Midnight Games

by Elle Kennedy

  “No, Trev, I didn’t notice the six-foot-tall bloke in a towel four feet away from me,” Sullivan cracked.

  “Me neither,” Liam chimed in. “Jeez, way to catch us off guard.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. Forget When Harry Met Sally. The day Sullivan Port and Liam Macgregor met, birds had been chirping, angels had been singing, and every single woman on the planet creamed her frickin’ panties.

  “Seriously, though, you know Juliet won’t let you tag-team her, right?” Rolling his eyes, Trevor unzipped his duffel and grabbed some clothes.

  “I beg to differ,” Sully countered. “I think she’d be into it.”

  “I still think she’d veto it, man.” Liam sat up, those blue eyes taking on a calculated gleam. “You know what? Just ’cause I’m a nice guy, I’ll take my hat out of the ring and let you have her.”

  Sullivan hooted. “You’ll let me? Fuck right off, mate. Keep your hat in the bloody ring. We’ll let the lovely Juliet decide which one of us she wants as her Romeo.”

  Trevor zipped up his pants. “Do either of you ever not think about getting laid?”

  The two men exchanged grins. “Nope,” they said in unison.

  “Just checking.”

  Liam rose from the bed, wagging a finger at Trevor on his way to the door. “Be careful, Callaghan. Keep knocking our lifestyle and I’ll tell everyone all about your little freak-out sesh from earlier.”

  That got Sullivan’s attention. “What freak-out sesh?”

  Trevor glared at Liam. “I didn’t freak out, asshole.”

  “He went bananas when I informed him that Meiro kissed Isabel,” Liam told Sullivan.

  The image of Meiro’s slimy lips connecting with Isabel’s silky-smooth cheek had Trevor’s hands curling into fists all over again.

  Shit. Why couldn’t he temper his responses when it came to Isabel?

  “You know, Luke mentioned he thought you had a thing for her,” Sully said in a pensive voice. “I didn’t believe him until just now.”

  “Since when do you and Luke discuss my personal life?” Trevor asked warily.

  “Me and Luke discuss everyone’s personal lives.”

  “It’s true,” Liam piped up. “Those two are really into gossiping.”

  “We watch Gossip Girl every Wednesday,” Sullivan said solemnly.

  “Monday,” his partner in crime corrected.

  The Australian broke out in a fit of laughter. “Now how the hell would you know that? Hmmm?”

  Despite himself, Trevor found himself laughing. Sully and Liam reminded him of a couple of boys from his former army unit. Every squad had a pair of them, the trash-talking, sex-obsessed, cocky clowns that made you laugh even when you were surrounded by death and suffering and heartbreak.

  “Well, tell Luke my love life is none of his business.” Trevor fixed each man with a stern look. “It’s none of your business either. So drop it.”

  Now they both shrugged.

  “Dropped,” Liam said.

  “Definitely dropped. Your love life is boring,” Sullivan agreed.

  Boring? The woman he loved was currently parading around as a British socialite in an attempt to get close to a man who collected beautiful mistresses.

  So . . . boring?

  Yeah, fucking right.

  • • •

  Tomas Meiro’s mansion was located in a wealthy neighborhood with sloped streets and commanding houses nestled behind tall wrought-iron gates. The homes outside the city were situated on larger sections of land, set far back from the street and accessible only by long, winding driveways, but the Meiro mansion, here in the city, was clearly visible from the quiet, well-maintained boulevard.

  D was hunkered down in the wooded area at the rear of the mansion. He had a clear line of sight to the manicured back lawn and the patio doors, but there had been no activity since he’d shown up to relieve Trevor.

  Ethan was manning the street from the roof of a house whose owners were out of town. The team was unofficially using the property to conduct surveillance, but making sure to stay out of sight so the street’s other residents didn’t detect their presence.

  “I’m in position.” Juliet’s voice echoed in D’s ear, her tone mocking as she added, “I got here just in time, too. The rookie was very cranky before he took off.”

  Since Ethan was still plugged in, his irritated voice came over the line. “I was on that roof for ten hours. Dinner was a power bar and a bottle of water. So forgive me if I’m not feeling as chipper as you are, sweetheart.”

  “Fair enough. Skedaddle, kiddo. Mr. Cranky Pants needs to put some food in his belly and turn his frown upside down.”

  There was no response from Ethan, which made D roll his eyes. Their bickering was getting damn old.

  He clicked his mic on and addressed Juliet. “Your boss wants you to assess the security situation. You see anything interesting?”

  After several moments of silence, Juliet finally responded. “No signs of motion detectors near any of the usual suspects—doors, windows, roof. I can’t get a good look at the parlor because of the frosted-glass panels on either side of the front doors, but there’s a faint flicker of light through the glass. Blue. Intermittent. They have a regular home alarm installed.”

  “Anything else?” he barked.

  “Give me a sec. Do these field glasses zoom in any closer? Oh, here—okay, I’ve got it. There’s something off about the lighting behind that big bay window—I’m assuming it’s the living room window. Hold on.” She paused, then chuckled. “Oh, come on, guys. Join the twenty-first century already.”

  Her lack of clarification was annoying as hell. “What is it?”

  “Are you seeing anything red back there? Beams, lights, flashing?”

  D peered into his binoculars and studied the patio’s French doors, which were shielded by thick drapes. “Can’t be sure, but looks like there might be a couple of flickering red beams close to the floor.”

  “Lasers. Apparently the Meiros think they live in a heist movie.” Her snort filled the line. “Nobody uses that form of technology anymore. It’s old school.”

  “So they’re motion activated?”

  “Yep, which makes them easier to disable remotely. One snip of a wire or click of a keyboard, and the whole system can be turned off. With heat sensors and more complicated detectors, you need to get closer to see what you’re dealing with, and getting close is fucking risky.”

  D narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t realize we were considering breaking in.”

  “What’s that Boy Scout motto? ‘Always be prepared’?”

  “Do I look like I was ever a fucking Boy Scout?” He ignored her answering laugh, suddenly going on guard. “Your boss said to keep our distance. Stay in position.”

  “I need to get a better look if we want a more comprehensive picture of the security situation.”

  “Or . . . you can stay in position,” he said curtly.

  She laughed again. “Yes, sir.”

  The line went silent, but D couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that Juliet had no intention of staying put.

  After a beat, he shrugged it off and resumed his own surveillance. Let Juliet do whatever the hell she pleased. What did he care, anyway? In the end, she was the one who’d have to deal with Noelle’s wrath.

  Chapter 17

  The Splendid Lady was a gorgeous eighty-foot yacht with sleek decks, spacious staterooms, and a top-of-the-line galley. Isabel would have loved to be out on the water, to feel the ocean breeze snaking beneath her hair and the salty spray splashing her face, but the weather hadn’t been very compliant. Thick gray clouds loomed in the distance, the sky overcast and dreary. Luckily, Meiro hadn’t canceled their outing altogether; their lunch had been pushed to dinner, and the Splendid Lady would remain in her slip at the marina while Isabel and Meiro dined on the upper deck.

  “If it rains, we’ll retire to the galley,” Meiro said from the other side of the elegantly set table
.

  It was his third reassurance since they’d sat down more than an hour ago, and Isabel had to laugh. “Or we can just stay out here.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow and gestured to her thousand-dollar Alexander McQueen dress. “And ruin your dress?”

  “It’s only a piece of fabric, Tomas.” She smiled broadly. “I adore the rain. There’s nothing more freeing than standing outside in a downpour and letting those cool drops soak you right to the bone.”

  “Why am I not surprised to hear you say that? Such a free spirit, aren’t you, ma chérie?” Chuckling, he refilled his glass and took a deep sip of champagne.

  They were still on their first bottle of Dom, most of which Meiro had consumed. Isabel had been nursing her own glass all through dinner, a meal comprising the most delicious veal tenderloin she’d ever tasted, arranged on a bed of wild rice and asparagus. As they’d eaten, she’d regaled Meiro with stories about growing up in London. She’d provided him with numerous opportunities to discuss his own upbringing, but the man remained conspicuously mum about his childhood.

  It was beginning to aggravate her, how tight-lipped he was, and as he topped off her glass, she realized it might be time to abandon the get-to-know-you and focus solely on gaining access to the man’s phone.

  She’d yet to find an occasion, though. Meiro’s smartphone sat on the crisp linen tablecloth next to his wineglass. He must have set it on SILENT, because the phone hadn’t rung or buzzed all evening.

  “It really is beautiful here,” she gushed, letting her gaze sweep over the marina.

  The light breeze rocked the yacht ever so slightly, but although a storm seemed imminent, the water was calm. The lights gracing the other yachts and vessels moored around them twinkled in the dusky night, making her sigh with pleasure.

  “Much classier than St. Tropez,” she went on. “Don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I wholeheartedly concur. Monte Carlo offers a sophisticated ambience that St. Tropez lacks.”

  “Though the latter is quite perfect if you’re in the mood for decadence,” she said with a wink. “The nouveau riche crowd is skilled at self-indulgence.”

  Isabel drained her champagne and teasingly held up her empty glass. “Speaking of self-indulgence, this bubbly is phenomenal, Tomas.”

  His dark eyes twinkled. “My friends deserve the best.”

  He placed great emphasis on the word friends. In fact, Meiro had gone to great lengths to keep everything aboveboard and platonic between them. His flirting had been subtle, his compliments lacking any overt sexual undertones.

  But Isabel knew he still desired her. That sultry gaze lowered to her cleavage at least every other minute, and each time they happened to touch, his fingers lingered a little too long.

  “Which do you prefer,” she asked thoughtfully, “France or Portugal? You grew up in Paris, but you were born in Lisbon, no?”

  “I was.”

  “Personally, I’m partial to Paris. I find the nightlife to be more exciting. The overall atmosphere is far more suited to my personality.”

  She leaned in so Meiro could pour her another glass. To her delight, they’d finally polished off the bottle.

  “Lisbon is equally exciting, if you go to the right places,” he told her.

  Taking another sip, she eyed him with interest. “What do you think I’d enjoy in Lisbon?”

  “Belém Tower, of course. There are some magnificent churches as well, really beautiful architecture. And I never leave without a visit to my favorite café at Comercio Square.”

  Isabel dismissed his suggestions with the wave of her hand. “Tourist traps. I don’t want to go where all the people are. I want to go where all the right people are.”

  Meiro laughed. “A woman after my own heart. Well, if it’s luxury you crave, then you’re better off visiting a city like Paris. Lisbon is rather dull in comparison.”

  “Do you have many fond memories of growing up there?”

  “Some. Like you, I’m drawn to the finer things in life, and always have been. As a boy, I would immerse myself in the culture. The museums, the churches, the palaces. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Sometimes I would visit the Collectors Wing at the Museum of Art—are you familiar with that wing?”

  She nodded. “I am. Private collectors lend the museum pieces for monthlong exhibits, no?”

  “Precisely.” He played with the stem of his glass. “Beneath each work is a bronze plaque listing the painting’s value, where it was acquired, and how long it has been part of that particular collection. I would stare at those placards for hours, and tell myself that one day I would own a coveted piece of art, and I would loan it to the wing for all to see.”

  “And have you?” She spoke in a light, teasing voice, yet something was niggling at the back of her mind.

  She couldn’t figure out what had bothered her about Meiro’s speech, but for some reason her internal alarms had gone off.

  “No,” he confessed. “But that will change when I acquire a work worthy of the wing.”

  She finished her champagne in one long gulp, needing to speed things up.

  Fortunately, she’d grown up in a household where wine was served instead of water, and she’d built up a tolerance for alcohol. Those three glasses had barely made her tipsy, and she knew she could have at least another before she began to feel buzzed.

  “Oh, our bubbly is done,” she complained after she reached for the bottle only to find it empty. She offered her best little-girl look, the one that never failed to trigger a man’s urge to take care of her. “Can we open another bottle? Or is that asking too much of a friend?”

  Meiro laughed heartily. “I don’t know . . . it might be too big of a demand.” His caramel gaze smoldered as he leaned forward to take her hand. “But if you ask me nicely . . .”

  She pretended to take a sharp breath, as if his touch affected her in a very primal way. Letting her eyes grow heavy-lidded, she tentatively stroked the center of his palm.

  This time, his breath hitched.

  “Tomas,” she murmured, her voice nearly a purr, “it will please me to no end if you could spare another bottle of champagne for me.”

  A smile stretched across his mouth, and then, in the blink of an eye, he gripped her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Nothing would please me more than pleasing you, ma chérie.”

  She met his gaze head-on, letting her lust show, letting him see how much she craved their being more than friends.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said in a husky voice.

  He rose from his chair and headed for the set of steps leading down to the main deck.

  He’d left his phone on the table.

  Isabel wasted no time. The second Meiro disappeared from sight, she nonchalantly reached for his smartphone. The screen was password-locked, but she wasn’t interested in breaking into the phone.

  As she ran her fingers over the sleek edge, she spared a quick look at the pier. The two guards Meiro had posted at the end of the gangplank weren’t paying her any attention, but it wouldn’t matter if they were. She’d discovered that sometimes the best way to gather information was to do it right in plain sight.

  “Tomas,” she called in the direction of the stairs, “can I use your phone to check my e-mail? My battery just died!”

  His muffled voice sounded from below. “I’ll take care of it for you in a moment, Valerie. I’ll be right up.”

  “Thank you, luv.” Her fingers busily pried the SIM card out of its compartment. “Our discussion about art reminded me that I’m waiting for confirmation from my dealer about a piece I purchased at auction the other day.”

  The tiny square card popped out. With no time to lose, Isabel opened her clutch, grabbed a pen, and quickly jotted down the nineteen digits on the back of a casino note.

  “This auction house is rather obnoxious,” she babbled on, extra loud. “Quite slow when it comes to delivering their merchandise, even after assuring me the item wou
ld be available at once.”

  She tucked the paper into the zippered pocket at the bottom of her clutch, put away the pen, and closed the bag.

  Footsteps echoed from behind her, and Meiro appeared with a fresh bottle of Dom.

  He scowled in irritation when he spotted his phone in her hand. “I told you I would take care of it.”

  She giggled, unperturbed that she’d gotten caught, because hey, she’d done nothing wrong.

  “I got impatient. But your phone was locked, much to my displeasure.”

  His features relaxed, a faint smile returning to his lips. “To keep nosy girls like you out,” he chided, but his tone resonated with humor.

  With an innocent smile, she handed him the phone. “My account is through my service provider. If you could just open a browser page, I’ll type in the details.”

  “Anything for my sweet Valerie.”

  It took five minutes to go through the tedious effort of checking the e-mail address that Isabel and Noelle had set up for Valerie years ago. The message in her inbox had even come from a legitimate art dealer, who had indeed procured a painting from an auction house in London. For authenticity, Isabel walked around the table to show Meiro her latest acquisition.

  When she told him the price she’d paid, he threw his head back and laughed. “You truly do crave nothing but the best, don’t you, ma chérie?”

  “Of course.” A teasing note entered her voice. “Why, you don’t believe I deserve the best?”

  With the way she was leaning over him, she was practically draped over his chest, and their eyes locked as he mulled over her question. His gaze moved to her breasts, which overflowed from the low neckline of her couture gown, then glided north to her lips, which she licked in anticipation.

  Despite the reluctance traveling up her spine, Isabel forced herself to play her part. Had to be done. No other way around it.

  “Tomas.” Her voice thickened with passion. “I . . . we . . .”

  Next thing she knew, he’d thrust his hand in her hair and yanked her mouth to his.

  The kiss made her feel absolutely nothing. No desire. No heat. Not even mild pleasure. It was just another mindless chore, like taking out the trash or vacuuming the living room carpet.