“It has to be this way,” he said simply.
“Why?”
“It just does.”
The inner edges of her eyebrows drew together in a question. “But is it worth your life?”
“I can’t leave without what’s in there, okay?”
“That sounds like a yes,” Angel said.
“What I’m telling you is that we’ll handle it.” They needed to pull it out, and he needed to not have to choose between her and the mission. It seemed such an obvious choice: all of those kids versus one woman, but then he’d look at her and his heart would swell and the logic of it would go to hell. He slid his hands over her arms. “We’ll go in like lightning. In and out. You know the drill—you handled it fine the other night. I’d know if he knew anything real.”
“You’d know if he knows anything real? As opposed to, like, if he has unfounded suspicions?”
Yes, he was putting her in danger. He could stop it now. God, how he wanted to. Panic rose in his chest as his control slipped away. He forced his mind to the kids on the boat. They would’ve gotten on with such hope in their hearts, only to be shoved into containers like animals, transported across the ocean toward vile, painful deaths. Those kids needed him to stay objective. He fixed on Angel, tried not to see her, gripped her arms more tightly. “You need to stop questioning my decisions, got it? You entered the game when you ripped him off and you got caught. This is a better outcome than what you’d have with anybody else on his team catching you.”
“Was that a yes?” she pressed on, undaunted. “Do you mean to go for this no matter how bad the odds are? Is it a suicide mission? I’d like to know, that’s all.”
“A suicide mission? Do I seem that self-destructive to you?”
“You’re answering a question with a question.”
He tightened his grip. Was he losing focus? Did his beautiful safecracker hear his clicks? Did she have his number? Was it a suicide mission? “Do I seem out of control to you?”
The sharp planes of her face softened. She put her hands on his arms, regarding him intensely. What was she seeing? For one mad, wild second, he thought she might kiss him.
He sure as hell wanted to kiss her.
“Let’s go,” she said, finally. “I need to get out of this stupid suit. Now that the dancing bear show is over.”
“Was that a yes?” he whispered.
She watched his eyes, looking wistful, almost, then tipped her head to the side—a shrug that didn’t quite reach her shoulder. “Yeah, that was a yes.”
“It won’t come to that.” He was being foolish. They both knew he couldn’t promise that.
The silence descended, heavy with reality.
“One more question,” she said.
He braced himself. He’d try to answer honestly. He owed her that.
She smiled, warmth flooding her eyes, flooding his heart. “Darling, can Borgola be any creepier?”
He snorted.
“The way he talks,” she whispered. “And the volleyball in the pool?”
“I know, darling.”
“Seriously. He might be one of the worst men I ever met.”
“He may very well be,” Cole said. The truth. “Come on.” He slung his arm around her neck as they headed into the place and through the living room. They turned down into the barracks wing. He kissed her hair. All part of the show.
But not.
Back in the room she showered and changed and Cole checked the trackers. Still no movement on the diamonds, but he hadn’t expected it; Borgola would be otherwise occupied for this little break.
Dinner was every bit as excruciating as cocktail hour. The girls were drunker. Hands dove back and forth into crotches on Borgola’s side of the table. Cole hoped one of the girls wouldn’t go down on Borgola while he was eating. He thought they’d be on decent behavior, but you never knew with Borgola; the man didn’t bother with rules. He didn’t have to—he was surrounded by sycophants, he had dozens of cops and officials on his payroll. Nobody dared to mess with him. Cops had gotten evidence on him from time to time, but they’d always died for it. And the evidence generally disappeared or got compromised.
But the Association would mess with him. Cole would mess with him.
Angel played along, laughing loudly, talking brightly. Seeming drunk.
She’d brought a purple dress, a gorgeous strappy thing. He’d worried it wasn’t glitzy enough for his persona’s girlfriend, but when she put it on, she was stunning. Cole the lowlife security guy would fall at her feet. Needless to say, it was an easy role for Cole the Associate to play.
She was even more beautiful when the talk turned to her interior design career. He’d assumed it was a front, but she came to life when she talked about it. It wasn’t a front; it was a passion.
She talked about how every project she did started with something of the client's: a hobby, a favorite chair, heirloom art. She talked about how design, the way she did it, was about discovery and amplification of what the homeowner cherished in their heart, their inner beauty, but blended with the architecture and the Southern California landscape. She talked about echoing the mood of the architecture of a place. Her talk made Cole see Borgola’s decor with new eyes. He’d accepted it as another classy, upscale home, but he realized now that she’d hate it.
He wondered if she dreamed of doing her interiors exclusively someday. Why wouldn’t she? Surely she had enough money from the thieving business to quit.
“And what is to be discovered here?” Borgola asked her. “What do you think about my place?”
She surveyed the room thoughtfully. “Well, you obviously had it quite lavishly designed. I think you like the finer things in life. It says you have very sensual tastes, but with your own twist.”
“I like to shake it up,” Borgola said.
“Yes, you’ll do what you want, even if it puts people off,” she said. “Because other people, that’s not who you decorate for, unless it is to challenge them.”
“Exactly.” Borgola tapped the table excitedly. “People need to punch through their boundaries more. If it’s inappropriate, then I say, good. If you want it, you should have it. Break through that barrier.”
Angel smiled.
Borgola sat back, crossed his legs. “The last charity ball I went to, I showed up in my Hawaiian shirt with two bitches on my arm. The PTB threw me out. But I say, if you ask for Borgola, you’re gonna get pure Borgola.“ He smiled at Kendra. “Isn’t that right?”
“Hah!” Kendra said.
Cole watched, amazed. A year he’d worked for the man and he’d never heard him reveal so much about himself on a personal level.
Borgola was into it. He turned again to Angel. “Would you do anything different? Add anything?”
Angel looked around. “This is pretty comprehensive. Maybe florals for spring. I would commission specifically arranged florals. Tulips being penetrated by birds of paradise. Something like that. Wired into place to echo the mood of your art.”
Cole nearly spit out his water.
“Maybe I’ll hire you to do some work,” Borgola said.
Angel said something non-committal and asked him a few questions. Borgola went on about what could only be considered his aesthetic philosophy. Cole had never seen him so…happy. It was as if Angel was making the monster feel good about himself.
He felt a hand squeezing his thigh, fingernails pushing slightly into his flesh.
Angel.
He wanted to laugh. He made a mental note to remember to tease her later about her new career as Borgola’s decorator. It would be funny; they’d get a ton of mileage out of it.
He’d worked with partners before, but never like this, pretending a relationship. He smiled at her proudly, just because he could.
It was during dessert that things started to devolve. Borgola mentioned the hot tub. Cole knew where that was going. He didn’t want to be in Borgola’s hot tub—he’d heard the stories. And he sure the hell didn�
�t want Angel in there. Luckily, it wasn’t an outright suggestion—yet. Cole toyed with Angel’s hair. “It was Angel’s birthday yesterday,” he said.
“What did you guys do?” Kendra asked.
“I was busy with my job. She’s getting her present later.” He smiled wickedly. “Come here, baby.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
She stiffened. He was making her uncomfortable.
“Come on,” he said, practically dragging her onto his lap. She sat there rigidly. She didn’t like being sexy with him in front of Borgola, in front of anyone, but he needed to set up the boundaries quick. Establish the out. “She’ll be getting something she’s been wanting very much.”
Angel’s face went red. “Honey.”
“What would that be?” Borgola asked, always one to enjoy a lady’s discomfort. It’s what Cole was counting on.
“Something she’s been hoping for. Dreaming of. And she definitely won’t be disappointed.”
Angel gave him a stern look. They’d all be thinking some sex act. He wondered what Angel thought he meant.
Play along, he thought, tightening his hand on her thigh.
“Maybe I’m not done with dessert,” Angel said.
Fuck.
He made a new decision, one she’d like even less.
“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” he said, and he hoisted her up, slung her over his shoulder.
“Hey!” she screamed, fumbling to press her skirt over her ass. “Put me down!”
When Borgola laughed he knew they were home free. “If you don’t mind, it’s birthday time,” Cole said over Angel’s protests. “Thanks for dinner. It was awesome, but I’m afraid the birthday girl can’t wait.” He turned and carried her off, through the living room, out through the porch, and down the hall into the barracks hall, with Angel swearing under her breath the whole time.
He put her down outside his door.
“What the fuck?” she said.
He clapped a hand over her mouth. “You ready for me, baby?”
She looked at him in horror.
He snaked his hand around her waist, gaze intent. He moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Cameras, remember? With sound. Make this look good.” Then he kissed her hair. He took his hand from her mouth when he felt the anger leave her.
“I want whatever you have to give me,” she said.
She was stiff, unconvincing. The camera seemed to put her off her game; Angel liked to be the observer, never the observed.
She kissed his cheek, then whispered into his ear, “You really had to carry me out like an asshole?”
He smiled. “That’s right, baby.” He slid his hand back over her hair, kissed her cheek, her ear, being gentle. The camera was several yards down the hall; it wouldn’t pick up on his gentleness. She relaxed a bit. He felt her hands travel along his back.
“It was a bit extreme, darling,” she said.
He nuzzled her neck, enjoying the feel of her. Softly, he said, “Would you rather have stripped naked and gotten into a hot tub with Borgola and two hookers? That’s where that shit was heading.”
He felt a soft huff of air as he fished in his pocket for his keys.
“I’ll take it as a no,” he said. He slid a hand down to her hips and kissed her again, harder. He told himself he was performing for the camera, but really he just wanted to kiss her, and he’d have to stop once they got inside—no more cameras, no more reason to play the boyfriend. He forgot the door then and slid his hands further down her hips, feeling his cock stiffen as he kissed her more deeply still.
She allowed it. Maybe she knew he was taking liberties, or maybe she thought they needed this show for the old man. He didn’t care. He wanted her. He was a jerk. An asshole, like she’d said.
He kissed her anyway, harder now. He nudged open the seam of her lips, thrusting in his tongue. He felt the tension leave her body as she melted closer to him. He had the sense that she wasn’t playacting now—not entirely. He put the keys back into his pocket and cupped the side of her head.
Her pulse drummed so hard he could feel it through his pinky. It turned him on like nothing else that he was doing this to her. And he loved the way she felt against him, the way she sounded. He slid his hands back and grabbed a fistful of hair.
The hair grabbing was a move for the cameras, but she let out a gusty of breath full of excited surrender, and pressed her fingers under his belt, heading down to his ass. Had she liked that?
Further down, he thought, go, go, go, baby. And then she sucked in his tongue and the startle of it shot straight to his cock and made him feel like he was half fucking her already.
He pulled her hair a little harder and she sucked his tongue harder, pressed to him harder.
She liked the hair.
“Yes,” she whispered when she let him go. “Fuck it, yes.”
He recognized the sentiment—death-sprint fucking, they called it in the Association. The urge to fuck when you were about to go into something you might not come out of. Who cares anymore fucking. A time when agents did what they’d only fantasized about. She wouldn’t know that’s what had come over her, but he knew it. He shouldn’t take advantage of it; he really shouldn’t. It’s not how he wanted her.
She moaned softly, nuzzling near his ear.
Oh, God, he wanted her.
He slid his hand over her skirt, gripping her flesh and hauling her nearer to him. She moved against him, up and down, the V of her legs creating an unbearably good pressure against his dick, and that was it; he slammed her to the wall. This wasn’t for the cameras anymore—not in any way. She felt so good. He just needed more of her. He needed her with a fury he couldn’t contain. He remembered the cameras and with one hand he fished out the keys. He got open the door and they nearly fell inside. He kicked it closed and released her, panting.
She was so gorgeous, hair half fallen out of her princess hairdo. He threw off his dinner jacket.
She backed up against the wall. “Come here.”
His pulse sped. He unbuttoned his shirt, stalking toward her like a beast of prey, vibrating with need. He stood in front of her and kissed her. She ripped the rest of his shirt open, taking some buttons out in the process.
“Okay.” He smiled through the heat. “Okay.” He walked across the room, grabbed a condom off the shelf by the bed, and yanked down the blinds.
It was then he saw the camera. Or, not the camera itself, but the lamp on the bookshelf turned in a way he hadn’t left it. There was no mistaking—it was the perfect place to hide a camera, and a classic Kaufman-the-techie place to hide a camera. Crap. How long had that thing been in there?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, running through their earlier banter. Had they mentioned the secret safe? No, it had all been relatively innocent. Some sarcasm, but nothing too bad. Anything yet? she’d asked earlier. That could’ve been about an email. The weather.
“Come here,” she said.
He pulled off his T-shirt. The microphone for in-room recording would likely be calibrated to hear the other side of phone conversations, which meant it could pick up a whisper. An alarmed expression.
So how would he let her know? And did he want to? She was cool, but she had a thing about being viewed and scrutinized. Her sudden stiffness and nervousness would be obvious. If Borgola picked up on any bit of fakery, he’d have them killed. Just like that, no question.
Borgola killed on a whim. Sometimes those whims were wrong and lost him men who were actually quite loyal, but those whims led him to kill the dangerous ones, too. Killing on a whim kept Borgola safe.
She waited, looking so goddamn gorgeous. No way would he bare her or take her in front of that slimebag.
He went to her. As long as she was against that wall, he could block her from the camera’s view. Unless there were other cameras.
She undid his belt. He let her take it off, running the equations, working the probabilities. She kissed his che
st, soft little kisses that made him feel potent and powerful, and he closed his eyes. reducing her reactions to a set of numbers when all he wanted to do was have her. So often sex was something else—a way to get secrets, a way to control, a way to get off. But with her it was desire and pleasure and the sense of being pulled by something larger. He forced himself to focus, to scan for more cameras, satisfying himself that it was likely just the one—at least in the immediate area. There could be one by the window. Even in the bathroom. Shit.
She started to undo the belt of her dress. He stilled her hands.
“What?” she asked.
“We’ll do this on my timetable,” he growled. He began to unknot her belt, looking hard into her lush brown eyes. He had to make this look like a thing. Something had to happen here. Gazing deeply into her eyes, he yanked it off her.
She looked surprised, and her soft breath sped. He loved that her body reacted to him like this.
“Hands behind your back. Wrists crossed.” This would be the thing.
“What?”
He gave her a look. She’d enjoyed the hair pulling. She’d entered Fuck it territory. He figured she’d do this.
“Wrists crossed. Behind your back.”
She did it, watching him levelly.
“Turn around. Face the wall, baby.”
Her eyes became more alive, charged up with interest. He wondered if this was a new sort of activity for her.
“Do it,” he whispered. The bound hands were practical—they prevented her from unclothing herself for the camera. She’d be mad later, but even madder if he let her get naked. Angel’s clothes were staying on until he could think what the hell to do.
She turned to face the wall.
He went to her and pressed his hand to the middle of her back, pressing her harder to the wall so her head was turned, so that she’d feel it on her nipples. He wound the belt loosely around her wrists. She could get out of it, but he didn’t think she would try. That was the game. Practical and totally hot.
He turned her back around to face him, looked her in the eye. “Now what are we going to do with you?” he whispered, conjuring back that first kiss.
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