Undercover Lover

by Tibby Armstrong

  She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. “Well, it was dark, and we had to get a flashlight.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A smashed lighting fixture. The table overturned. Flowers and water on the floor.”

  “How did you get that cut on your hand?”

  Pink cheeks turned a ruddy red. “I tried to pick up the broken glass.”

  Not giving her time to react, he leaned forward and claimed her hand. Contact with her bare skin nearly drove him to his knees—clouded his common sense with a need to be near her, no matter the reason. No matter the ruse.

  Their eyes met, held, as he tugged her hand toward his lips with a gentle, unyielding grip. Flipping it palm up, he watched as the black of her pupils swallowed the gold-flecked brown—knew without a doubt she was aroused when her breath quickened to little gasps. All from a brush of his lips against the soft skin at her wrist.

  God, she was so responsive. So willing. He wanted to taste her—to take her—this little liar with her parted lips and pounding pulse. Resisting her pull, he curled her fingers inward to examine the bruises and scrapes marring her knuckles. A sweep of his thumb across the marks had her moistening her mouth in invitation.

  He leaned in.

  She sagged toward him.

  With sensuality that didn’t need to be forced, he whispered against candy lips, “Liar.”

  Her mouth formed a little “o” as she snatched her hand away. If he’d slapped her, she couldn’t have been more surprised. Humiliation colored her cheeks and guilt rode him like a jockey with a crop. He bit down on an urge to apologize.

  He expected denial. He expected tears. What he didn’t expect was for her to deflate before his eyes and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  Anger twisted through his midsection. He’d so wanted to be wrong.

  Gaze fixed on the window behind him she began her story. “I punched in the code to the alarm system and then closed the door. I pressed the elevator button—”

  “Wait.” He paused, seeking mental traction. “When was this?”

  “Earlier in the evening. Before the Wilsons.”

  He tilted his head to the side as she recanted and reframed her story. “And where were you going?”

  “I told you—” She jumped when he slammed his hand against the table.

  He leaned in. “Where. Were. You. Going.”

  She swallowed. “I—”

  “Where were you going?” he shouted in her face.

  She startled and gave a little scream. “Dance class!”

  Her answer rocked him back on his heels, making him forget he was in the middle of an interrogation. “What?”

  She groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Don’t make me say it again.”

  What the hell was wrong with a dance class? Wrong enough to lie to the authorities? “I don’t take kindly to your wasting my time.”

  “I’m not lying.” Her voice was plaintive, reminding him more of a child about to be grounded than a fully grown woman caught up in a dangerous, or at the very least illegal, situation. He needed to find answers before the trail went cold, and he obviously wasn’t going to get them from her.

  Making his decision based more on frayed temper than logic, he hauled her to her feet. She twisted out of his grasp in a defensive maneuver that showed him exactly how the mess in the elevator foyer had been created—she’d actually fought the guy off and won. That had been Jenny on the surveillance tape.

  He stared at her, stunned he hadn’t made the obvious connection. He expected her to shout at him. What he didn’t count on was the sweep to his knees that sent him flailing backward.

  Never leave an enemy standing while you’re on the ground.

  Reflexively, he grabbed at her wrist and brought her with him as he fell. His head hit the carpet with a solid thunk and she landed on top of him with a whoosh of breath. The scent of roses overwhelmed him. Later, he couldn’t have said if it was self defense or libidinous need that made him roll her to her back and drag her wrists above her head.

  She bucked against him and her soft curves had blood rushing from his brain to his cock with dizzying speed. She bit his arm and he hissed against the pain even as he stayed an impulse to grind himself against her hip. With a growl, he bent to capture her lips and saw stars as she head-butted him.

  With a practiced motion, he flipped her to her stomach and held her wrists together at the small of her back. “Behave!”

  Probably he should be thankful she’d found a way to douse his ardor. At the moment, however, he was too pissed off with himself for letting things get so far out of hand to show his gratitude. The harshness of their breathing mingled with the electronic hum permeating the room as he paused to gather his wits.

  “Get off me.”

  The grit in her voice had his cock twitching in his trousers again and he closed his eyes. Unfortunately, he knew exactly which avenues he could explore without her. To do that, however, he needed her out of his and harm’s way. If nothing else, he had to distance himself from her. There was no such thing as logic around Jenny Ainsley.

  Not trusting her to stay put if he left her unattended, he hauled her to her feet by her wrists and marched her like a prisoner to the back bedroom. She was still cursing both him and his parentage when, without a backward glance, he left her locked in the bedroom-come-holding cell he and David had designed.

  Chapter Four

  “Let me out!” Jenny punctuated her words with a kick to sturdy mahogany. Over the past two hours she’d beaten her fists black and blue against the door despite their already battered state. With as little impact as her blows had, she’d swear the wood covered a steel core.

  Her throat felt shredded, and she had a new bruise on her knee from where it had connected with the floor when Neanderthal man had pulled her down on top of him. What the fuck was his problem anyway?

  Rubbing her hand, she turned her back to the door and slid to the floor where she drew her knees up to her chest. She rested her head on her knees and tried not to cry. Why hadn’t she just told him the whole truth? What had gotten into her? He would have protected the family’s confidentiality—that was his job.

  Since David had come back into her life she’d told more lies in six months than she’d told her entire life. Part of it was to secure his privacy—and hers—and part of it was so she could keep her distance from the mayhem that was her brother’s existence. She’d gone too far, she knew, when she’d lied to the cops.

  When the man attacked her in the elevator foyer, she’d kicked his ass and sent him packing. Thinking he’d been a garden-variety rapist had been bad enough despite her victory. Now that she knew David’s flat was bugged, it seemed she’d been in a lot more danger than she’d thought. She groaned and banged her forehead against her knees.

  “Ouch.” The action hurt both her sore knee and her head. Served her right.

  The Wilsons had come to the door to see if she was all right after they’d stepped off the elevator and seen the mess. She’d already changed from her flirty dance costume to street clothes and hadn’t seen a reason to worry them further, so she’d told them she hadn’t heard a thing—had been getting ready to go out for the evening when they’d stopped by. Little did she know they’d called the cops.

  She groaned again.

  Then the feds had shown up. They were probably going to arrest her for lying. Could they do that? Would they? When she’d found herself lying to Agent Gray she felt as if she were standing outside her own body and the words were tumbling from someone else’s mouth. Was it shock that had made her do it…? Did it really matter?

  Günter.

  He knew she was lying. She had to come clean with him—had thought it was enough to tell him she was going to dance class and then relate the details of the fight. That was before he’d locked her in the bedroom. Before she’d realized he didn’t believe her because lying about a regular old dance class was a stupid thing to do. Nobody would hide somethin
g like that. Even alone, the idea of telling him the whole truth made a blush creep up her neck to warm her face.

  The worst thing about this whole mess? Besides the way he’d looked at her when he’d heard her half truth was the notion that the last shred of her independence was about to be taken away from her. Aw hell. Who was she fooling? She was already a prisoner to her brother’s fame.

  Self-pity stoked her into a renewed bout of tears until she forced a calming breath into her nose and out through her mouth. Günter had to come back for her soon. When he did she’d give him a piece of her mind for locking her in here. Then she’d apologize for lying and tell him the entire truth.

  * * * * *

  Club Olympus was not a place Günter particularly wanted to attempt to get into on a Saturday evening. The person he needed to question, however, would only be found—and accessible—at one of Manhattan’s trendiest night clubs on such short notice.

  Rather than wait in the long line to get past the velvet ropes he flashed David’s card at the door attendant. The suited man raised one eyebrow and Günter shook his hand, passing a hundred dollar bill to complete the deal. A clink accompanied the unfastening of the rope. On his way in the door Günter spied another member of the security crew and did a double take.

  “Mark?” he asked, recognizing the man from a detail he’d overseen for a client a few months back.

  After a long pause the hired muscle nodded.

  “Weber inside?” Günter asked.

  The man shrugged.

  Günter narrowed his gaze and dug in his pocket for more cash. It’d be a cold day in hell before he hired this sideshow freak again.

  Mark, looking bored, palmed the money. “He’s with Lila Trent at a table in back.”

  Günter wished he’d stayed in bed and never answered Tallis’ phone call. He’d always hated clubs—had been eternally grateful Tallis never seemed to want to frequent them—and didn’t feel any more optimistic about tonight’s experience as he pushed his way through the crowd. The thumpa-thumpa of the dance music and swarm of bodies set his hyper vigilance on overdrive, making his fingers twitch toward his gun with every bump and jostle.

  The entry, lined with mirrors, interspersed with greenery and twinkling lights, suffused the atmosphere with a magical charm he couldn’t appreciate. By the light of day the club looked like a modernized speakeasy. When the strobes weren’t pulsing, burled wood, gilded metalwork and golden light washed the large rooms with a warm glow. At present, however, the party was in full swing with wall-to-wall people, fog machine vapors and flashing lights.

  More than one celebrity hailed him with a fist-bump as he parted the throng with his substantial shoulders. This was one of those times when it paid to have physical presence and a certain amount of notoriety. He never came to clubs. That he came to this one, on this night, when Brent Weber was in attendance was bound to cause a certain amount of talk.

  Tipped off by a leggy model, the golden boy himself looked up from his table, his eyes searching for and finding Günter as he circumvented the dance floor. Trapped, Weber flashed an overly bright smile and waved. Günter clenched his fists at his sides as he closed in on the table.

  “What brings you out of your lair, Gun?” Weber shouted over the din, his expression conveying a friendly intimacy Günter knew neither of them felt.

  He’d known Weber for years as Tallis’ manager and friend before Weber’s almost-criminal actions against Tallis’ girlfriend had left him without a job, but with a very big grudge. Whether that grudge was the reason Günter’d come here tonight remained to be seen.

  “I’m on the hunt,” Günter answered, telling a partial truth to lower Weber’s guard.

  “Join us.” Weber waved one manicured hand in a magnanimous gesture. Günter glanced at his companion and he took the hint. “Lila, this is Günter Faust. Best security man in the biz.”

  Günter frowned at the compliment. Lila, the barely legal pop star, pouted up at him. He shoved down the urge to roll his eyes and instead bent down to place the requisite air kiss to her cheek.

  “Patrón?” Weber waggled an empty shot glass. “Or perhaps something a little more fun?”

  The man had an amazing amount of gall, pretending to be his friend after the shit he’d pulled. Still, the fun he’d suggested might be of interest, so Günter pretended to play along.

  “What have you got in mind?”

  A knowing grin accompanied Weber’s reply. “Bengal. Fresh out of the best lab in three boroughs.”

  “Sorry. On the job. Can’t get that fucked up,” Günter said with false regret. “Who’s your supplier?”

  He felt Lila Trent’s interest stir, but kept his eyes firmly on Weber, whose smile turned smug.

  “Got a couple of bills? I can have someone get in touch.”

  Gritting his teeth, Günter tossed a bundle of cash Weber’s way.

  “Thanks. I have a question and then I’ll be gone.” The effort it took to keep a civil tongue in his head just might kill him, but there was no use burning the bridge until he’d crossed it.

  Weber tucked the money in his jacket. “Shoot.”

  “Now there’s a thought,” Gun muttered before asking, “Did you hire a thug to accost Tallis’ sister? Drop some B on her doorstep?”

  Genuine surprise flickered across Weber’s face, marring his forehead with lines that would have had him running for the nearest Botox clinic had he known. The frown lines were quickly overshadowed, however, by the dollar signs in his eyes. Without a doubt he intended to sell the story to the press, and Günter would have kicked himself if he didn’t know the news had already hit the gossip columns on the internet.

  “No,” Weber drawled slowly, “but I wish I had. God that’s sweet. Tallis’ sister, a junkie. No wonder you need the name of my supplier.”

  Günter had meant to play it cool. Meant to keep the contact open. So it was a surprise to them both when he clutched starched shirt fabric in his fists and hauled Weber from his seat so his toes brushed air.

  “I should’ve capped your arse a long time ago, you sheep-shagging bastard.”

  Camera flashes popped, asynchronous amidst the dance floor strobes.

  Eyes narrowed, Weber stared down at Günter’s fingers and said with no little false bravado, “Threaten me, you threaten the White Tiger.”

  A sickening sense of déjà vu fogged Günter’s brain as his past and present collided. He drew back a fist.

  “I know about Dublin,” Weber blurted.

  Günter’s world upended. Time suspended until a hand rested heavily on his shoulder and he knew it was the bouncer. He dropped Weber on his ass and spun away.

  Casting a derisive glance, he said, “Do yourself a favor and keep an eye on this piece of rubbish.”

  Like I should have done.

  If Günter had been worth his salt he’d have caught Weber at his dangerous games long ago. Instead it had taken Tallis’ girlfriend and a scandal that had made the tabloids a bundle of cash. Until Kyra Martin had blown David’s identity with her authorized exposé about his childhood under witness protection, things had been relatively smooth. Günter’d thought there wasn’t much outside his control, and he’d gotten cocky. Complacent.

  More than a little disgusted with himself, he walked out of the club and hailed a cab. White flakes swirled past the window, refracting the neon lights as the car sped uptown. The clock in Times Square told him it was one in the morning. He’d wasted the remainder of the evening and was no better off than when he’d left Jenny locked in that bedroom. Somehow he had to cajole her into telling him the truth. What if she really was a junkie?

  No. No way. With everything he knew about Jenny—after how long he’d kept watch over her for Tallis—he’d have known if she had a drug problem. True, he hadn’t kept tabs on her in several months, but still. Nobody developed a habit that fast without exhibiting warning signs. Did they?

  He breathed in stale air from the cab and cracked the window in a
bid to lessen his tension. The entire situation had him on edge—being close to Jenny, the lack of leads. Without a doubt, someone with inside knowledge had a hand in this. If what Weber had just leaked was true, there was a very good possibility that someone was from the exact circles he feared.

  The White Tiger. Christ.

  And how had Weber found out about Dublin? That information was so classified MI-5 had actually threatened to have him discredited then erased if he so much as breathed a word about his part in the cock-up.

  He was still mulling over the sordid variations and possibilities on how this situation could get worse when he walked back into the security flat forty-five minutes later.

  “All quiet?” he asked Simon Jakes, his second-in-command, as he tossed his leather car coat on the sofa.

  Simon looked up from reading a biography of Genghis Khan, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, scholarly exterior camouflaging a superb fighter and tactician. “She stopped sending your family to hell about an hour ago.”

  “So soon?” Günter took water from the fridge, thinking she might appreciate something cold.

  “You’ve got a live one in there.”

  Günter’s laugh was wry. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Someone shot and killed Brent Weber about thirty minutes ago.”

  Plastic ridges wedged into Günter’s palm and the water bottle exploded. Neither man seemed to notice. “Come again?”

  “Brent Weber. He was killed leaving Olympus—a shot from a moving car. It came across the feed.” The look Simon leveled over the top of his book asked the unspoken question.

  “No, I didn’t kill him.” Green eyes lightened, but Simon’s relief was short-lived when Günter clarified, “But they’re going to assume I did.”

  * * * * *

  A gentle rocking motion brought Jenny bobbing to the surface of sleep. She’d been dreaming she was a World War II code breaker, pounding away at German missives in a disjointed reality full of air raid sirens and blond double agents.

  “Wake up.”