto her nose. He was giving her a break from having to act her part, as if he’d sensed her growing discomfort.

  It helped greatly to have her eyes hidden. A bolt of gratitude shot through her for Cole, her ally and her enemy. Protecting her while he dragged her into danger. Her feelings for him were a confused mass of lust and anger. She put a hand on his arm, smiled. Just playing her part. But also, she just wanted to touch him.

  She’d never been forced into prolonged con
tact with her victims like this, and Macy and White Jenny had always handled any kind of chat. The girls were comfortable with the limelight, whereas she hated it. She hated mirrors most of all, using them only when she had to. The worst was when she unexpectedly caught sight of herself in a mirror or window. Her mood would just plummet.

  Beauty goes skin deep. Ugly goes clear to the bone.

  She enjoyed helping clients locate and reflect their inner beauty through their environment, but she wasn’t sure it could be done for her. She didn’t feel like she had much to be proud of.

  Kendra asked her if she’d seen this season of The Bachelor, and Angel wanted to hug her. Yes, she watched The Bachelor. It was a relief to focus on Kendra and talk about the show. She could get through this.

  “Why don’t you girls take a dip,” Borgola said.

  So creepy, the command to take a swim, just when the conversation was getting fun. He wanted to see them wet and to talk to Cole about whatever horrible things guys like that talked about. She turned to Cole.

  “I’d enjoy a dip,” she said.

  Cole raised an eyebrow, catching the dip reference. It was kind of a crime, how they clicked. But she’d always clicked with the wrong men. She unbuttoned her cover-up, cool as can be, and let it slip onto her chair.

  Just another job, she told herself, ignoring the eyes she felt on her.

  There was a net across the pool. A beach ball. Inwardly she groaned. She kicked off her heels, grabbed her cocktail, which had been refilled, and strolled to the pool with the girls. Kendra had more to say about The Bachelor. She and Kendra hated the same woman.

  They started their way down the pool steps. The water was warm, like a bath. Angel sat on the side; when nobody was looking, she dumped her cocktail into the water, swishing the water with her feet to get rid of the pink blossom it made.

  Kitty sat next to her. Kitty was quiet, but she didn’t seem stupid. Borgola had to be paying them; she couldn’t imagine voluntarily sleeping with a man like Borgola. Though she supposed if you were to have sex with a man like that, it was better to have another girl there—it would be less horrible than to be alone with him, and you could talk about how creepy he was afterwards. If Macy and White Jenny were with her, they’d totally dish on Borgola. The snaky-smooth voice thing. The alcohol-laded cocktails especially for the ladies. The volleyball net in the pool.

  The two men were lost in conversation. What did guys like that discuss? Cole’s glass was empty. No doubt he’d dumped it with perfect deftness.

  Cole was good at things. Maybe this could work out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cole didn’t like Borgola’s smug attitude; it was the attitude of a cat toying with a mouse. But they wouldn’t be having cocktails together if Borgola had discovered the trackers in the diamond bags. Why the attitude, then? Was Borgola vetting Cole for even more upward movement? The fake identity Dax’s people had created would be bulletproof. Could it be too bulletproof? That was sometimes a flag.

  Or maybe Cole seemed too capable. Borgola always needed to be the most powerful man in the room by miles.

  Cole yearned to get up and stretch his long legs, but not while Borgola sat, and not while Borgola showed him that attitude. So he kept them tucked under his chair, a submissive posture, all the better to comfort a sadistic megalomaniac.

  Laughter from the pool. The women had started up the game of pool volleyball, Angel and Kitty against Kendra. The blondes seemed a bit buzzed; that had been grain alcohol in those drinks. Borgola loved people helpless, impaired. He really was a fucking piece of work.

  Maybe Borgola had something up his sleeve. It didn’t matter. All systems were go until Cole or Angel were physically prevented from handling this mission, that is, injured or dead. It wasn’t fair to Angel, but there it was. She’d taken the risk to rip off Borgola in the first place.

  If things went well, Borgola wouldn’t even know he’d been compromised, and Angel could return to her life. They’d “break up.” The Association would take over the boat, then let the Feds step in for the glory and the red tape

  Squeals sounded from the pool. Angel was expertly playing her role, even though she clearly had a thing about being the center of attention. Angel was a total professional when it came down to it.

  Borgola watched the game with a glazed expression. He never seemed to tire of seeing women spring out of the water, wet breasts bouncing, hands overhead to smack the ball. Borgola liked seeing them play topless most of all. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but the night was young. Cole would try to prevent it, but if it came to it, Angel would play topless. She was made of strong stuff. She didn’t think she was, but she was. He loved that about her.

  Cole worked with lots of different agents in the field, and you got to be a good judge of who would come through and who would freeze. Angel was the kind to come through. He wanted to tell her that, suddenly. He wanted to be alone with her and hold her and tell her about how if you felt scared of a thing and did it anyway, it meant you were brave and strong.

  Borgola smiled over at him, swirling the ice in his drink. Cole grunted his approval of the women, doing his best impression of a leering thug. Borgola would see this as a gift, one that he’d engineered. Even this was a kind of logistics—supply, transport, pretty girls performing at optimum output while affording the two of them the privacy to discuss perimeter rounds. Borgola hadn’t even had to command them to play; the hookers simply knew his preferences and made it happen. Optimum output with optimum efficiency. The grain alcohol, the volleyball, the dinner with Cole, just a sequence of resources nested inside a larger sequence. He could put an equation to it if he wanted.

  Everything was logistics.

  Angel laughed and played, water glistening on her flawless skin. Her dark hair was piled on her head, and the shiny little beads and things in her hair caught the late afternoon sun like jewels. Some strands had begun to fall out, sticking wet against her skin.

  And good Lord, that suit. Cole hated that he was appreciating her now in this little show that Borgola had arranged, but she was hot in that suit—he’d meant it when he’d told her that. She looked beautiful playing volleyball, but it was her spirit that got him. Much as Borgola might wish to degrade her with this, Angel’s spirit shone through.

  Damn.

  He let his eyes blur, tried to stop seeing her, focused on the dapples of light on the water. She, too was logistics—a commodity to be expended in the procurement of the files. A thief, just a low-level Borgola. If it was between her and the boat, he would have to choose the boat.

  He needed to be okay with that.

  Borgola droned on about the new post-robbery security arrangements. Some parts of the roof and the storm gutter would now be electrified when the alarm system got set off.

  Nice.

  Cole felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It wouldn’t be anything important, certainly not news of the diamonds being moved. The only man who’d move them was sitting with him.

  At exactly five, Borgola stood and snapped his fingers and the volleyball game ceased. The women emerged from the pool. Borgola took one on each arm.

  “Dinner in thirty minutes,” Borgola said, eyeing Angel.

  Cole quickly wrapped her in a towel, rescuing her from the man’s gaze. “You hungry?”

  She smiled. “Starving.”

  They watched Borgola walk off with Kendra and Kitty.

  “Whatever he’s paying them, it’s not enough,” she said.

  “Everybody’s got their price,” he said.

  She pulled the towel around herself. “Even me, apparently.” Meaning the blackmail.

  “Even you.” He needed to keep that in mind.

  She pulled the towel tight, a determined look on her face. “You know, you didn’t have to do this. I could’ve stood up to it.” Meaning he didn’t have to put the towel around her. She could’ve stood up to Borgola’s view of her.

  He’d done it for himself, he realized. Well, th
at needed to stop.

  “Noted.” He checked his messages. The aunt had been freed. Good. It would be gratifying to tell her. Right before dinner, he decided. A good-news shot in the arm to brace for more Borgola.

  “I know this is going to sound weird, because I know we were the entertainment out there, but it felt good to move around and blow off some steam instead of having to talk to him.”

  “What will help you now?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Alone time in the room? Pushups? A smoke? Different people have different ways of pulling their heads together, and it might be a long night.” He’d been about to say different Associates. Like she was one of them.

  She squinted. “I’d like to call my friends. It’s stupid, but I’ve never done anything like this without them. And they’ll want to know I’m okay.”

  Cole handed her his phone. “This is secure. Be quick. Stay by the table and you can speak freely. There are no listening devices here.” The table by the pool tended to be Borgola’s deal making haven.

  He wandered over to the other side of the pool to let her have some privacy. She wanted to download with her criminal girlfriends. He respected that—not the criminal part, but the girl power streak in there. The girlfriends would give her the news about the aunt, of course. He’d looked forward to telling her himself, but it would be nice for her to get it from them.

  A few minutes later she was heading toward him, grinning. “Aunt Aggie’s free. And two of the Flesh Boys seem to be in the ER.”

  “Imagine that, darling,” Cole said. “That should teach them to nab sweet old aunts.”

  “Thank you, darling.” She handed the phone back to him, looking thoughtful. “How did Borgola seem to you?”

  Cole pocketed the phone. “Smug and sly.”

  “Could he suspect?”

  He looked her in the eye. He wouldn’t lie to her now. “There’s a chance.”

  She asked, “Is whatever’s in the safe worth risking your life?”

  That was always the question. Macmillan had asked it too, more or less. It was so much easier to ask a question like that from the outside of a mission, when you hadn’t established the relationships, worked a system of favors, laid the groundwork.