“Mmm.” She glanced at Toni, who sipped her coffee as if she didn’t have every molecule directed at their conversation. “Which hotel?”
“The Sheraton.”
“Good choice. They have a view of the river, you know. It’s—”
“Are you planning to surprise me and show up in my room—” he paused, his grin blooming with devilish enthusiasm, his voice lowering “—naked, perhaps?”
Startled, she raised her head.
He leaned forward, pressing a light kiss on her jaw, sending heat soaring through her veins. “As much as I would enjoy it, you would, no doubt, shock the accounts manager I’m rooming with right out of his Jockey shorts.”
She fought desperately against his allure—the spicy, male smell of him, his warm breath against her skin—reminding herself he’d never roomed with anyone before. A very smooth and flattering response to keep her from showing up unexpectedly at his hotel? She never would have considered interrupting his business meetings before today. Before he’d lied.
Her head ached from the unanswered questions, but she swallowed her fear and anger for the moment. She needed time to figure out what to do, how to confront him.
“I promise not to stay more than two nights,” he continued, “and I’ll have my cell phone if you need me.” His hand slid up her leg, encountering bare flesh at the edge of her thigh-high hose. “God, do you know how sexy these things are?” He whispered. “How am I going to concentrate on stock portfolios now?”
With his clever fingers dancing their way to her crotch, Roxanne drew a deep breath. Damp heat flooded her panties. The tip of his finger brushed the satin, and she squirmed on the seat, wondering how she could discreetly press his hand harder against her. Four nights without him, and she was panting. It was crazy. It was exhilarating.
The pleasure he always brought her was so intense, so powerful, she couldn’t doubt his feelings for her, his love for her. Though he rarely said the words out loud. And the concentration and attention he lavished on her had led to security, to trust. Until now. Until doubt and fear and suspicion had reared their ugly heads.
“This is a great chance for a girls’ night out. Right, Rox?”
Toni’s cheerful but tight voice broke through Roxanne’s sexual fantasy. Caught somewhere between wanting, fulfillment, and disappointment at her own needs, she yanked her navy jacket straight and prayed Gage would find that coolness of his, so as not to betray what was actually going on beneath the linen tablecloth.
She need not have worried.
Gage glided his hand from between her thighs to the small of her back. “I’m glad you’ll have Toni to distract you.”
“Oh, yeah. We can always troll the bars in the Quarter,” Toni said sharply.
Gage’s silver eyes flashed with humor. He grinned as his gaze slid from Toni to Roxanne. “Just remember who you belong to, babe,” he said lightly.
I remember. Do you? She searched his face for signs of insincerity, for slyness or an outright lie. She saw nothing but warmth and hunger. Directed at her. Gage had that power. He made her feel as if no other woman existed. No man had ever given her that, even her father. Maybe she was addicted to that feeling. Maybe that feeling had led her to believe she was in love. But how could she love a man she didn’t really know?
She forced a smile to her lips. “You, of course.”
“I need to get going.” Gage slid one hand around Roxanne’s neck and drew her close. “Think of me.”
He pressed his lips briefly to hers, glided out of the booth, then left.
Roxanne sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She wanted him to wrap her in his strong arms almost as much as she wanted to strangle the man.
“So,” Toni began, peeking slyly over her coffee cup. “You want to meet me at the shop at three?”
“Definitely.”
GAGE DABON STRODE into the Bayou Palace’s lobby bar. Checking his Rolex, he sat on a stool and ordered Jack Daniel’s—Black Label. He retrieved a sterling-silver case from inside his jacket pocket and, lighting a cigarette, settled back with his drink to wait.
Image was everything in his business, as he’d learned a thousand times over. Image and guts. They kept the deal together. They kept you alive.
As he discreetly scanned the lobby for his quarry, he tried to force his thoughts away from Roxanne. But regret fought its way in.
He hated lying to her, hated it more every day, and the deception made him all the more conscious of how long he’d been at the game and how easy leaving would be. But he couldn’t let her discover the truth yet—for her own safety and his. He didn’t think she would appreciate the irony of her being engaged to the one kind of man she always said she could never live with—a cop.
Not just any beat cop, either. A Secret Service undercover agent for the United States Treasury Department.
He smiled grimly. No, he’d lose her. And that was unacceptable.
It had begun with an addiction to their favorite restaurant, and now, was he addicted to her as well? Her smile, her touch?
The fact that he’d actually proposed should tell him he’d lost his mind as well as his edge. A wife and a family made you vulnerable, prevented your heart from turning to steel, forced you think about going too far. But he desperately wanted that life with Roxanne.
Her sweetness and purity were like a balm to a man who’d lived among, then tracked and captured, the worst of society for nearly ten years. She made him feel clean when he was so damn tired of being dirty.
Every day he thought more about retiring. Every time he had to leave her. Every time he had to lie. If he could get through this case…
He shook aside the thought and swallowed another sip of liquor, the drink burning down his throat. He frankly hated the stuff, but the image required it. He had to focus on now. Today. This moment. For now, their engagement bound her to him. He’d find a way to explain things to her soon.
Finally, he spotted his target. And the ridiculous idiocy of criminals struck him anew. The kid—turning twenty-two next month—was a brilliant computer engineer. MIT graduate. Affluent upbringing. All-American good looks—though he really should get to know Calvin Klein and ditch the pocket protector.
Our young “hero” could have his pick of jobs, own a nice house in the suburbs, but instead Clark Mettles had decided to use his varied talents to counterfeit United States currency.
Ah, youth.
Gage shook his head in disgust, even as he raised his index finger to signal the kid.
Briefcase in hand, Mettles made a beeline for the bar stool next to Gage.
“M-Mr. Angelini?”
Sighing inwardly at the tremble in the kid’s voice, Gage tapped the bar. “Drink?”
“Uh—” his gaze darted to Gage’s glass “—whatever you’re having.”
Great. Now the kid would cough all through the meeting.
Gage gave the bartender the order, knowing his cover—Italian-mob-type Gage Angelini—would never talk a fellow criminal into a light beer.
With his dark coloring, it was easy to slip from his native French Creole, to Italian, Black Irish or Hispanic. Different clothes, accents, hairpieces, colored contacts, and presto, a spy is born.
“I brought samples,” Mettles said, reaching into his briefcase.
“Not here,” Gage said through his teeth.
The documents disappeared into the case.
Though Gage would have been thrilled to get the counterfeit plates and sample bills, hand over the payment and slap on the cuffs, he knew the kid was just a middleman. Mettles didn’t put a deal this slick together.
Gage wanted the kid’s boss—Joseph Stephano, if the undercover research was accurate. The Treasury Department had been after him for fifteen years, the FBI even longer.
The bartender delivered the drink, and Mettles threw back a healthy gulp, then gasped and coughed for a full minute before choking out, “Water.”
Gage ordered water and another drink for himse
lf. It was going to be a long afternoon.
2
“IS MY WIG CROOKED?”
As she unlatched her seat belt, Roxanne eyed Toni’s sleek, shoulder-length white-blond hair. Her best friend looked like a cross between the part they planned to play—rich tourists on the make—and a jaded rock star.
Maybe it was the star-shaped crystal glued next to her right eye that sent the disguise over the top.
Roxanne tugged a lock on one side. “It looks great.”
Toni angled her head as she stared at herself in the mirror on the car’s visor. “I like the shade,” she said, fluffing her bangs. “Maybe I’ll go lighter with my color next time at the salon.”
“It flatters you.” Turning the rearview mirror, Roxanne examined her own disguise one last time. She should have known Toni would get carried away with this incognito business.
Her own father wouldn’t know her.
A nearly waist-length, ringlet-curled black wig covered her shoulder-length, dark red hair. She wore heavy pancake makeup; smoky eye shadow and black liner rimmed her eyes, which colored contacts had changed from golden-brown to green. Tanning cream and bronzing powder had turned her pale skin a dusky gold. Dark red lipstick gave her lips a sexy pout, and the body-hugging black pantsuit made her curves—enhanced with these weird, gel-like pads in her bra—obvious for anyone to see.
She felt ridiculous.
“I think we should have gone the other way and dressed as cleaning staff,” she told Toni.
“No way am I wearing those horrible orthopedic shoes.”
“We look obvious.”
Toni grinned as she applied bright pink lipstick. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“As long as we don’t get caught.”
Toni dropped the lipstick in her bag. “Chill. The hotels are crawling with tourists. We’ll blend right in.”
“I can’t believe he lied—again.” Roxanne glanced again at Gage’s Mercedes, parked just one row over.
After spending most of the afternoon on their disguises, they’d driven to the Sheraton and scoped the parking decks for Gage’s car. Without success. So, as her heart pounded and her headache worsened, they’d driven around the other hotels’ lots. On the third one, they’d found their quarry. At the Bayou Palace.
“Maybe the meeting’s at the Palace, and he’s staying at the Sheraton,” she said.
Toni rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s not reaching. And why would he move the car? The hotels are practically across the street from each other.”
“I’m just looking for a way I might have misunderstood.”
Toni laid her hand on her shoulder. Her eyes softened. “You’re in denial.”
Roxanne sighed. “Thanks for being here. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“We could just have my cousin tow the car and dump it in Lake Pontchartrain.”
Though the visual aspects of that plan appealed to her—as well as the idea of turning Gage into a Greta—she discovered she had some of the Lewis resolve after all. “No. I have to see this through.”
Toni smiled weakly. “Just think of the adventure we’ll have. We haven’t gone incognito since we snuck into fraternity parties in college.”
“And found your boyfriend snuggling up to a Chi O.”
Toni winced. “Right.”
The image of Gage and a svelte blonde—not unlike her friend’s current look—darted through her mind. She could picture him nuzzling her neck—God, he was a great nuzzler—and whispering naughty suggestions in her ear as she tossed back her head and laughed.
“Hey. Stop thinking about it,” Toni said as if she’d read her thoughts. “I’ve got two gallons of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia stashed in the freezer just in case.”
For a moment, Roxanne managed to forget her heartache. “Cherries? I’m gonna need chocolate.”
“You’re allergic.”
“A few coughs aren’t going to stop me tonight.”
“Fine.” Toni shimmied her shoulders. “Until then…let’s party.” She stepped from the car and tugged her trim pink suit into place, her gold bracelets jangling. “Okay, Foxy Roxy, lead on.”
Roxanne ground to a halt. “Damn. We need fake names.”
Toni clapped her hands. “Great. I get to be Brandy.”
“That sounds like a stripper.”
Toni sniffed. “I like it.”
“What about me?”
Toni eyed her up and down. “Something exotic, Mediterranean. Marina?”
“Fine.”
They wound through the parking garage before getting on an elevator. Roxanne’s heart hammered in her chest like a freight train. What would she do if she saw him? What if she found him sitting in the bar draped around another woman? Would she break into tears and run? Slap his face?
Maybe there was a logical explanation for deceiving her. Maybe he’d just gotten the hotels confused. Possible, but depressingly unlikely. Gage was way too careful.
The walk from the parking deck to the lobby seemed to take an eternity, but finally they pushed through the revolving glass door. They walked out, Toni swinging her hips so hard a bellhop tripped into his luggage cart.
Roxanne poked her in the side. “Will you stop? We’re supposed to be incognito.”
“We’re hiding in plain sight.”
“This is a mistake,” Roxanne said, her stomach suddenly bottoming out.
Toni grabbed her arm and tugged her toward a table of house phones. “You’ll hate me tomorrow if I let you back down.” She picked up the receiver and handed it to Roxanne. “Besides, it’s kind of exciting.”
“What do I do with this?”
“Ask the operator to ring Gage’s room, of course.”
“May I help you?” a voice said through the phone.
“Gage Dabon’s room, please.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no listing under that name.”
“What about First National Bank?”
“No, ma’am.”
Great. She could feel anger and dread stir deep inside. His car was here, but no room in his name? Maybe the room was registered in his roommate’s name. Damn. She should have questioned Gage further.
“I don’t suppose you have a John Smith?” Roxanne asked dryly.
“Seventy-two of them.”
“Of course. Thanks anyway.” Roxanne hung up. “Strike one.”
Toni smiled and looked around the opulent, bustling lobby. “Good.”
“Good?”
She pulled Roxanne by the wrist. “Now we can troll the bars.”
“The next time you get an idea this stupid, remind me to talk you out of it.”
Toni laughed, dragging her into the bustling lobby bar. Happy hour was in full swing, without a vacant seat in sight. As they craned their necks and wound through the tables, a pair of young businessmen gallantly gave up their stools at the bar. The men bought them drinks—a Long Island iced tea for Toni and a glass of white wine for Roxanne—and while Toni carried the small talk, Roxanne looked for Gage.
She flinched as each dark-haired man turned around. She strained for the sound of his voice. And frantic explanations scrolled through her mind. The parking deck at the Sheraton was full, so Gage had parked here. The meeting location had changed at the last minute. Gage was meeting a client here, then going to the Sheraton later.
But as much as she wanted to believe these excuses, her sense of practicality doubted it, and her imagination kicked into high gear. Hadn’t Gage been distant lately? Distracted? When he’d visited New York two weeks ago, had he really been here? And this week, had he gone to Chicago and come back early? Had he gone at all?
Could he really be cheating on her?
Though she’d never once considered him dishonest, she’d always sensed a dangerous, dark side in Gage. Ironically—given her vow to steer clear of cops—she wondered if that quality had attracted her.
After thirty minutes with no sign of Gage, and with nervous panic fluttering in her belly,
she nudged Toni. “Let’s go.”
Toni batted her lashes in Jr. Executive #1’s direction. “In a minute.”
She stood and nudged Toni hard enough that her drink sloshed to the rim.
“Oh, right.” Toni downed one last slug of tea. How the girl drank that stuff and still walked—especially on high-heeled slingbacks—Roxanne had no idea. “Gotta cruise, guys,” she said to the suits as she slid off her stool. “Maybe we’ll catch you later in the Quarter.”
Roxanne nudged her friend. “Let’s go, Brandy.”
Toni’s eyes narrowed briefly, then she led the way out of the bar and across the lobby. From a bellhop, they learned there was a quiet piano bar on the twenty-sixth floor, so they headed up.
“I could get into this undercover work,” Toni said, inspecting her face in a compact.
Roxanne watched the elevator numbers light in sequence. “We’ll sign you up for P.I. school ASAP.”
The doors opened, and Toni strode out, Roxanne hot on her heels. The maître d’ stand was positioned at the bar’s entrance.
How did one go about these things? Following someone, tracking them down, confronting them? She swallowed hard. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to her siblings and father when they’d yammered on about their cases?
Tamping down her nerves and regrets, she watched Toni smoothly tell the tuxedo-clad maître d’ that she and her companion would prefer to sit in the back. He escorted them across the room to a small table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, affording them an incredible view of the Mississippi River. Nauseous, Roxanne couldn’t appreciate the sight.
A waiter in black pants, white tuxedo shirt and black vest took their orders—Diet Coke for Roxanne and another Long Island iced tea for Toni—and Roxanne decided she would definitely drive home. She fiddled with the drink-special menu, then the gold-rimmed, crystal ashtray, while taking surreptitious glances around the room. It wasn’t until the smiling young waiter set her Coke in front of her, then met her gaze directly, frank male appreciation reflected in his eyes, that she remembered her disguise. She was Marina—exotic Mediterranean beauty. The description was so far from the usual her—quiet, ordinary Roxanne—she nearly giggled.
Private Lies Page 2