Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “You shut Kara out,” he repeats.

  “Stop saying that. I love my sister. I was mad when she took the FBI job, but that was years ago. We got over it and never, ever did we lose each other in the process.”

  “Until Michael Alvarez.”

  “It’s not how it seems.”

  “You let Kara hurt over you.”

  “Stop pushing me.”

  “I need to understand. You let her grieve your death. You let Kara hurt. You let her-”

  “I know what I did,” I hiss, my chest tightening. “I know and-” I stop speaking, my brows furrow with a realization that has me studying him just as hard as he is me. “Wait.” I tilt my head to study him. “You called my sister by her name. You called her Kara.”

  There is a flicker of something in his eyes that is there and gone in a blink, before he asks, “Isn’t that her name?”

  “Of course it is,” I say, “but it was the way you said it, like it was second nature. Like you know her.” I turn a bit more toward him, my hand going to the coffee table. “What do you know about my sister?”

  He rotates even further, his eyes, those green eyes, looking right at me, not a blink in sight. “I could recite the contents of her file just like yours, but that doesn’t tell me anything more about her, any more than it does about you. I need to hear things directly from you. I need to know you, Myla.”

  Still no blink. Still no hint of him making a confession that perhaps doesn’t exist. But he wants more from me. He wants too much, I think again. And maybe me looking for Kara in him, and the way he said her name, is me wanting too much as well. “The bottom line,” I say, “is that Kara and I are not estranged. Not even close. She will come after me if she gets the chance and she won’t believe I chose Michael Alvarez to be the man in my bed, by choice.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’m here,” I say, shutting the pizza box, fighting a wave of anger at too many things to name that have nothing to do with him. “That should answer that question.”

  “It doesn’t,” he says, and I start to stand, afraid he will see something in my eyes that will motivate him to play hero or monster, whichever he might be, but he catches my arm, heat radiating all the way to my shoulder. “But I’m here now, too,” he says, his voice soft, but no less absolute.

  “I’m not sure if that should make me feel better or scare the shit out me.”

  “It should scare the shit out of anyone who wants to hurt you. Not out of you.”

  I have no idea why, but my stomach flutters like I’ve just had Prince Charming tell me that I’m his princess, which makes me angry at me, not him. I don’t do the whole fairytale fantasy thing. Ever. And I sure don’t do it now. “I know too little about you to accept that I’m safe with you, and no one else is.”

  “Good,” he surprises me by saying, his eyes lighting with approval. “You shouldn’t accept things on my word. You should make me prove it’s true.”

  “Then prove it,” I say. “Right here. Right now. Prove to me that I can trust you and that you are who you say you are. Prove to me that you want what you say you want…which actually, what do you want?” My mind races through the conversations we’ve had. His way of getting what he wants. His past in the FBI. The familiar way he called my sister by her name. “Because I think there is more to your story and I want to know what it is right now.”

  “Quid pro quo, sweetheart,” he repeats. “I’ll tell you my secrets, if you tell me yours.”

  Chapter Seven

  Myla

  I blink at his inference that I have secrets, but I do not stumble. “This is about you this time. Prove to me I can trust you.”

  “Trust doesn’t work that way. It’s earned. It takes time.”

  “I don’t have time. Why did you leave the FBI?”

  “It took a toll.”

  “What kind of toll?”

  “I was burned out.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head in rejection of a too generic answer. “There’s more to it than that. You were FBI and now you’re here. Now you work for Michael Alvarez.”

  “We’re repeating¸ Myla. I told you. I work for me. Alvarez doesn’t own me.”

  “Why are you here?” I whisper, not sure what I am looking for or need him to say.

  “You. I’m still here for you.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “You want more?”

  “Yes. I want more.”

  “I’m here because when I first saw you, when I first looked into your eyes, you on the arm of Michael Alvarez made no sense to me. I’m here because I see the fear in your eyes and I don’t like it. Do you still want more?”

  Yes. “No. Yes. I’m not your business.”

  “I made you my business.”

  “I don’t know if you are my friend or enemy-”

  “Friend. I am your friend.”

  “Then I don’t want you to die. And even if you’re my enemy, Kyle, he’ll turn on you. You’ll be the man that got me into your-” I stop myself before I say bed which would be telling in so many ways, and the look in his eyes says he knows it.

  “Into my what, Myla?”

  “He’ll turn on you, Kyle. Get out while you can.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” His hands settle on his knees, “Except to go get something I have for you.” He stands. “I’ll be right back.” And then he’s walking away, and my fist is balled against my chest, my heart racing so fast I think it might explode from between my ribs. I’m confused. I’m worried. I’m feeling like I’m not alone for the first time in a long time, and that terrifies and excites me in equal portions.

  Standing, I gather our trash because I have so much energy and adrenaline and no place to put it. I carry it all to the kitchenette just off the dining room, where I dispose of it all, and by the time I return to the living area, Kyle is returning too, and we both stop mid-way into the room. And we stand there. Just stand there, looking at each other, and I think that in itself, if caught on film, would have destroyed us with Michael. There is something between me and this man, a charge in the air when we are together that can’t be created by choice. It’s not something any man could create to set a woman up, unless she was just panting over him, and that simply isn’t me. But that doesn’t mean he’s a friend. That doesn’t mean he won’t use whatever is between us against me.

  He crosses toward me and I stand my ground, showing the strength that has allowed me to prosper in Michael Alvarez’s world. He stops in front of me, a step away, not touching me, but what scares me is that I want him to touch me. I want that hero I just got mad at myself for wanting, and I want that hero to be him. “Let’s sit, sweetheart,” he says softly.

  “I don’t think I want to.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I don’t think I should.”

  “Of course, you should. Come on.” He motions with his head and when his hand just barely brushes my waist, I step away from the instant fire in me, walking back to the couch, where I welcome the support of the cushion. But it seems there is no escaping Kyle in this moment. He joins me and bypasses the chair, sitting down next to me, close enough to be in my personal space.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asks, setting a small handgun down in front of me, along with a case and a strap.

  “A Sig,” I say of the tiny gun. “I used to carry the cheaper Ruger version.”

  “Used to?”

  “Michael won’t allow it.”

  “You’re carrying it,” he insists. “In your purse or on your person. I prefer on your person.” He holds up a strap. “This will allow you to wear it-”

  “At the center of my bra. I know. I have a sister who’s an FBI agent, remember?”

  “Actually she’s not.”

  I blanch. “What?”

  “Kara took a leave last year and then eventually resigned.”

  I suck in air, my chest tightening, before I breathe out. “Where is she now?”

/>   “Married to an ex-ATF agent and working in New York City. You can take comfort in knowing that Ricardo didn’t know that. He was told she’s active FBI, which means they dismissed her as a problem they think only you can re-invent.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  He studies me, his eyes too keen, too knowing. “You’re protecting her.”

  “She’s my sister,” I say, choking a bit on the word sister, “and I might not want her in my life, but I love her.”

  “Then we’ll keep her away. You have my word because I understand being angry at family, but still caring if you lose them.”

  “You do?”

  “My father was murdered, too.”

  My chest tightens just a little more. “How?”

  “He crossed the line, and played a little too dirty, for his own benefit, not that of the FBI, and in the process he double-crossed the wrong person. He was point blank assassinated.”

  “My God,” I whisper. “How can your story be so like mine?”

  “They hired me because they knew I’d have this connection to you and they expected me to use it against you.”

  “Will you?”

  “Never would I ever use my father, who I never even talk about, against anyone.”

  “Then why did you tell me?”

  “Because I want your trust.”

  “And what will you do if you get it?”

  His hand comes down on my leg, intimate, wrong. Right. “When I earn it you won’t ask that question.”

  “I wish you could earn it,” I say, and my hand goes to his and I tell myself it’s to push him away, but I don’t even try.

  “I can and I will,” he says, leaning in, or maybe I lean in or we both do, but we are close, our faces, our lips, and our breath. “Maybe not tonight or tomorrow, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then, everything changes,” he promises, and suddenly his lips brush mine, a barely there touch that I feel, oh how I feel it in every part of me, before he pulls back and then he’s gone, leaving me swaying and grabbing hold of the cushion.

  “Fuck,” he curses, standing up and giving me his back, just long enough to run a rough hand through his hair and to face me while I try to calm my racing mind and heart. “That can’t happen,” he says.

  I blink. “What? I didn’t try… we didn’t…” Confused, heat and embarrassment assail me and I stand up, rushing toward the bedroom, running this time, but I simply don’t care. But I also don’t escape. He’s there before I make it into the bedroom, stepping in front of me, his hands settling at my waist, branding me, scorching me.

  “If we happen now, you’ll question why. You will fear that I’m setting you up, and fear is not what I want from you.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I could tell you trust again, which is true, but right now, in this moment, what I want is you. Every part of you naked, every way I can get you. Beneath me, on top of me, under my tongue, and many other ways.”

  “You can’t say that to me.”

  “And if I’d given you some generic bullshit answer you wouldn’t have believed it, I would have scared you just as much as actually doing what I want.”

  “I wouldn’t have let you.”

  “We’re fire, sweetheart. We both know it. It’s inconvenient, but it’s undeniable, which means we’re going to have to find a way to deal with it because I meant what I said. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

  My hands go to his wrist. “Let me go.”

  “I’ll stop touching you, sweetheart, but I’m not letting you go.”

  He releases me and steps around me, leaving me cold in every place I was hot only moments before. I dart forward into the room and shut the door, but I don’t stop there. I rush into the bathroom, and I shut that door too, as if it protects me from him or anything. Then I’m standing at the mirror, though I don’t remember moving toward it, and I relive the past in random flashbacks. Me at fifteen, yelling at my father on the eve of his murder. Me and Kara hiding in a closet, huddled together, crying while we prayed the men in our house would go away. Then me and Kara under an umbrella at our parent’s graves. Then me just over a year ago, in the restaurant the first night I’d met Michael Alvarez. To the moment when he’d sent Ricardo to find me in the bathroom at Shivers, right after I’d been waiting on his table.

  Pushing off the door, I open it and gasp to find a man with a long scar down his cheek standing in front of me.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Mr. Alvarez requests your company, which means I’ll need your phone, and I’ll need to search you.”

  “What? No. No. I don’t agree.”

  His lips twist evilly. “I don’t remember asking.”

  My heart thunders in my chest, and I consider refusing, but Alvarez is not only a drug lord. He owns this restaurant and he’s demanded that I join him for dinner, rather than service his dinner, as is my normal job as a waitress assigned to his private basement dining area. Somehow, I step forward, the brutal stories of drug cartels my father had thought perfect dinnertime conversation, often focusing on female sex slave trafficking, playing in my mind, and a kind of tunnel forms around me. I just have to get through meeting him and get out of here alive and well. I’ll call Kara. I won’t come back to work.

  The man behind me is close, at my heels, and not about to let me escape, and it’s pretty clear to me this isn’t a good thing. Alvarez had seemed a little too intrigued by me when I’d taken his order, a bit too eager to chat, which makes the moment I reach the steps leading down to the private dining area where he’s seated, all the more daunting. Inhaling, I start walking, my heart racing with every step, torture. Too soon, I am at the bottom level, and I find Alvarez alone, sitting at the table…waiting on me.

  I blink back to the present and shove aside the memory, and Alvarez with it, my fingers touching my lips the way Kyle’s lips had, and in that moment, I am the woman I was that night in the restaurant. The one thrilled with possibilities, romance, and the future. The one who wanted to get kissed like she’d never been kissed. I pull my fingers back and curl them into my palm. That me can’t, and doesn’t, exist anymore. But it doesn’t seem to matter. I can still smell Kyle. I can still feel his mouth brush mine. And I’m feeling things I shouldn’t feel. Wanting things I can’t have and do not dare even let my mind name. I back up and lean against the wall, balling my fist at my chest, and then it happens. I do what I haven’t done in nine months. What I swore I wouldn’t do ever again because it’s a weakness I can’t afford if I want to survive.

  I cry.

  Chapter Eight

  Kyle

  Clean shaven and standing at the bathroom mirror, I finish knotting the silver tie, which I’ve paired with a light gray suit, after all of three hours of sleep, but morning has come with no regrets from the night before. Undercover, you make split second decisions you believe will keep you and others alive. I did exactly that when I told Myla I want her and I have zero regrets about that decision. The fire between us is clear and present, and she’s right. It could easily get us killed if we let anyone else have the slightest idea it exists, which is something we’ll have to talk about today. It’s also a magnet pulling her to me, it’s clear to me that I’m going to need to use it to get her the fuck out of here, the Walker clan will just have to deal with it. And she does want out. I am certain of that now. She just doesn’t know how she can do it and protect Kara, and I have to show her that path, before I tell her who I am, even if that path is me killing Alvarez.

  Exiting the bathroom, I walk to the desk in my room and sit down, keying up the security feed, and then shifting to my instant message function to look for updates, finding none. Knowing Royce was catching some shut eye like me, I key in: Asher?

  The reply: I’m here.

  Short and to the point, about summarizes everything Asher does by choice, but unlike any one else I’ve ever known, the man is a chame
leon who can don leather and boots as easily as he does a suit. Which makes him one hell of an asset.

  Me: Anything I need to know before Myla and I leave?

  Asher: Royce and Jacob are already monitoring Alvarez Clothing, and waiting on you. We have four of our best contractors on a plane here now. And I’m caffeine and bacon deprived, which is fucking hell. Oh and SFB is parked across the street, and dumb enough to think he’s discreet.

  Asher gives people nicknames, and “SFB” stands for Shit for Brains, the nickname he gave Juan after watching him for a few hours last night.

  Me: We’ll be down in half an hour

  Asher: Bring coffee. Or bacon. Bring both.

  Standing, I rest my hands on the desk, considering any stone unturned, and while I’d hacked the security to get our team into Alvarez Clothing unnoticed last night, I consider running over there myself for a quick preview before I taking Myla there, but quickly rule that out. I can’t leave Myla alone, with Juan, who clearly needs to die for touching her, hanging around, ready to demand entry into her room.

  Pushing off the desk, I exit and make my way toward the living area, finding Myla’s door open. Sounds coming from what I know to be a mini kitchen area off the dining room, lead me in that direction, and I find Myla in the small, rectangular space, staring at a Keurig cup dripping, her long dark hair a sleek shiny wave down her back.

  Seeming to sense my presence, she whirls around, the pale pink dress she’s wearing hugging every slender curve, which I’d rather be hugging myself, the hem falling just past her knees. “Hi,” she says, pointing at the machine, and looking incredibly nervous. “They have a Keurig, but the coffee is just Plain Jane. You might like that, but I like my chocolate coffee. I need to see if I can get it ordered.” She grabs some sort of box I think has condiments, and manages to drop it.

  I am there immediately, picking it up to hand it to her, the sweet scent of her floral perfume mixing with fresh brewed coffee with surprisingly sexy results. She reaches for it, and I close my hand over hers. “Easy, sweetheart. We’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.”