No Good Truth (Bad To Be Good, Book 2)

by Dana Volney

  “Nice digs.” Samson was behind her but not close. She didn’t have to turn around to know that.

  “You haven’t been here before?” She kept the surprise in her tone; she’d be doing that a lot going forward. It was a good thing she was a damn good con-woman and had learned how to bury her feelings in an instant a long time ago. Because right now she had an irrational anger boiling because Samson couldn’t tell when she was lying. She needed a stiff fucking drink.

  “Nope.”

  She spun to face him and crossed her arms to emulate him. “That seems a shame.” She stepped closer. “You’re here now.” She stopped in front of him, her arm grazing his. God, she was a bad person. It’s all for the right reasons.

  “I should go.” He didn’t move.

  Judgment stood front and center in his gaze. He was assessing her every move, trying to decide what was really going on. So maybe he knew her better than she’d thought.

  “I was hoping you’d stick around.” She reached out and placed her palm on his cheek, rubbing her thumb gently over his stubble.

  His gaze dropped to the floor. And her hopes with it. She needed his buy-in. Maybe coming back to her apartment wasn’t a good idea. This was a big lie she was selling—for it to work, she was going to need proximity to him on her side. She pulled her hand back and left the closet.

  “It’s not so bad. You’ll get your memory back.” He followed her down the hall and to the other side of the apartment, past a half wall into the kitchen with black marble countertops and cupboards with glass doors that displayed red dishes.

  “Okay, then. I’m going to take off,” Samson said. “I’ll stop by in the morning to check in. I think you should take it easy though.”

  “No.” She shook her head to emphasize her point.

  “Fine, come into the office and get reacquainted with what we do, but you should stay out of the field for now.”

  “I must have a vehicle, right?” She didn’t care about the fucking office. She cared about Grace and all the other women in the hands of the SL-40s.

  “Um, yeah. It’s probably down in the garage.” He stopped at the door. “Why?”

  “I can’t stay here. I recognize some of these things…” She trailed off to stop a sob from escaping. “I’m not the person who lives here.”

  “Ya, you are.” His forehead wrinkled. “This is you. This is all you.”

  “Not today.” She grabbed her bag from the floor. “Not right now.”

  “Whoa.” He held up a hand to stop her. “The doctor said you need to be in a familiar environment to help your condition.”

  “Condition? What?” All of a sudden he wanted a place in her life, wanted to be the one who could make decisions with her like where she should and shouldn’t be? “I’m not fucking diseased or pregnant.”

  “Do you even remember Arlington?” He searched her gaze.

  “Real funny.” This was going to get old. She wasn’t some lame duck. She wasn’t helpless even if she really did have amnesia.

  “I wasn’t trying to be crass.” He rubbed his lips together and let out a sigh. “Why don’t you stay with me tonight?” Samson had a house here that she’d loved. They’d lived together in it before setting their sights on Europe.

  “Because that’s what I want, your pity.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Now we’re getting back to normal.”

  “Some normal.” She rubbed her thumb and index finger over her forehead. The pain was persistent and not helping her decision-making abilities. But probably it was really selling the lie. “You want me to stay with you?”

  “Yep. Temporarily.”

  “You can barely look me in the eye.”

  “Go pack your stuff.” He rubbed the back of his head, his shirt inching up enough for her to see the line heading south just above his hip.

  Her head throbbed and there was a pinch of helplessness in her side that wouldn’t go away. Her life wasn’t normal or conventional. Some might call this a normal Wednesday for her, but she wasn’t running this con for kicks.

  So, yes, she was going to go home with him. And then she was going to steer him to her way of thinking. Her feelings for him weren’t real, and even though she had to act like they were, he’d never actually bite. They were history.

  Chapter Four

  “You can set your stuff on the couch.” Samson closed his door behind them and headed right for the scotch in the liquor credenza. “Drink?”

  “Definitely.”

  He needed a stiff shot of scotch and a shower. He poured the drinks into short tumblers at the credenza bar under a painting in the living room. A painting they’d acquired together.

  A truth hit him like a ton of bricks: he was her familiar setting. For now. The gravity of that responsibility sat on his shoulders like an angel and devil. Part of him—okay, a lot of him—wanted to just leave her twisting in the wind. She was resourceful, she’d figure it out. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t do that to a team member, to Claire.

  “We could skip the drink and go right to bed.” She slipped her warm hand around his waist and her chest pushed up against his back. Fuck, she’d always been brazen and apparently hadn’t lost that with her memory.

  He pivoted out of her hold and handed her one of the drinks. Her fingertips brushed his palm before she took hold of the glassware. He drank his in one gulp. She might’ve lost her memories of their bad break-up, but he hadn’t. Not a one of them. In a way, he envied her.

  “Not a good idea,” he warned.

  He was over Claire, over what they’d had. The sheer amount of confusion, anger, and even lust that woman evoked in him made him certifiable most days, and these last few hours were only making it worse.

  “I think it’s the best idea of the day.” She caught her plump lower lip with her teeth and slid the pink flesh through until it sprang back.

  He kept his focus on her eyes. If he looked down, she’d know he was, in fact, susceptible to her advances. Once Claire had any indication she was on the right track, there was no stopping her. She got what she wanted every time. The skills that made her so good at her profession were multiplied by ten when it came to him. The one thing Claire knew better than how to get her jobs done was Samson.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Wait.” He took the glass back from her and poured the contents into his. “You shouldn’t be drinking with the head wound.”

  “Okay.” The word slipped through her mouth, barely loud enough to register as a sly grin formed.

  “You’re probably starving.” Changing the subject would hopefully also change her focus from him. “I could order us a pizza.”

  “Do I like pizza?” Her face scrunched. Her light green eyes were big, her jaw slack.

  “Yeah, you do. Not as much as you like street food.”

  “Street food?”

  “Hot dogs from carts on the street. Pretzels. Anything, really.” He poured extra in his glass and swirled the mid-shelf liquor around, nearly sloshing it over the side. “I never understood why someone with such sophisticated tastes prefers food, more than likely ill-prepared, out of a cart on a sidewalk.”

  The ends of her lips tipped up as a far-off vision captured her attention. This time he couldn’t stop himself from glancing down. “There’s a certain romantic charm about them.”

  He’d been had.

  “Don’t fuck around with me on this.” He leaned in closer to her. Fuck this. She’d had him seriously worried. “Do you honestly not remember the last two years? Is this some kind of a con to see how long you can fool us? Me? We all know you’re good. We don’t need to be your guinea pigs.”

  Her smile fell and her shoulders slumped forward. She wasn’t faking. This was uncharted territory for both of them.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry.” He wanted to reach for her, to comfort her, but he didn’t. That’s not the place they were in anymore. It was just too damn weird to touch her. The kiss on her head at the hos
pital had just been his relief. “This has been a long fucking couple of days.”

  “Tell me about it.” She rubbed the back of her head. “Pizza would be nice.” Her head bobbed and strength started to return to her posture.

  “Pepperoni, sausage, pineapples, and green peppers?”

  “Nice to know you’ve paid attention, lover.” Her coyness was back.

  He rolled his eyes. “We aren’t lovers.”

  They would never be again. No matter what state her memory was in. He wouldn’t let her in only to have his life ripped away from him when she left. He’d barely survived the first time.

  “For now.” She whirled around and sauntered to the front of the house where the big window took up half of the wall and looked out onto the wrap-around porch.

  Claire didn’t show her true intentions unless it was to her benefit. It wasn’t in her DNA. Real feelings only held a con back—that’s what she’d say. Then she’d go on to explain that while on a job, she was acting, but the emotions she was showing to the mark had to come from a genuine place or people’s subconscious would hold them back. Something about non-verbal cues. It was all confusing, which was why he’d stuck to the assassination side of the business after she’d left.

  Claire had always had an edge to her, used her straightforwardness to her advantage. For show. Not for real, actual emotions. Except with him. She’d been honest with him, hadn’t tried to play him when they were together. But for her to keep making advances when she was getting shut down—that was out of character. Maybe this was a personality change the doctor had been talking about.

  “I always loved this house.” She curled her hands around her waist. “It felt like home.”

  “It is home. To me.” She was not staying here permanently or worming her way back in. It had taken him too long to leave behind the life they’d built. To move on. He’d take the hard line now. It was better than being burned alive by her later.

  “I know.” Her voice was quiet. Longing. “That’s why I’m fond of it.”

  “Then why did you suggest Europe?” He couldn’t help himself. Claire was rarely in a sharing mood and they didn’t have real conversations anymore. The reason she’d pushed so hard to leave Arlington had always eluded him. She hadn’t hated being in the United States, yet she’d championed the idea of them working in Europe and then they’d stayed a year. The last year of the three they were together.

  Maybe if they’d never left or if they’d never ended up in France on a job they shouldn’t have been near, they would’ve lasted. That fucking princess, her uncle, and those diamonds had ruined his life.

  “We had jobs lined up.” She twirled to face him. “Very high-paying ones.”

  “We could always work wherever.”

  She rounded the walnut coffee table. “Yes, but we hadn’t taken any assignments abroad together. You had fun, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Again, fun was never the problem with them.

  She stepped closer and every fiber in his body told him to back away, to turn around and just leave. It was a trap. It was all a trap. She was a lioness going in for the kill.

  Only he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Call it morbid curiosity, but he missed this side of her, of them. One where she wasn’t intentionally going out of her way to piss him off—and vice versa. They’d been best friends. They’d shared everything once upon a time. There was a certain level of comfort having her in his home, looking him in the eye, and being sincere.

  “We were playing house here. We were getting comfortable. I didn’t want us to lose our edge, settle down, and become different people.”

  “How ironic,” he ground out.

  “You seem tense.” She glided her palm along the top of his shoulder and circled him, moving her fingers along the collar of his shirt. “Let me help you with that.” She ran her fingers through his hair up to his forehead and back down. He closed his eyes for a moment, her expensive scent surrounding him.

  No. No. No. She didn’t know what she was doing, but he sure did. He had to save her from herself and him from her. She would get her memory back. She’d remember everything. And he wasn’t going to take advantage of her, wasn’t going to have to explain himself when she remembered the hurt and anger that flowed freely between them.

  “Claire, you have to stop.” He moved from her grasp. “I know this sucks ass, but things have changed. When your memories do return, you’ll see that. You don’t feel the same about me anymore.”

  “How about we kiss and make up?” Her lips were close. Her nose rubbed playfully against his cheek.

  “Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” He tilted his head, careful not to line up their mouths.

  “You said the doctor wanted me in familiar settings, right? I can think of a couple scenarios right now that are sure to bump my memories loose.” She reached for the hem of his shirt and guided it up as her palms skimmed his chest. A heat pinged low in his gut and his cock twitched. They never had problems in the attraction area.

  He moved her hands away and took a step back. “You want to have sex with me?” He let his words snap. “Just like that?”

  She’d been coming on to him since she’d woken up in the hospital. It was starting to get old. She didn’t really want him. She just thought she did.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You’re that horny?” Curiosity laced his words as his skin heated at the thought. It wasn’t going to happen, they weren’t going to happen, but his body was rushing blood south at the hint of the possibility.

  “Nothing feels real. My place. What my life has become. The only thing that feels real is when I look at you and you look at me and this fire starts and all I can think about is kissing you. That feels real. That feels right.”

  The distress in her eyes was too much. “It’s not though.” His words were quiet but heavy.

  “That’s what you keep saying. But that’s not the vibe I get from you. That I’m not imagining.”

  “I’m afraid you are.” He almost said it. Fuck. He’d almost just called her Angel.

  “No.” There was a quiver in her voice he hadn’t expected. She was a master at not showing emotions, yet she was painfully open today. He might be a happier person if he managed to forget every bad thing since their relationship-ending fight at the bar. “I may have lost some of my memory, but my skills at reading people, at knowing you, are still well in place.”

  “Your room is there.” He pointed up the wooden staircase. She knew the layout. She could find it on her own. “I’m going to take a shower.” A very cold one.

  This little arrangement was short-term. Maybe for only tonight. He should’ve let her check into a hotel. She was a grown-ass woman. She’d get her bearings back and they’d be at each other’s throats in no time.

  The doctor thought their being together would help, but she sure wasn’t talking about Samson because this was confusing as hell. Claire was pulling him back in one inch at a time. Ironically, when they’d first split, he’d thought about what it would be like to have a second chance at making their love work. He couldn’t fix it even in his dreams.

  So the bitch of this day was that she wanted him, but he couldn’t give in because this wasn’t real. None of it. She only thought it was because she’d lost the memory of walking in on him and the princess in the back of the bar in France.

  * * *

  Claire explored the second level of Samson’s home as the water from the shower made the pipes in his old house hum. It was just as she remembered. Two rooms on one side of the stairs and then the bathroom and master bedroom on the other. She opened the door to the master. Same old patchwork quilt one of his foster mothers had made him, same white wire frame and posts on the queen bed. They’d made love too many times to count in this bed, in the entire house.

  “What have I done?” she whispered under her breath as she sat on his mattress. Her professional instincts goaded her to keep moving forward, that she was in and on the path to
getting what she wanted. Her personal instincts were telling her to turn around and walk out the front door right now. The way she was going about achieving her goal was going to come at great cost to her emotions.

  While Samson was currently keeping her at arm’s length, the fact was, he was keeping her. She wasn’t wrong in her assessment of him—he had a vibe of openness about him. A curiosity she’d use.

  The smell of his spice and the wood scent of the house mixed together. She took a deep breath, letting it sink in, and closed her eyes. She could see the last time they were here: she was naked in the bed and he was coming back from a run. His smile had been so bright, so inviting. Then he’d picked her up like a sack of potatoes and they’d showered together. She cleared her throat to wipe away memory lane. She didn’t need to think about the past when she was alone, when she didn’t need to draw from it for her con.

  She rose and padded over to the dresser she knew he kept his undershirts. She stripped down, pulling off her two-day-old clothes. She grabbed a white cotton tee and smelled it. Just like Samson. Sure, she’d thrown all types of clothes into her Prada weekender, but she wanted something that had a memory attached—she used to sleep in his shirts when she’d worn clothes to bed. She slipped on the shirt that fit Samson tightly but that hung down to her thighs.

  She pivoted on the balls of her feet but then opened another drawer to pull out a pair of his boxers. She pulled back the covers and slipped inside, nestling down into the sheets, laying her head gingerly on the pillow. The headache hadn’t completely gone away and worsened when she put pressure on the spot of the impact. She rolled to the side, her back to the bathroom, and curled up.

  The water continued to rush in the background, and she closed her eyes. She might’ve taken a long nap today, but sleep still tugged at her core. Tomorrow everything would be clearer. That was what she had to tell herself. She’d talk with the team, figure out how to save all those girls, and then she could go back to having her memories and all would be right in the world again.