by Tessa Bailey
Feeling Austin’s attention resting on her back, she quickly moved on, turning in a slow circle. A large table in the center of the floor, stacked with containers that looked to be fishing tackle boxes. Polly moved forward, running a finger over the nearest container and lifting an eyebrow at Austin, who stood like a statue just outside the room.
“Go on, then.” His voice was stiff. “You’ve come this far. Might as well open it.”
Just then, she wanted to turn back. Leave the room, the apartment. Forget the whole morning had ever happened. She could figure out a way to shake Austin and go back to flying solo, just like she’d always done. This…this felt too personal. Like rummaging through the contents of someone’s porn stash. It would be a sign of weakness, however, if she didn’t open the box now, and she’d already been called a coward once today. Putting some steel in her spine, Polly unhooked the plastic latch and flipped open the lid.
Tattoos—fake ones—of all sizes, colors, and description. Various country flags, Chinese symbols, barbed wire, representations of each American military branch. Naked women, sports team logos, and individual letters in a multitude of fonts.
Polly closed the box and moved on to the next one. Facial hair. Goatees, mustaches, sideburns, laid neatly in thin plastic wrapping. There was a tiny glue kit nestled alongside the packages, with a comb and mirror.
She’d seen Austin in various disguises—they worked undercover so his talent had come in handy several times. He’d posed as a loud, outspoken Texas millionaire. An IT worker with thick-rimmed glasses and a slight Slavic accent. Once he’d shown up to a squad meeting dressed as Derek, proceeding to mimic his voice and movements with eerie perfection until the real captain arrived and put the kibosh on the sideshow. Yes, she’d been well aware of Austin’s best asset—becoming someone else—but she’d never pictured the process. Never thought of him, all alone in his apartment, transforming himself in silence. The moving image rolled now, flashing like an old-time projector, until it started to bother her.
Polly shut the movie off with a quick headshake. “Who is your favorite person to be?” She gestured to the walls of identities. “Out of all these.”
His rigid demeanor remained, but she could see he’d been thrown by the question. “That’s like asking me to pick my favorite child,” he said, his humor sounding forced. “I don’t have a preference. My favorite is whoever’s currently getting the job done. Although the Russian clubber may hold a slight advantage as of last night.”
“You should probably stop bringing up last night.”
A wolfish smile spread across his too-handsome face. “You can’t prevent me from thinking about it. The way your leg felt gripping my hip, the way you tipped your ass up as I squeezed it.” He growled low in his throat. “How you kiss like you’re about to come in your panties.” His smile dropped like a shattered vase. “I’m bored with this room, sweet. The bedroom is far more exciting, I promise you. Shall we? If you get on your back for me, I’ll be whomever you wish.”
“S-stop.” Polly lassoed her runaway libido and dragged it back, kicking and screaming. God, her resolve was growing shakier by the moment. She needed to get out of there before he obliterated it. Standing in the doorway, Austin was larger than life. A sexually charged man in peak physical condition, confident in his ability to please scores of women. A man who’d asked her to control him, be the one who made the rules. What would it be like, having a man like Austin conceding to her demands?
Spectacular.
And he was right. Knowing she’d decide when and how they explored the attraction boiling over between them would make up for the pride she’d lose in accepting help from a con. She suspected it wasn’t easy for Austin, either, watching her snoop around in his secret room, going through the private tools of his trade. But he wanted her enough that he’d made the difficult concession. Whatever conflict had always been between them, his actions were what spoke loudest at that very moment. Please don’t let me regret this.
Before she could stop herself, Polly spoke, allowing words she’d never spoken aloud to tumble free. “That man from the bar…I know him as Charles Reitman.” Austin had gone still, didn’t even appear to be breathing, and she pushed on before the silence could unnerve her. “My fathers adopted me when I was seven. When no one wanted me, Kevin and Drake took me in. They gave me a bedroom. Yellow walls with fluffy white curtains. We were happy.” She lifted a hand to her throat, rubbing to relieve the stiffness. “They had a clothing design business they were taking to the next level. They had been content before me, but they wanted to give their new daughter more. Me. They thought I needed more. But Reitman vamoosed with their life savings, leaving them with nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
She went on as if Austin hadn’t issued her his first-ever apology. “Kevin…he was the stronger one. Or we thought he was. He was the one who tried to make the motel room look like home. The one who made a game out of ordering from the ninety-nine-cent menu. We thought he was handling the loss. He was the one who kept insisting our family would come back better and stronger.”
Austin took a step in her direction, his brow furrowed. “Polly—”
“And then one day, Kevin left us. By his own hand.” She released a slow, shaky breath. “I’ve been supporting Drake with what I do…or did, rather. He still lives just outside Fort Wayne, in Roanoke. He set my room up again, exactly as it was with the white curtains, waiting for me to come visit. But I can’t go back. Not until I can hand him what Reitman took away and tell him Kevin didn’t die in vain.”
Silence stretched for a full minute before Austin spoke. “You have my word that we’ll see this accomplished.”
By fair means or foul was the subtext to his statement, but having gone into the mission touting the same motto, it didn’t dissuade her. “What is the word of a con man worth?”
“I wouldn’t know.” His response was automatic. “I’ve never given mine.”
Oddly, Polly believed him. Not that she would ever admit it out loud. Something about the way he’d hung on her story, as if absorbing every detail. The fact that he’d allowed her into this room full of damning evidence in the first place. She realized they’d been having a staring contest, when he finally broke eye contact to rake her head to toe with a heated look. Ah right, this is about more than a simple mission. So much more.
Austin reached up and gripped the door’s frame in his hands, stretching his all-too-enticing, muscular body for her inspection. “When shall I come to you, Polly?”
His smooth, aged-whiskey tone filtered into her stomach like blue fog. In his current position, his hands appeared bound above his head. A pulse began to drum between Polly’s legs, repeating in her head like a loud refrain. Was he doing it on purpose? Yes. He knew. A corner of his mouth lifted lazily, telling her so.
“Come to me?” she asked in a daze, partially repeating his question.
He licked his bottom lip, back and forth. “Was that an order, sweet?”
“No,” she all but wheezed. Lord have mercy. What would she do if his hands really were shackled above his head? Suck him off, a devilish voice whispered at the back of her head. Unzip his jeans, stroke him, take him to the brink with her mouth and stop, only to do it again. And again. Until his words stopped making sense. “Tonight.”
Oh. Okay. So she’d said that out loud.
“Very well.” Austin’s hands fell from the doorframe. “You text me where and when.” He flexed his fingers, making them crack. “It will be your show to run. I only have one mandate.”
“Which is?”
The teasing had bled from his expression, leaving only starvation. “Your orgasms belong to me. Whatever torture your cunning little mind has planned, it won’t involve me being deprived of milking come from your body. Whether it be my fingers, mouth, or cock that accomplishes your pleasure, it will be me.” His look was meaningful, but her senses were reeling too dramatically to interpret the actual meaning. “If you
take that honor away from me, it will become my goddamn show. Are we quite clear?”
“Yes,” Polly choked out, too turned on to address his arrogance. It alarmed her that he could turn her inside out with some well-delivered lines. Slipping. She was slipping. Acting on impulse, she turned to the garment rack and snatched up the plastic-covered business suit. “But you’ll wear this.”
“I see.” His countenance turned to stone. “Shall I have an accent, too?”
“I-I don’t know,” she managed, sucking in breaths between words. He was so magnetic, preying on her desire one minute, her sympathies the next. Needing to get some breathing room, she moved past Austin out of the room. She ran two steps in the wrong direction, reversed and headed for the front entrance, feeling as though she were trapped in a maze while drunk on absinthe. Down the building’s stairs and onto the street she went, hating herself for counting the hours until night fell, even as anticipation shrouded her in a consuming, pulsating, red fog.
Chapter Eight
Austin didn’t really do “guy time.” Sure, he’d been to numerous poker nights, always walking away the winner—especially when operating in a group as the shill, his easy wins thus giving the other players a false sense of security. The notion of “hanging out” made little sense to him. What was to be accomplished by sitting in a group, talking nonsense? The odd time he’d gone out for beers with the squad, he’d mostly gone to observe Polly and make sure single men within the establishment who glanced in her direction were quickly made to believe Austin was her boyfriend. Not that she’d been aware of his threatening glares at countless Coors Light–chugging wankers in Cubs hats. As if they could keep up with her.
No, shooting the breeze wasn’t exactly in his repertoire. Today, unfortunately, he’d been in need of a distraction from the upcoming “date” with Polly and the relentless worry that she would cancel. A text had come in from Connor inviting him to watch a baseball game at the local cop bar they all got a laugh out of frequenting, since the undercover squad hated cops and the cops hated them right back. The captain’s influence and reputation kept the officers’ mouths shut, which riled them up even more. Truly, it was a thing of rare beauty.
Connor had never invited him anywhere before, and his grudging tone had come through clear as crystal in the text message, leading Austin to believe he’d been nudged a bit by Erin. No doubt the minx was feeling guilty over selling him out to Polly, and he intended to increase her guilt by bestowing the promised gun on her, anyway. She’d never be able to turn down something with such firepower, and it always paid to have someone feel beholden to him. Perhaps it would come in handy on a rainy day.
The ex-SEAL probably didn’t expect him to show up at the bar, which would be packed full of off-duty officers on a Saturday afternoon. Why would he when Austin’s relationship with every male member of the squad was contentious? Excellent question. But damn it all, he was desperate for a distraction today. If that distraction came in the form of talking nonsense with a couple of former Brooklynites, so be it. He’d endured far worse company, not that he would tell Bowen or Connor that. At the very least, he’d make the afternoon interesting.
Austin waltzed into the bar, saluting the closest group of officers. “Hullo, boys. Your wives send their regards.”
One member of the group lunged in Austin’s direction, but drew up short when one of his mates issued a reminder of Captain Derek Tyler’s wrath. Austin felt a shot of disappointment. A good row might have provided just the type of distraction he was seeking.
“Jesus Christ, Shaw.” Bowen Driscol’s voice prodded him from the right. He tugged on his haphazard mess of hair, the likes of which gave Austin nightmares. “Still have your coat on and already breaking balls, huh? Let me finish my drink and I’ll join you.”
It was moments like this Austin loathed because they made him feel…part of something. A member of a team. He and Bowen might hold a patent dislike of each other, but if the choice was between Austin and a group of police officers, Bowen would throw his lot in with Austin every time. He refused to acknowledge the suspicion that he’d goaded the officers for that very reason. To feel some sense of camaraderie on a day where he felt raw, frayed at the edges over Polly. Over what he knew now about her association with Charles, how she’d suffered at his ex-partner’s hands. And God, he hated the guilt that came along with not disclosing his association with Charles on the heels of her being so beautifully honest. It made him feel ten kinds the bastard, but he needed this chance with Polly. Wouldn’t breathe properly until he got it. His guilt had increased tenfold since her confession, and it needed an outlet. Polly was the outlet—he knew it in his gut. How she would choose to utilize the power he’d handed over remained to be seen. The anticipation ticked in his stomach like a clock.
Remembering his current situation, Austin eyed the mottled-faced member of the Chicago PD. “Pass. They hardly seem like a challenge, do they?”
“Don’t feel bad, man,” Bowen said, addressing the other man. “There’s not much I’d consider a challenge.”
The man pointed a shaking finger at each of them. “Stay on your side of the bar. I don’t give a fuck who you are.”
“Why, Driscol.” Austin laid a hand on his chest. “He’s a rhyming poet.”
Connor came up between both of them. “Problem here?”
“Nah.” Bowen turned his back on the group of officers, an outright slight he clearly enjoyed delivering. “Who’s up next on the dartboard?”
“You are,” Connor answered.
Bowen nodded. “Come on, Shaw. I’ll practice my technique on your face.”
And just like that, they were back to enemies. Thank God.
Austin ordered a pint of Boddingtons from the indifferent bartender before following Bowen and Connor to the dartboard toward the rear of the establishment. He leaned back against the far wall, giving himself the best view of the entrance. It didn’t escape his notice that Connor did the same thing. Bowen, being the reckless one of the group, might as well have had a middle finger embroidered on the back of his leather jacket, facing it toward the door.
Austin sipped his ale, watching as Bowen threw a handful of darts. “A free afternoon, eh? What are the womenfolk getting up to without their bodyguards in tow?”
Connor sent him an annoyed look, shifting against the wall. “My mother took Erin and Sera shopping,” he grumbled. “Something about a boot sale.”
“You two would still rather be shopping than watching your beloved baseball. Wouldn’t you?” Neither of the men answered, drawing a chuckle from Austin. For the first time, the two lovesick fools didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Wouldn’t he rather be in disguise, watching Polly’s back? Christ, yes. “They’ll probably come home with those tidy packs of men’s briefs for you. Maybe some argyle socks…a sweater with room for your guts to expand. God help you both, you’ve been domesticated.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Bowen said, taking a slug of his Budweiser. “Sera knows better than to bring home underwear for me, though. I like to make it as easy as possible for my wife to jump me, so I don’t usually bother with them anymore.”
“Jesus,” Connor muttered. “We’re clearly spending too much time together.”
“Amen to that,” Austin said, contradicting the fact that he was actually sort of enjoying himself, too much information notwithstanding. He opened his mouth to needle Bowen further, but a hush fell over the bar, distracting him. All three men turned their attention toward the entrance where their newest squad member, Henrik Vance, had just walked into a sea of stony disapproval.
“No heartwarming reunions today, apparently,” Austin observed. Henrik’s ex-coworkers had obviously lumped him in with their band of convicts, likely thinking he should be in jail instead of on the Chicago PD payroll. To Henrik’s credit, he didn’t look the least bit concerned by the death glares being sent his way from every corner of the cop-filled bar. His smile was unconcerned as he swaggered toward the dart sect
ion, hands in his trench coat pockets. When Henrik reached them, Austin arched an eyebrow. “Right. It would appear, by your lack of fuck-giving, that you might be more suitable for the dark side.”
Henrik put his back up against the wall, his stance that of a man who wanted to be prepared for anything. “Both sides are the dark side, man.”
“Truer words…” Not for the first time, Austin pondered what the ex-cop had done to have his badge stripped. Now was the perfect opportunity to find out. Remaining in the dark about someone who worked closely with Polly was so far outside his wheelhouse, he could hardly glimpse it. Anyway, it had been far too long since he’d shown off. “What would you say, Henrik, if I told you I could have that group of cops buying us all drinks within ten minutes?”
“I’d say, great, I’m thirsty. But I want to know the catch up front.”
Austin split a look between Connor and Bowen. “I don’t detest him. Is that crazy? Tell me if I’m being crazy.”
Both former Brooklynites shrugged.
“Simpletons, the pair of you.” Austin straightened the collar of his shirt. “Fortunately, the same thing can be said about these particular cops. The Hoboken Bottle Cap bet should do quite nicely and it won’t take much time.”
Connor set his beer down with a clunk. “The Hoboken what?”
“Watch and learn, my not-so-eager pupils. This is your chance to observe a master at work. Or play, as it were.” Austin scooped a bottle cap off a nearby table. “All I ask is that you don’t dummy up the mark.”
Henrik scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I was led to believe the entire squad was fluent in English. What’re you speaking?”
Austin strove to maintain his patience. “When you dummy up the mark, you tell a man—with or without words—that he’s about to be taken. You won’t be doing him any favors acting the hero, trust me. Humans detest the truth tellers over liars every day of the week. It’s proven in every election.”
