“Sorry, didn't mean to rush…” His golden gaze slid down her body and turned to chocolate with desire. “Holy. Hell.”
Zoe forced a smile. But it was difficult. He looked just as delicious in black slacks and a silky-warm brown button-down that mirrored the color of his eyes. She wanted to wind her arms around his neck and slide her body up against his. But no… Better to stop the forward motion between them now than try to pick up the pieces from the inevitable crash when they derailed.
“You look sharp.” She tugged on a button of his shirt. “I'm ready.”
His gaze slowly rose, caressing her body along the way. “You certainly are.”
A loud metallic tap sounded on the store's front door. Taft's gaze jumped to Zoe's and held. That would be Cantos, signaling them for departure to the club. Zoe was ready to get this over with. Done. Behind her.
A small smile tipped one side of Taft's mouth. “Okay.”
The single word was a response to what Taft had read in her eyes. Their ability to speak to each other this way after only a few days made it feel like they'd known each other a lot longer. Like they fit together, two puzzle pieces.
But if Zoe let it, their intimacy could lull her into a false sense of security, and she'd find herself several months into a relationship with a man who could put her right back into that cage and close the door if she let him.
Or she could find herself in a relationship with a man who cared so deeply for her, she would feel more loved and appreciated and understood than ever before in her life.
Shit. This was what she'd been doing for the last twelve hours. She didn't know which way was up anymore.
His hands came up and cradled her head. Zoe focused and realized she'd zoned.
“Is your head straight, baby?”
She pressed her lips together, met his eyes, and nodded.
“Can you pretend you like me?”
She laughed. “I do like you.”
“Then kiss me,” Taft said and lowered his mouth to hers.
Her stomach tightened, but she kissed him back. Loved the taste of him. Told herself to let go and take a chance.
He's the best thing you've found in years.
The tap came again. Louder.
Taft pulled back with a smile. “I think he's trying to break the glass.”
Zoe turned off the store lights and followed Taft to the door, where he was making arrangements to meet Cantos at the club they'd agreed on. Zoe had been the one to make the deal directly with Picasso-no private homes or clubs. She told him she wanted to feel safe. Wanted neutral territory. They would spend some time together and decide how they wanted to proceed then. If Picasso decided he wanted sex with Zoe, she would consider it. And if they had sex, it would be in private-she wasn't doing public sex with Picasso.
Leaving everything open and flowing gave them all the more to work with and made Zoe and Taft look more authentic. Which ultimately bettered the chances of getting Picasso into a private room or space at the club, where members of a waiting team could grab him.
Unfortunately, as with all undercover, everything could change with the shift of a whim or a mood.
They drove in separate vehicles, with Cantos and Picasso taking different routes with lame excuses Taft and Zoe didn't question, knowing they were evading tails.
Taft remained quiet as he drove for the first few minutes. He seemed alert but not overly tense, and Zoe sank into the comfort and security of his presence. It was a good feeling. Secure. There was nothing wrong with that. It didn't make her less effective. Didn't make her weak.
Did it?
She forced her mind back to the club-its floor plan and exits.
“Have you ever been to a club like this?” she asked, a little afraid of the answer.
“A sex club? No.” He cast a side glance at her, then returned his eyes to the road. “You didn't sleep through the research on this, right?”
She smirked. “No, though I wouldn't have minded.”
“Made those sex toys look pretty tame, huh?”
She laughed. “Seriously.”
They fell quiet again, and to keep her mind from wandering, Zoe filled the time by running scenarios in her head.
Taft pulled into the lot at Secrets and helped Zoe from the cab, then slipped on a black blazer that matched his slacks and would hide the weapon that agents inside the club would pass off to him.
She, on the other hand, had no weapon, no identification, and no wires. She wouldn't be able to hide anything in this dress, including her own body. But the way Taft's eyes burned every time he looked at her was worth the self-conscious nerves.
His arm wound possessively around her waist as the others parked and got out of their vehicles. Cantos, Vasquez, and the three mountainous bodyguards glanced around the parking lot, but Picasso came straight to Zoe. She numbed herself.
He took both her hands, lifted them to his mouth, and kept his gaze on hers as he kissed her fingers. When he straightened, he held her arms wide and surveyed her body like a sculptor would survey a piece.
“Stunning, Brooks.” He turned his gaze on Taft. “Mind if I have some time alone with Brooks? I'd like to get a feel for whether or not we'd like to have some time later.”
Zoe wanted to look at Taft. She wanted to meet his eyes for that brief moment of reassurance the connection would bring her, but she knew he would see it as weakness and deliberately avoided glancing toward him.
Taft's hand released her waist, and Zoe's stomach pinched. Then his arm fell away from the small of her back, and she buzzed with the first wings of panic. Taft stepped back, relinquishing her without a word. His familiar musky scent faded, replaced by Picasso's much sharper citrus cologne. A sense of loss swamped Zoe as Picasso pulled her smoothly in beside him. Replacing the fading warmth of Taft's arm with his own, Picasso led Zoe toward the club entrance.
PICASSO’S QUICK POSSESSION OF ZOE had Taft's alarm flags at full mast. He wondered if this was all a ruse. If Picasso had never planned on watching sex between Taft and Zoe and had always planned on simply seducing Zoe into being alone with him.
Of course Taft hated that idea, but he had to admit that Zoe had been right last night. Every undercover had to be a first-time undercover sometime.
Taft slid his hands into his pockets so he could fist them as he watched Zoe walk away with another man. Taft's internal landscape warped and twisted in a way he couldn't describe.
Cantos walked up beside Taft, slapped a hand to his shoulder, and leaned into him like a buddy would. “My friend,” he said, his voice low, “I think you will need a few extra drinks tonight, no?”
The answer was yes, but Taft couldn't drink, so no. At least not alcoholic drinks. The agent posing as a bartender would make sure of that. As he would make sure Zoe's drinks were also nonalcoholic and clear of drugs.
Taft started forward with the rest of them. Cantos's hand fell away from his shoulder, but he stayed beside Taft.
“We men are twisted, eh?” Cantos said. “I could not let my woman go like this.”
He gestured to Picasso and Zoe ahead of them, where the man held her tight to his side, like he owned her. Which Taft supposed he thought he did.
“But, if I had Picasso's money, I too would wish to buy some of Brooks's time, even though I know she's yours. Only”-he laughed low-“I wouldn't just watch. You think you might share her again after this?”
Oh Christ. He knew where this was going. “Don't know. Why?”
“Maybe we do a trade, 'ey. Fumar sells fine merchandise, beyond tobacco, if you know what I mean.”
Taft met Cantos's gaze and nodded. “I'm interested. Let's see how this goes.”
“All right, brother.” Cantos laughed, excited by the prospect.
“Is that where Picasso gets his money? Sales?”
“No. He's in architecture and engineering. He gets bonuses when projects are built on time and on budget.”
They passed through Secrets' front doors withou
t issue. Picasso led Zoe to the bar while Taft took inventory. Agents. Exits. Layout. Customers. Activities. His adrenaline had spiked; he felt it in the fine buzz burning through his body. Taft had spent a fair amount of time at regular clubs. He used to enjoy the trolling, the chat, the foreplay, the no-strings sex with someone he'd met the same night. Then the freedom afterward. No demands. No commitment. Just home free to find someone different the next week. Or day. Or hour if that was what he wanted.
But for the first time, he didn't want anyone but Zoe.
Only Zoe wasn't on board with being wanted. Not 100 percent. She didn't want Taft caring or worrying or interfering. She didn't want Taft's help. That was clear. And why should that bother him? Independent was good. The neediness was what made him crazy.
The contradictions in his own head were driving him insane. He diverted his attention to the club.
Secrets was upscale with low lighting, plush seating, and jewel tones as an overall theme though there were various areas decorated for a variety of tastes. Customers were high class, all ages. In this front area, Secrets looked like a typical club-everyone was dressed, there was music, a dance floor, a bar. Farther back…not so much.
His glanced over at the bar again. Zoe's stool was empty. Taft started scanning the millisecond her absence registered, and by the time the burn of panic had caught up, he'd already located her on the dance floor with Picasso.
When Taft glanced around for the others, he found the three bodyguards spread out in a triangular pattern with Zoe and Picasso at the center, Cantos and Vasquez carousing. He didn't worry about them. There was one agent assigned to each player, and a team outside surrounding the building and guarding the exits. No one would be leaving unnoticed.
“Walker.”
The voice pulled Taft's head around. Alex and Aurora, the agents who'd been at the store for the pole-dancing demo the night before, stood beside him, arm in arm.
Aurora leaned in and hugged Taft as if they knew each other. He pulled a Glock nine and a baggy of other equipment from her purse before releasing her.
“Did you get the women's restroom stocked?” Taft asked.
“Good to go,” Aurora said and wrapped her arm in Alex's before wandering off.
With a sense of control trickling in, Taft pressed his hands against the railing to watch Zoe.
Her dress was deep gold, the fabric soft and shimmery. A sequenced design embellished the straps and bodice, fading into the skirt. The fabric hugged every curve of her body. The deep neckline exposed every inch of Zoe's lickable cleavage, clearly delineating the bare, inner curves of her plump breasts. The fabric made one twist at the waist, creating soft ripples over the bodice and down the barely there skirt. Sparkling four-inch heels strapped around her ankles, completing the perfect clubbing outfit. If Taft hadn't known her and walked into a club where she'd been, he'd have homed in and spent all night trying to score.
She was, quite simply, hot shit, and Taft was never even tempted to let his gaze stray to the other beautiful women in the club.
The song ended, and Picasso took Zoe's hand, leading her back to the bar. Taft moved that direction, and when she caught sight of him, the tension in her eyes faded. A smile of relief turned her mouth.
And Taft's heart folded.
He sat at a table nearby until Picasso gestured for him to come over.
Taft couldn't tear his eyes from Zoe's as he approached.
“Take Brooks for a spin, Walker.” Picasso gestured to the dance floor. “Warm her up. Then we'll head toward the back.”
Toward the back meant the first phase of interaction. Foreplay. Touching. Kissing. Lap dances. Picasso had a private room reserved for sex. One with a pole installed. One the team would raid once they were there, secured, and either Zoe or Taft had placed the tracker.
Taft held out his hand to Zoe and walked her to the dance floor. Selena Gomez's sexy voice spilled over them with innuendos about open invitations and addictions.
Taft pulled Zoe into his arms and up against his body. She moaned softly, and Taft buried his face in her neck, opened his mouth over her skin, and sucked. Her hands closed around the strands of his hair, and a sound of longing came from her throat. She pressed her hips into him, rubbing his erection.
“Zoe,” he growled.
“You feel so good. I hate being touched by someone else.”
His belly caught fire and his chest tightened. He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes while moving her toward a dark corner of the busy dance floor. The music created an upbeat, sexy background Taft would have liked swirling around them while he did other things with Zoe. While he tasted her and touched her and pleasured her until she cried out the way she had the night before.
Selena kept repeating “come and get it”, and, unable to stay away, Taft lowered his mouth to Zoe's, just a gentle touch. But she was hungry. And he couldn't resist her. He accepted her tongue, tasted her back, suckled her ripe lower lip, then her upper.
She backed him against the wall and stroked his erection through his slacks. Shock blasted through him along with a searing dose of lust. Holy shit, that was hot.
But-wrong place, wrong time, wrong company.
He grabbed her wrist. “Zoe.”
He pulled his head up to escape her mouth and scanned the area. Picasso was there, standing on the edge of the shadows, his gaze steady on them.
“I'm sorry,” she said, staring at his chest, rubbing her forehead. “I…shouldn't have done that.”
He was glad she had. It gave him hope.
“Picasso's watching,” Taft said.
“He says he likes our chemistry. We remind him of him and his wife.”
“Has he told you want he wants? I can't get a read on him, and I don't want you alone with him.”
“We've been over this…” She dropped her hand against his chest. “Taft, I didn't mean to give you mixed messages. I just got caught up-”
No, they weren't going back to this. His fingers tightened around her wrist, and she gasped. “That hurts.”
“Was Cody competent?”
She drew a breath. Hurt dulled some of the heat in her eyes. “Of course he was. What-?”
“Looking back, if there was a way to do things differently, a way you could have helped him, would you have done it?”
“You know I would have. His death didn't have anything to do with his competence.”
“Exactly.” He held her jaw and willed her to understand. “Me wanting to help you isn't any different.”
ZOE’S HEART CRACKED OPEN, but fear kept her from falling completely head over heels for Taft.
She knew all about words. She'd had plenty of experience with people saying one thing when they'd believed another. The way her father would swear he loved her just the way she was, then try to mold her into something different. Brent's assurances of how much he cared for her, only to betray her in the worst way. The tens of thousands of immigrants who crossed the border with lies designed to hook Zoe's sympathy.
Words were easy.
She twisted her wrist, and he finally loosened his fingers. “No, he hasn't said.”
The song transitioned into something faster. Taft searched her eyes with so much emotion, she couldn't begin to read it all.
“Stick with me, Zoe,” he whispered. “We'll make this work.” He took her hand and led her toward the bar.
Zoe didn't know if he meant their relationship or the operation. But she could only focus on one when she reached Picasso again. He was speaking with one of the bodyguards and turned away just as she and Taft reached them. The guard stepped away but stayed close.
Picasso ignored Taft completely. His gaze never left Zoe's face as he reached out for her hand. “I'd like to go to the room now, señorita.”
She forced a smile, but something about the way he didn't acknowledge Taft gnawed in her gut. “Of course. I'd like to stop at the restroom on our way.”
He nodded.
Zoe didn't have
to look at Taft to know he was tense as well. She could feel it rolling off him in waves. With Picasso's arm tight at her lower back, they proceeded through the club, one bodyguard ahead, Taft behind, and two other bodyguards following.
Taft was right. Zoe wasn't feeling good about this either. She glanced over her shoulder and met Taft's eyes. Didn't like the uneasiness there.
They passed along the edge of another area of the club where couples or threesomes had found their own space and were busily exploring each other, everyone in various states of undress. No privacy existed. The arrangements consisted of single padded chairs and vinyl benches in one open room. The moans, groans, cries, and screams seemed to cling to her as they continued past. She searched for the restroom at the base of the spiral staircase and excused herself. When she found the bathroom empty, Zoe took a moment.
She pressed her hands flat against the cool counter and took several slow, steady breaths, trying to calm her mind. “I can do this.”
The small toiletry bag was taped on the underside of the third toilet tank lid, as promised, complete with weapon, zip ties, cell phone, tracker, and pen-size stun gun. Her hands were shaking when she strapped the weapon high on her inner thigh with the Velcro provided, tucked the tracker into the waistband of her panties, and stuffed everything else in her tiny purse.
She flushed the toilet to make some noise, then washed and dried her hands.
When she came out, a tense silence hung over the five men. One look at Taft and Zoe's nerves strung tight again. Picasso seemed on edge as well, but he smiled and slid his arm around her as he had all night and led her toward the circular stairway.
On the second floor, they were far more isolated. While the noise from downstairs thumped through the floor and walls, no one roamed, including the other agents.
“Here we are,” Picasso said.
He leaned forward and opened the door, letting it swing wide. The room beyond was lavish and modern with a large bed and a Jacuzzi tub in the corner. Zoe swallowed and reminded herself she wasn't really going to have sex with this man.
“Brooks, cariño.” The way he spoke to her there in the hallway instead of going into the room set off warning bells. “I'd like to have a little bit of time alone with you.”
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