Money, Honey

by Susan Sey

  Goose sipped gratefully at the paper cup and sighed. “Amen.”

  “If I have gourmet coffee catered in every morning, will you show up somewhere in the vicinity of on time?” Liz asked, wincing inwardly at the shrewish snap in her voice.

  Patrick said, “Oh, I started work somewhat before my arrival this morning.”

  “Oh?” Goose leaned her chin onto her hand and blinked up at him. Charmingly. “Do tell.”

  Patrick treated her to a blinding smile. “By the way, you look particularly lovely this morning, Goose. That’s an incredible color on you.”

  “Thanks.” She smoothed a pleased hand over her lapel.

  Liz ground her teeth. “Would you care, Consultant O’Connor, to report on what kept you so busy this morning? Besides patronizing overpriced coffeehouses?”

  He turned that grin on her, though it cooled a few degrees. “The target made contact this morning via my cell phone,” he said simply. “Asked for a meet on Friday night. At Cargo.”

  Liz blinked. “Today is Friday.”

  Patrick lifted one shoulder easily. “Yep. He must have seen us there last night, because he specifically told me to, and I quote, ‘lose the skirt.’ ”

  Liz closed her eyes. She’d been reduced to a skirt. For God’s sake.

  Patrick patted her hand and Liz tried not to let the jolt show. “You did look particularly Guys and Dolls last night. I thought it was lovely on you.”

  “Fuck it,” Liz said wearily. “Give me details. We don’t have much time to get something set up.”

  A DOZEN hours later, Liz stood in a cramped office overlooking the bottling line of the abandoned brewery that adjoined Cargo.

  Lucky break, she knew, that they’d been able to come up with an effective surveillance location on such short notice. Even luckier that the property manager had been cooperative, because Liz hadn’t had the time or the patience to follow the paper trail all the way to the owner. Not that she cared who actually owned the building. All she cared about was getting a legal signature on the waiver and a key to the front door. Which she had.

  But that was where Liz’s luck had ended. Because Goose had disappeared ten minutes earlier, muttering something about reception and secondary locations, leaving Liz alone with Patrick and the handful of wires, microphones and receivers that needed to be affixed to his chest. His bare chest.

  Liz found she didn’t have the wherewithal for light conversation, so she simply stabbed a finger in Patrick’s general direction and said, “Shirt. Off.”

  Patrick smiled at her. “Liz. Darling. You have only to ask.” He began unbuttoning his shirt, and she tried like hell not to watch. She didn’t want to notice the crescent of firm skin that appeared in the widening V of his shirt. Didn’t want to know that his chest was broad, smooth and sprinkled lightly with dark hair. Didn’t want to wonder what it would feel like under her curious fingers. Certainly didn’t want her mouth going absurdly dry. She reminded herself that she was a professional. She’d wired up countless informants over the years, and this would be no different.

  Except that the informant in this case wasn’t just an informant. He was technically a consultant and therefore her equal. And beyond that, he was the man who’d pledged to avenge his pride by seducing her. The man who, through a series of unfortunate coincidences and plain old rotten luck, was custom-designed to appeal to her on any number of subconscious and self-destructive levels.

  She’d been programmed from birth, courtesy of her late, unlamented father to serve a man just like Patrick O’Connor. By the time she’d landed in her grandmother’s blue-blooded custody at the ripe old age of ten, the damage had been done. Her psyche was already permanently bent. So of course she’d feel the attraction, she told herself. She’d feel the power and the temptation of him. She’d feel it so she could acknowledge it. Then she’d rise above it. She’d free herself to choose a different way. A just way. Her own way.

  She looked up at the whisper of expensive fabric drifting to the desktop and her heart stuttered to an uncertain halt in her chest. Her thoughts slid loose, spun around her head in a desperate search for traction.

  Where on earth had all this lean golden muscle come from? She’d been prepared for him to be beautiful, but more the kind of perfectly proportioned beautiful that made artists want to draw. Not the kind of leanly powerful beautiful that made women the world over want to reproduce.

  He held his arms out to his sides in a gesture of submission. “I’m at your mercy, Agent Brynn,” he said. His expression was meek but his eyes danced with unholy glee. The light poured down from overhead, the harsh fluorescent bulbs throwing those hard and surprisingly well-defined muscles into sharp relief.

  Liz swallowed, hard. There was nothing romantic, she reminded herself sternly, about shaving a bald spot into a guy’s chest hair and gluing a tiny microphone to it. She dug deep for a neutral expression, then picked up the shaving cream.

  FIFTEEN ENDLESS minutes later, Patrick was safely back in his shirt, but the damage was done. The feel of all that gorgeous, smooth skin sliding under her fingertips was in her brain now, permanently burned there, ready to haunt her dreams. She was pretty sure her cheeks were beacons of color but resisted the urge to press her fingers to them in case he’d somehow failed to notice that the fairly innocuous act of fitting him with a wire and transmitter had her this close to spontaneously combusting.

  She didn’t trust her voice, so she just twirled a finger in the air. He rolled his eyes but revolved obediently. He’d left the shirt untucked, and even her critical eye couldn’t detect the minute bulge of the transmitter taped to the small of his back.

  “Well?” He tucked one hand into his pocket and struck an elaborately casual pose. “Will I do?”

  She shrugged. “The wire’s secure. He pats you down, he’ll find it, but I don’t see how that would happen in a public meet. Just don’t ask him to dance and you’re probably good.”

  “Liz. Darling.” His lips curved in lazy amusement. “I’m always good, but I’m at my best when dancing.”

  Memories of his body moving with hers in a sexy, edgy rhythm rolled over her like a slow, hot wave. She turned half away from him and picked up the two-way radio. “Goose? You in place?”

  Goose’s voice crackled back. “Loud and clear,” she said, a driving bass beat thumping under her words. “I have a nice little couch staked out in the back and the two-way fits into my purse pretty nicely. Let’s just hope the music doesn’t get any louder, or we won’t have squat to record.”

  Liz turned back to Patrick. “Try to get him somewhere quieter. You’re wired both to transmit and to record, so don’t worry about staying in range. We’ll just work with tapes if it comes to it.” She frowned at the wall of the office. “We might have to anyway. There are about eight inches of solid concrete between us and the club and that itty-bitty transmitter of yours isn’t as powerful as the two-way Goose has. Unless the ventilation systems are connected, we’re probably not going to get much in real time.”

  Patrick glanced at the open ductwork hovering over the desk. “Want me to boost you up before I go?”

  “No.” Liz thought about his surprisingly solid chest and arms. “No, I don’t.”

  He smiled at her, slow and easy. She didn’t smile back. “What I want is for you to tell me again exactly what you’re going to do in there.”

  “Such a mother hen. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.” At Liz’s pointed silence, he just folded his arms and sighed. “Okay, fine. I’m going to do exactly what the guy on the phone said to do. I’m going to plant myself next to the DJ booth and wait for a guy to identify himself as the Wizard, the Great and Powerful Oz. And when he does, I’m going to suggest that he get a better code name.”

  Liz shook her head. “Doesn’t need one. He picked perfectly. He’s nothing but smoke and lights. And in the end, he’s going to trip over his own ego.” She leaned back on the desk, checked her watch and folded
her arms over her waist. “Are you ready to get started?”

  “At your service, Liz. As always. Just one thing first.”

  He moved faster than she’d imagined was possible. Before she could even work up a good sneer, he was there in front of her, his big, hard hands cupping her elbows and lifting her right off her feet and into his body. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, seeking, hungry.

  A thousand fragmented thoughts flitted through her brain, none of which were any help. Should she jam a pencil in his ear? Ram a knee into his crotch? Throw her arms around his neck and start participating with some enthusiasm?

  Then his tongue traced the seam of her lips, a request, a demand, an invitation. Her last coherent thought was oh shit. Then she just burst into flame.

  She opened for him, and he slid into her, slowly, deliberately, like a man who knew how these things were done and didn’t care to rush the good stuff. A shudder ran through her, and she made some desperate noise in the back of her throat. She didn’t know what she wanted but thought it probably involved the use of her hands and her turn at the wheel of this kiss.

  But Patrick drew back instead and the rush of cool air between their bodies sent her eyelids fluttering open. Rational thought returned a beat later when her feet touched the ground again, though the power of speech seemed beyond her still.

  He stepped back a cautious foot as he set her down, those cool blue eyes sparkling with evil good humor. “For luck,” he said simply, and let himself out of the office while she just stood there dumbly and watched him. The radio in her hand crackled and she fumbled it, jerking back to her senses in time to catch it before it bounced off the concrete floor.

  “Was that half as good as it sounded?” Goose breathed reverently through the static.

  God, yes, she thought. She keyed the radio and said, “Shut up, Goose.”

  “Roger that.” There was a pause. “So, was it?”

  Liz sighed and crawled up onto the desk. “I’m not talking about this,” she said as she boosted herself into the open ductwork. Hopefully the signal from Patrick would strengthen up here. She could hear Goose’s radio fine, but the miniature transmitter she’d taped to Patrick’s chest wasn’t nearly as powerful.

  “That good?” Goose asked, her tone wistful.

  Liz was starting to wish the other agent’s signal wasn’t quite so strong. “Shut up.”

  “Wow. I mean, I’d figured, but still. Wow.”

  “Will you please shut up?”

  “Roger.”

  SEVERAL HOURS later, Patrick ushered Goose back into the darkened brewery office. Liz sat cross-legged on top of the desk, all expectation.

  “So?” Liz asked, as she unfolded herself and slid to the ground. “What the hell happened in there? The transmitters were useless over the music.”

  “I know. I spent the entire night next to the DJ booth. Right under the speakers.” He poked a finger gingerly into his buzzing ear. “The guy never showed.”

  Liz’s eyes flew to Goose, who shrugged her corroboration, because what he’d said was exactly what she’d seen. Several deafening hours of nothing going on. What Patrick didn’t mention was what he suspected all that nothing meant.

  Because unless his criminal instincts had gone horribly wrong, he’d spent the last several hours looking Oz right in the face. And that face belonged to the kid spinning the discs. A face that, upon closer inspection, probably hadn’t seen seventeen yet. What the hell would somebody as black-and-white as Liz do with information like that? Probably toss his ass into reform school where he’d learn to perfect his trade and more than likely pick up the finer points of grand theft auto while he was at it.

  “I’m guessing he was there,” Patrick offered. “Somewhere. He was probably checking me out, waiting for me to bust somebody or hook up with somebody of the federal persuasion. So I didn’t.” He sent Goose a warm smile. “Not that I wasn’t tempted. You look marvelous, Goose.”

  She pinked up prettily, and not for the first time, Patrick wished his life could be so uncomplicated. He turned his attention back to Liz and her frown.

  “Fine,” she said. “Even so, I think I’ll bring in the DJ first thing tomorrow morning. See what I can shake loose from him.”

  Patrick tucked his hands into his pockets and pursed his lips, as if considering. As if panic hadn’t just set up camp in his stomach. He couldn’t let Liz put this case to bed so quickly. Not when he had yet to draw a bead on Villanueva.

  “What?” she snapped. “You have a better idea?”

  He gave her his easiest shrug. “Why not just play it out? The guy wanted a look at me, he got one. Chances are, he satisfied himself that I’m not a cop and will make contact in the next day or so to go forward. Why blow the goodwill we’ve earned by sweating the DJ? What’ll a day or two cost us?”

  She stared at him with a speculation in her face that did nothing for the uneasiness in his stomach. Goose looked back and forth between them, then lifted her shoulders. “Fine by me,” she said. They both looked to Liz.

  “I want an ass to kick by next week,” she said.

  “If Oz doesn’t turn up by then, you can have the DJ with my blessing.”

  “Fine.”

  Chapter 10

  PATRICK PADDED across his sister’s kitchen in the early morning to pour himself a cup of coffee. He didn’t sleep much as a rule, but even he was dragging under the strain of being a loving brother/FBI weasel by day while covertly tracking a revenge-seeking maniac by night. Or attempting to track, anyway. Because while everybody he talked to agreed that Villanueva was local, nobody had any idea where exactly he’d holed himself up.

  So Patrick had done all he could do. He’d made sure Villanueva knew where to find him when he was ready. All that was left now was the waiting. Lucky for Patrick, patience was a strong suit.

  He picked a pretty blue earthenware mug and turned from the cupboard, only to find his niece had magically appeared and taken hold of his pant leg. Nice. He pressed a knuckle to his eyebrow. Just what he needed.

  She was dressed in something soft, floppy and admittedly adorable, gazing up at him with a sleepy, pink-cheeked expectation that filled him with dread. Weren’t babies supposed to sleep in cribs or something? Seemed to him like people would want to limit a kid’s ability to just . . . appear.

  He looked around the kitchen for her mother but came up empty. He sighed and filled his cup right up to the top. Figured he’d need the kick to get through this.

  He looked down at Evie. She looked up at him, all angelic black curls, perfectly round cheeks, enormous green eyes and a mouth that had stubborn written all over it.

  “Wan’ some,” she said.

  “Excuse me?” He stepped carefully aside, but there was a grubby little hand fisted into the crease of his favorite khakis, and Evie just followed along. She gazed up at him, all earnest cuteness, then stuck her free hand into her mouth.

  “Wan’ some,” she said around wet fingers.

  Patrick took a fortifying slug of coffee. It was strong enough to power a nuclear submarine. He looked down at the kid, who was rubbing the material of his khakis between damp fingers with a concentration that concerned him.

  He should have made stronger coffee.

  “Where’s your mommy?” he asked finally. This, Patrick saw immediately, was the wrong question. Evie looked up at him, and there was a certain tightening around the eyes that Patrick hadn’t seen since his days as a professional poker player. It was an expression that said, You are perilously close to my bad side. One more stupid move, and there’s an ass kicking in it for you. Patrick blinked, strangely comforted by this unexpected development. Maybe there was more O’Connor blood in this kid than he’d thought.

  Evie didn’t remove the fingers from her mouth, but she managed to invest her next words with a grave clarity anyway. “Wan’. Some. Tawfee.”

  Patrick frowned. “I’m sorry, you want coffee?”

  Magic words. The kid beamed up at him and g
rabbed for the other pant leg with a slimy hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” she chanted, using her grip on Patrick’s pants for leverage while she bounced herself into paroxysms of joy.

  “Jesus!” Patrick shoved his mug toward the counter, scalding hot coffee slopping over the sides and onto his skin. He fumbled for a dish towel to mop up his hands, then reached down and pried the kid off his pants. It was time to take control of this situation.

  “Okay,” he said, holding two grubby little fists at arm’s length and drilling a no-nonsense glare into those enormous eyes. “Let’s get a few things straight. First, no touching. These pants are off-limits to anybody whose pajamas come with the feet attached, all right? And second, babies don’t drink coffee. So forget it.”

  He set the child a safe distance away and retrieved his mug from the counter. He belted back another decent gulp and watched with suspicious eyes as Evie slunk under the overhang of the island counter, head down, gaze mournful, the picture of dejection. Scam, Patrick thought with a quick surge of pride. This kid was good.

  He fully appreciated just how good a moment later when Evie drew in a deep, shuddering breath, flung back her head and howled like a heartbroken hound dog. Or an opera singer on crack. Patrick stared in wide-eyed, ear-ringing disbelief.

  He was still staring a minute later when Mara staggered into the kitchen, shoving at the tangled black curtain of her hair, an ancient bathrobe thrown crookedly over what looked like one of her husband’s T-shirts.

  “Good Lord,” she muttered, glaring at Patrick. “What are you two doing in here? What time is it, anyway?” She lifted her head, sniffed at the air. “Is that coffee? Please let that be coffee.”

  Patrick silently poured her a cup and handed it over, watching in mild disbelief as Mara competently ignored the shrieking child and slugged back a good half of the mug.

  “Okay,” she said, relaxing into a slouch on one of the stools near the island counter. “Okay, the caffeine’s hitting my bloodstream. I feel prepared to deal with this.” She reached under the counter and scooped up her wailing child.