Risking It All for Her Boss: A Heroes for Hire novel (Entangled Ignite)

by Sharron McClellan

  He seemed much too pleased, and she gave him her best glare.

  Chuckling, he reached into the bag, pulled out a pair of stilettos, and tossed them to her.

  She caught one, and the other landed on the bed behind her. Black with a three-inch heel and peep-toe. Cheap but acceptable. “I’d accuse you of hookering me up, but that would require a six-inch heel,” she said, dropping the shoe next to its mate.

  “Not hooker. Appropriate for the mission,” he said, all jest gone as Agent Quinn made another appearance. “Unless you know how to gamble, we’ll need every advantage we can get tonight. Which means, while I try not to lose, you need to distract the other players.”

  “Do you know how to play poker?” she asked. If he wasn’t any good, they’d end up broke and tossed on their asses before they could uncover any useful information.

  “Winner of the Sandbox Poker Tour,” he said, grinning. “There were only thirty of us who played on a regular basis, but some were damned good. And it was a good way to occupy the downtime.”

  The Sandbox—he must have been in the Middle East. She realized he rarely mentioned his military training and wished she’d asked more questions when she’d had the chance.

  “Perfect. You do that, and I’ll pump them for information,” she finished, wincing at the choice if words as soon as she uttered them.

  “I’ll leave the pumping in your capable hands.” he said, chuckling.

  “Ass,” she replied, but there was no animosity behind the words. She tossed the dress at him. He batted it, sending it back. She stepped aside and let it land on the bed next to the shoes. “Anything else in the bag? I can’t wear that dress in daylight unless you plan on pimping me out.”

  “So disappointing.” But he pulled out a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with “I Heart D.C.” splashed across the chest. Eva breathed a sigh of relief.

  “How about you?” She sat on the bed, using the corner of the bedspread to cover her legs as the towel rode up. His jeans were discolored with the ground-in dirt, but he hadn’t done CPR so his shirt lacked the blood and sweat she’d sported.

  He upended the bag and another pair of jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a navy blue, long-sleeved shirt fell onto the sheets.

  “What? No spandex? Perhaps a banana hammock?”

  A dark brow rose. “I doubt it’s that kind of place.”

  “You never know,” she shot back.

  He shook his head. “If it is, I’ll wear the dress, and you can have the shirt.”

  She laughed, and he chuckled in return, but the familiar sound caught her off guard. “I miss this easiness,” she said, and then she snapped her mouth shut, cutting off the laughter.

  He did the same, seconds behind her. They stared at each other, the silence widening the gulf between them. She mentally kicked herself for letting the words out. She knew better.

  They were on a mission. Intimacy, even the memory of it, would only get them into trouble.

  He ran a hand through his hair, making the dirty strands stand up on end. “I’m going to take a shower. Why don’t you order us some food? We have time to kill before tonight.”

  Hanging the clothes in the closet, he slammed the bathroom door, and she let herself fall backward onto the bed.

  This was going to be harder than she thought.

  Chapter Eight

  Eva stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. The dress had appeared short when she’d held it against her torso, but now that she’d slipped it over her head, it verged on obscene.

  “If I drop something, I’m in trouble,” she muttered, tugging at the hemline. The spandex in the jersey snapped back upward and high on her thighs. “Great.”

  Her air-dried hair was a mass of frizzy waves. She ran her hands over it but only succeeded it making it worse. Finally, she mixed a bit of conditioner with water in her palm and smoothed it over the wayward curls.

  Better, she observed herself in the mirror, but not great. It was unfortunate that she didn’t have makeup. “Like a fresh-faced hooker.”

  “What did you say?” Quinn stuck his head in through the half-open door.

  “Hooker. I said I look like a hooker.”

  “Fresh-faced hooker.”

  “So you did hear.”

  “I wanted to hear it again.”

  “Jerk.”

  She sauntered out of the bathroom. Quinn was already dressed. Jeans. The black shirt and his black loafers. The shadow of beard on his jaw added to the outlaw appearance.

  Unexpected heat flushed through her.

  “What do you think?” he asked, turning in a slow circle.

  Her mouth went dry. “It’ll have to do,” she said, not anxious to admit that he looked handsome. And hot. If it were anyone else, she’d pull his clothes off and show him exactly how he made her feel. “Remember, I’m the eye candy.”

  “You are at that,” he said, scrubbing his jaw with his hand.

  Her skin tingled at the compliment, but she waved it off with a flip of her hand. “It’s the dress.”

  “It’s the woman in the dress,” he admitted.

  The butterflies in her stomach beat their wings harder. What was he doing? Whatever it was, she should tell him to stop. That wanting her, wanting them, would only making working together more difficult. But God help her, it made her tingle all the way to her toes to hear him say it. To know that some part of him still wanted her as more than an agent or a woman he was compelled to rescue.

  To know he missed her...as much as she missed him.

  Still, she needed to stop it. “Thanks.”

  “De nada.”

  Goose bumps prickled her skin, making her shiver, and she rubbed her arms, trying to drive them away. When she raised her head to meet his gaze, his eye were dark.

  She knew that look. Could remember the exact moment she first saw it. They’d been sparring, or rather, he’d been kicking her ass. He’d had her pinned to the mat, and his face had been inches from hers when the need to win had changed into desire.

  It had been another three weeks before they’d acted on the growing attraction between them.

  And a year before he ended it.

  The goose bumps faded, and she realized that something had changed in her. For once, the trip down memory lane didn’t bring forth the familiar anger. In its place, she found sorrow at what could have been.

  Maybe she’d turned a corner. She hoped it would last.

  She offered Quinn a sad smile. “Please don’t.”

  He jerked away, desire shuttered in a blink of his eyes. “We should make a plan,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Right.” She shook the sadness away, grabbed the black stilettos, and slipped them on. “Buy drinks. Ingratiate ourselves. Win money. Then tell them that we’re looking for Nast and see what happens.”

  “Simple and to the point.”

  “Those are the best plans,” she said. “You taught me that.”

  “I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten all my lessons.”

  She remembered everything he’d ever said. The good and the bad.

  Even things he didn’t know about. Like how he sat with her when she was in the hospital. His hand gripping hers as he whispered for her to stay strong. How he questioned everything the doctors said and did.

  And he’d cried. She’d never seen that before, but she’d been so doped up that she couldn’t move to assure him she was all right.

  She hadn’t felt that kind of love since she lost her parents.

  Which made his rejection when she woke up all the more painful.

  Yes, she remembered everything, and she reminded herself it was best to dwell on how he’d abandoned her.

  “Some of it stuck.”

  “Some?” And when he faced her again, there was no trace of desire or even embarrassment.

  Again, she wished she’d learned that lesson. But even if she hadn’t, she knew she could fake it. And perhaps if she faked it long enough, maybe it would b
ecome truth.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “Enough to get by.”

  “Care to put that to the test?” He offered her his arm with an exaggerated flourish, and she wound hers through his, letting him escort her out into the warm night and through the neighborhood the locals called the U Street Corridor. Linked, they strolled down the street, working their way to the Marble Room but taking a longer route in case they were followed. The sidewalk was thick with an array of people ranging from locals on pub crawls to tourists snapping pictures of the night life.

  “See anyone?” Quinn asked.

  “No, but it’s going to be hard to tell with this crowd.”

  “I’m guessing they haven’t found us.”

  “Yet,” she replied.

  She continued to scan the street while they dodged drunks. A group of young, intoxicated twenty-somethings stumbled their way down the sidewalk. She followed them with her eyes. It must be nice to be young and have your biggest problem be who’s going to pay for the next round. She’d never been that carefree. At least not since her parents had been killed.

  But she had purpose.

  Which was much better than a night out drinking. She glanced backward in time to see the group lurch into the next bar down the avenue. Definitely a pub crawl.

  Quinn leaned in. “Did you see someone?” His breath caressed her check. Slowly, she inhaled, taking in the scent of soap and sweat. A turn of her head, and her lips would brush his. Tempting, but they were no longer lovers, no matter how much her body seemed to want otherwise. “No. Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “Care to share?”

  A part of her wished she could, but sharing intimacies was what connected people, and right now, she needed to keep her emotional distance. Anything less, and she’d end up in bed with him. “Nothing important,” she replied. “Getting into character. Our names might be known if Nast was a talker.”

  “Who do you want to be?” he asked.

  One of the pub-crawl kids. “Paz Espinola. Young. Hip. But no street smarts. She thinks she has them, but she doesn’t. Not really.”

  “Dumb?”

  She raised a brow. “Innocent,” she replied.

  “In that dress?”

  “Okay. Maybe not that innocent.”

  He slid his arm out from hers and wrapped it around her waist, pulling her close as they walked.

  Delving into the character, she pushed away and gave him a playful slap on the arm. “You presume a lot.” She gave him a once-over. “How about you? Any thoughts as to a name?”

  “Dave.”

  “How about a last name?”

  “Just Dave. I’m a loner that way.”

  She grinned. “Walking on the wild side and being the badass with your one name?”

  “That’s me. And we’re here,” he said. The Marble Room was written in script above the door. Eva peered in the window. A man sat at the bar, eating a plate of fried who-knew-what and yelling at the television between bites. Sports paraphernalia covered the walls, most of it having to do with football. Cliché, but it seemed clean enough. She’d been expecting something with dim lighting and perhaps a few steps down to enter.

  A single bartender worked the room. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as difficult as she’d imagined.

  But when had that ever happened?

  “Ready?” Quinn asked.

  “Born that way,” she said, entering the room with a swing of her hips. In the time it took the bartender to glance their way, he dismissed Quinn and zeroed in on Eva.

  She slid on to a bar stool and flashed her best “come hither” smile. The one that said she’d do anything given enough alcohol. “Murphy’s” she said, and seconds later, a dark stout was in front of her. Waiting for the foamy head to dissipate, she used the mirror that covered the wall behind the bar to watch the room. Behind them, a door opened, and a dejected young man walked out. The door slammed shut behind him but not before she caught a glimpse of the inside.

  A group of men sitting around a table. Cards in hand.

  This was the place. She almost did a dance. This was her favorite part. The beginning of the con when nothing had gone wrong and anything was possible.

  Quinn sat next to her, but she focused her attention on the bartender. He was their ticket into the game.

  “What can I get you?” he asked Quinn.

  “He’ll have a gin and tonic,” Eva quipped.

  Quinn’s face screwed into a frown. “I will not have a gin. A Murphy’s is fine.”

  Eva giggled, and he glared at her. She knew he hated gin. Whoever had decided to make an alcohol from juniper berries must have been desperate.

  The bartender filled another mug and placed it on the wooden bar. “Anything else?”

  But his eyes were on Eva.

  She dipped her finger into the remaining foam and licked it off with the tip of her tongue, making sure to keep eye contact with the bartender. “What’s your name?”

  “Bruce.”

  She leaned in toward him. “My friend and I were told this was a fun place.”

  He met her halfway, closing the space between them. “It can be.”

  He wished. She stroked the top of his hand. “Perhaps. But we were hoping for something else. For now. Dave here is a bit of a card player and wants to have some fun. Can you hook us up?”

  The bartender’s gaze shifted from Eva to Quinn and back again. He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissed them, but then walked way.

  Dammit. Too much. Too soon.

  She didn’t miss Quinn’s almost inaudible sigh of exasperation.

  “Someone lied,” Bruce said. “The closest casino is in Maryland. I could call you a cab if you want.”

  If he wanted to play it that way, she’d have to play along. Pouting, she crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up. “Why are you being difficult?”

  Bruce’s blue eyes flickered down to her exaggerated cleavage and remained here. “I’m not, pretty girl.”

  His hungry gaze made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to smile harder and to keep her arms in place.

  “Where did you hear about this alleged card game?” he asked.

  “A friend,” Quinn replied. “Maybe you know him. Last name Nast?”

  “Willy?”

  She nodded. “He told us all about it. That the stakes were interesting.”

  “Willy likes to joke.” Bruce said, arranging glasses. “We serve beer here. Some food. That’s it.” He placed a paper menu on the bar in front of Quinn.

  Another patron entered, but his dark suit, tie, and expensive leather briefcase screamed businessman, not sports fanatic. Still, sports fanatics came in all shapes, sizes, and income brackets.

  Bruce pointed at Eva. “You stay right there, pretty girl.” And he walked to the opposite end of the bar.

  Dammit. Was she losing her knack at seduction?

  She thought back to some of the earlier lessons with Quinn. She’d thought men were complicated, and while some were, she’d soon learned that many were more primal. She didn’t have to be an expert at seduction. All she had to do was speak in the right voice, touch them, and make sure they knew she was available.

  Easy peasy, as her roomie, Holly, liked to say.

  Or she’d thought it was until Bruce had turned down her request.

  There was still one way to find out. She swiveled toward Quinn, placing her feet on the footrest beneath his seat so her legs were between his knees. “What do you think?” she asked, her voice low.

  His gaze was on her legs, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

  She leaned inwards, splaying her fingers on his thighs for balance. “Do you think the guy that just walked in could be involved?”

  His gaze rose, lingered on her cleavage, and then met her own eyes.

  His pupils were large as he took her in. “Possibly,” he said.

  She still had it. Good.

  Satisfied with herself, she stretched her arms overhead,
her dress riding high enough to show the border of her panties.

  “Stop it,” Quinn said.

  “Stop what?” she asked, though she knew exactly what he was asking.

  “You know what,” he said. He didn’t look pleased. His eyes were still dark with desire, but his mouth was grim. “Save it.”

  She laughed—at the opposite end of the bar, Bruce cast her a quick glance and then went back to his customer—but she let her arms drop to her lap. It had been a while since she’d flexed this particular gift, and it felt good. Powerful.

  But he was right. Best to leave it for the operation.

  “Sure,” she replied, turning her attention back to Bruce.

  “Sam Adams,” the suit said. But he didn’t sit down. Instead, he fidgeted, shuffling from foot to foot. And in the mirror, she noticed his attention fixed on the door behind them. Obviously a player, but how was he going to get in? Did he know the secret?

  She kicked Quinn with her foot.

  “I see.” He swiveled in the chair and slid a hand to the back of her neck, catching her hair in his fingers as he pulled her too him. He caressed her leg with his free hand, each stroke bringing him closer to the hem of her dress.

  “Can you keep eyes on him?” he whispered in her ear.

  Heat followed his touch, and she gulped air. “Yeah. Got him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” Though the only thing she was sure of was that Quinn hadn’t forgotten what she liked.

  “Now stay that way.” He nuzzled her neck. “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

  It was. But she kept her attention focused on the customer and Bruce. Now that the suit had his beer, he seemed even antsier.

  Quinn snaked his hand around her waist. She fought the urge to close her eyes and sink into the tingling that sparked where his fingertip slid down to the small of her back.

  Focus, Eva. Focus.

  The player held his hand out, showing Bruce something. It wasn’t money, since the bartender didn’t take it. She caught a flash of black. Glass maybe? Whatever it was, the player slipped it back into his pocket, and the moment was gone.

  Bruce reached under the bar. The door in the wall opened.

  …

  She should have brought a jacket. And the jeans. Eva stomped her feet and shivered in the cool night as she stood with Quinn across the street from the Marble Room. They’d spent the better part of the evening nursing beers and killing time, waiting for the pub to close so Eva could catch one of the gamblers alone, seduce him into coming back to the hotel, and steal the black thing in the privacy of their room.