Summer Heat: A Steamy Romance Boxed Set

by Carly Phillips

  Cash and Jared copied Roman, sliding their earpieces into place. Heavy footfalls clunked, echoing in their ears.

  Cash mouthed to the men across from him, “that’s a man’s step.” They nodded their agreement. A cell phone rang into their earpieces. A man’s voice. “Hello.”

  The tick, tick, tick of time passed as Cash counted seconds in his head. Who was in there?

  “No,” the baritone in their ear pieces continued. “No. You tell him that Emilio Gianori gave that order. My name will make him piss himself. And if he dares slink away from a direct order from me, you tell him to kiss his wife and children goodbye.”

  If they laid a finger on Nic, Cash would use them for target practice, working his way from the outside in. Feet and hands, knee caps and elbows. Balls to breastbone.

  Nicola needed to know what she was walking into. He’d been out of communication for an hour. Her burner phone wasn’t connecting no matter how many times he tried to call.

  Using hand signals, Jared told them both to sit tight, keep listening.

  Cash raised an inch, readying to… to do something. Jared pointed at him and slashed at his throat. It wouldn’t be a stretch for someone else to also bug this private airport. And considering they had Titan Group, the CIA, and the Gianori mob all in play right now, it was a reasonable assumption.

  Emilio Gianori’s cell phone rang again. Another hello. Another round of threats. The prick must suffer from a Napoleon complex and have an inch-long dick for all the bitching and whining about his super-duper special outlaw powers.

  The mobster continued. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve wasted my day chasing after a fool, one airport to the next. Think before you speak. What do you mean the truck blew up without the man inside it?”

  Oh, fuck you! That prick stuffed C-4 into the undercarriage and hot seated his ride? He’d pay for that shit and for the freakin’ headache Cash got explaining— or rather not explaining— how his truck blew sky high and didn’t have a corresponding police report. Not even a blurb on the local news. All the patrons at the Granville had been more than happy to take some cold hard Benjamins to forget they saw anything. Amazing how much moolah Jared carries.

  Jared’s eyes steeled. A direct non-verbal order: don’t move. Well, don’t forget who’s armed to the eyebrows and itching to brawl.

  Gianori couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Good for him. “What about the second package?”

  Cash’s mind spun. Second package? Did he hear that correctly? He bounced a questioning look to Roman, then Jared. They heard it too.

  Second package? What had they overlooked?

  “I confirmed the parents’ address. The address was correct. I was told it would be delivered by your lieutenant. What do I need? A fucking Fed Ex tracking number?”

  Parents?

  Goddamn.

  The world stilled. Roman paled. Anger vibrated at the cleft of his chin and worked its way to his eyes. Fury and wrath boiled in a clear, ready-for-blood stare. It had to be training that kept him in place, alert, and waiting for orders. That and an attitude problem trained deep into his soul. Cash wondered if Roman has the ability to feel fear when vengeance was such an easy emotion to replace it with.

  Cash’s mouth baked dry. His lips stung. The metallic taste of blood skimmed over his tongue. He realized he’d bitten his lip to keep from hollering a war cry. The cold tingle of apprehension shivered across his chest. Nic’s story about what sent her on the run and into witness protection, of the Gianori clan murdering the family members of one of their own, filtered through his brain.

  A bomb ticked right now, waiting to blow. His stomach roiled. The pattering beat of his heart quick-stepped, needing to protect the parents he was as close to as his own. But Roman. Roman looked deadly. Just when Nic was almost back, a threat over his parents was primed to… explode. Damn.

  “Go,” Jared ordered, pointing toward the other hangar. Roman moved on toward the closest exit, as silent as he was speedy.

  Cash followed on his six. If there was ever a time to squeeze intelligence out of a criminal, this was it. Reaching the hangar door, they slipped out and into the open outdoors between the two buildings.

  They looked around. Nothing suspicious. Out of the reach of potential listening devices, Roman pulled out his cell, hit a button, and pressed it to his ear.

  The waiting game, part two. No answer. Roman cursed, then slowly said, “Dad. Stop what you’re doing. Call me now. Do not get in your car. Do not check the mail. Don’t touch anything. Just call.”

  Immediacy and dread tinged his voice. Roman dialed again— no answer—and left the same message for his mother. His face pinched. His eyes shut, the creases in the corner aging him in a way Cash had never seen.

  “They’re fine,” Cash said, not sure what the hell else to offer.

  Roman gulped a swallow, opened his eyes, and focused on Cash. Agony speared Cash’s gut. His best friend squeezed his eyes shut for one more long second. “Let’s go.”

  “We need him alive, man. We need to know what he knows.”

  “You think I don’t fucking know that?” Roman spat back.

  “So question first, kill later.”

  Roman flashed a look that said something along the lines of, “maybe, we’ll see.”

  Cash fell into quick step behind him. They were lifelong partners. They knew all the moves. Roman moved one way, Cash another. They circled down and tightened in until Cash could see Roman opposite him, inside the hangar, readying for an attack.

  One man.

  Only one mobbed-up jerkoff, paced in the empty hangar. No body men. No armed protection. Gianori dialed into his voicemail, putting it on speakerphone, and picked at his fingernail. Freakin’ manicured piece of crap.

  Cash did another check and held up one finger. Roman did the same and nodded. They had a single target.

  Roman moved closer, going for the grab. Gianori listened to voicemails, not hearing Roman creep closer. Not that he could’ve if he’d listened. Roman crept as silently as a drift of deadly smoke.

  Ten yards. Five yards. Still, the mobster was oblivious, ignoring his surroundings. Not a great habit to have in the mob business.

  Ten feet. Five feet. Four, three, two.

  Roman paused. Oh, shit. He wouldn’t kill the bastard yet. Right?

  One.

  A tornado strike of muscle and fury. Roman clawed his hand over Gianori’s face and had him planted onto the tarmac floor before Gianori had time to yell.

  The barrel of Roman’s pistol pressed into the mobster’s temple. Don’t pull the trigger. Yet. Cash moved in fast, ready to pull his man off if need be. Alive. They needed Gianori alive.

  Pure white-hot hatred spilled off Roman when he reared back. The pistol-whipping crack knocked Gianori out cold, landing him face-first on the concrete.

  “That’ll work,” Cash said. The whirring noise of a plane coming in for a landing pricked his ears. “Let’s roll.”

  Roman nabbed Gianori, throwing him over his shoulder, and hustled back to Hangar A. Blood marred the light gray floor. Cash pulled the army green bandana from his neck, mopped up the mess with his boot, and kicked the ruined rag behind a mechanic’s station. One more thing ruined by these guys. Screw them.

  Catching up with Roman, Cash watched the Learjet complete its landing on the far airstrip. They pushed into Hangar A, eyeballed Jared, and shoved Gianori into a closet after gagging and immobilizing him just in case the fucker decided to rouse. Roman and Cash spread to their corners to watch outside at the airstrip and maintain a tactical advantage if the jet moved into the hangar.

  The Learjet turned from the end of the airstrip and made its way toward them. Flight plans had them parking in Hangar A, but who knew where the hell they might deplane their passengers? A black Town Car pulled into a waiting area, apparently also unsure where the passengers were disembarking.

  They stopped, and Cash waited, drumming his fingers. The door hatch popped. Stairs unfolded from
the opening. No Nic. No David. No one got the hell off the plane. He grabbed his binoculars, needing to see inside the oval windows.

  The sun glared high overhead. The Town Car moved into place as Cash heard the pilot cut the engines. A creepy quiet returned. Too quiet. Too much was in play that he didn’t understand, and Nicola was in the thick of it.

  A bomb targeting her parents floated out there, unaccounted for. Nicola had no idea and was stuck with Benedict Arnold. The Town Car waited for its passengers. Finally, the good CIA agent and the bad one made their way down the stairs. Nic flashed Cash a subtle sign, a quick flick of her wrist, knowing that he had eyes on her. It wasn’t much reassurance for him, considering he was only back-up, but a mobster in the closet was a good consolation prize.

  Jared whispered into his mic, “Roman, circle up, grab help, and find that bomb.”

  Roman was in the Hummer without throwing back a visual confirmation. Shit, if it were Cash’s parents, he’d be rolling out the second he could. Surely, one of the guys would go with him. Rocco or Brock or Winters could defuse a bomb. Brock would do it the quickest. Winters might opt to let it blow somewhere with the least damage. Who knew how Roc would handle it?

  Blinking into the glare, Cash refocused his binoculars. This was the second time he’d seen Nicola through a high-def, military spec optical piece. The Antilla Smooth snipefest felt like years ago, but it was so vivid and intense, seared into his frontal lobe.

  The driver opened the door of the Town Car and loaded their baggage into the trunk. Nic and David took to the backseat. Damn, how Cash wanted to kill that man.

  Moments later, the driver had them moving down the airstrip. Wait, no. They stopped. A second later, the Town Car zoomed toward Hangar B. Guess what, you fucking turncoat? Your mobster isn’t there.

  At the front of Hangar B, David exited the car alone. Cash’s earpiece provided audio but gave him nothing more than footsteps. What he would do to see David standing there, stood up like a blind date. Ten minutes later, clear and crisp in Cash’s binoculars, a pissed off, red faced David the Butler exited the hangar door with a slam and made a phone call, out of the range of any listening devices inside the hangar.

  Cash’s cell phone buzzed.

  “Better be important,” Jared growled over his shoulder.

  The screen showed Sugar’s GUNS bison emblem. He hit ignore. Sugar redialed. Twice.

  “What?” Cash answered.

  “Nic told me to call you, dick, if I couldn’t get a hold of her. About this Smooth ammo.”

  “Now’s not the best time.”

  “I’m supposed to meet my point of contact at some dinky airport in some one-horse town. He just made contact. Pissed off about something. I’m five minutes out, but not headed in. Doesn’t feel right.”

  Wait, what? “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “David—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Man, their problems were getting a little incestuous, in an arms-dealing, illegal network kinda way.

  Jared looked over. “What’s going on?”

  “Who’s that?” Sugar asked.

  “Jared.”

  She mumbled something that he could’ve sworn translated to, “tell him I say hi.”

  He rubbed his temples. “We’re at that dinky airport and need a set of wheels. Can you get over here?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be your taxi.”

  He gave her their coordinates and details, hung up, and holstered his phone.

  “What’d she say?”

  “She’ll be here.” He gave the rundown of the Sugar-Smooth ammo airport connection.

  “Anything else?” Jared asked, not looking at him.

  “Anything else? No.” What was up with those two? He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the Town Car. “What are we doing? Playing telephone?”

  Cash watched until the black Town Car was through the gates and Nic was on her own, as planned. She’d do all right. She’d be fine. They had listening devices everywhere. Parker was listening now, and Roman could tune in on the receiver in the Hummer he’d taken.

  Still, Cash’s stomach twisted. Jared spun in his boots, yanking his attention back to the here and now. They had a mobster to work over. Cash cracked his knuckles and watched Jared rub his hands together, seconds from opening the closet door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cash took a deep breath after his turn on the Gianori piece of crap. He watched Jared wrench Emilio’s twisted arms high behind his head. The bastard and his mobbed-up family would pay for taking Nicola away from him a decade ago, for trying to take out Nic and Roman’s parents, and for blowing up his damn truck. Whatever Jared had planned would be too nice, and Jared was a bastard’s bastard, trained in ways that made sadistic fucks cry for their mommies.

  Blood trickled out of Emilio’s nose. The punch hadn’t been enough. Pummeling his face into the asphalt wouldn’t have done it either, but if the piece of shit couldn’t talk, he wouldn’t be much good.

  Sugar rolled into the hangar in a nondescript white van with no rear windows. Maybe the woman knew what they had planned. Either way, Cash’d have to commend her on her choice of rides.

  “Smart choice.” Jared beat him to it, handing out compliments for maybe the first time in his life.

  Tall boots capped Sugar’s knees. Her short skirt barely covered her thighs. The effect made Cash double-take, if only to wonder where she hid her concealed piece.

  She blew a bubble of bright pink gum that matched the color of her lips. “So what’s the dealio?”

  “This is Fuckface Junior.” Jared shook Emilio to make a point. “He and Senior, along with their brothers Dickhead and Cock-for-Brains have done a lot of wrong recently, starting with a little incident with Nicola ten years ago and culminating with a plastics project that we’re still sorting out.”

  “That’s Emilio Gianori.” Sugar looked more bored by the second.

  “You watch the Mobster channel on Direct TV or something?” Jared asked, squinting in mistrust.

  “Yeah, something like that.” She smirked. “Beats the hell out of COPS reruns.

  So this has to do with Nicola’s witness protection history?”

  Jared and Cash paused.

  She continued. “And Nicola would want something to prosecute him on. Do you have something, or is this the Titan version of investigation protocol?”

  Emilio spat toward his boots, and Cash’s hands itched to fight. “What do you know about Nic?”

  Sugar cleared her throat. “Better question, cowboy. Is someone going to arrest this fucker?”

  Jared grumbled to Cash. Arresting Emilio right now wasn’t in their plans. Nor was detaining him in a way any law enforcement agency would approve of.

  Emilio struggled against Jared’s nasty arm hold and shouted, “You want to know our plans for your girl? She’d have to watch her parents—”

  “Wait,” Sugar barked.

  What the fuck?

  Jared shook the mobster. “Ignore her. Keep talking, asshole, and we might not string you up to an electrical ass probe.”

  “Goddamn it, Jared. Hold the fuck on.” Sugar raised her voice, and they raised eyebrows at the vamped up woman with her too-glossy lips and bubble gum habit.

  “Sugar,” Jared growled. “Get out of here. If you can’t handle—”

  Emilio started in again. “David and I—”

  “Do you not see what’s happening?” Sugar butted in again. Jared dragged Emilio closer to Sugar, most likely to put them both in headlocks. “He’s giving up the details. You need a clean arrest. All of this will get thrown out. Someone fucking arrest him already or else some million dollar an hour mob lawyer will have him out in time for baked ziti and a nice bottle of Chianti.”

  “Get out, Sugar. We’re not the arresting type.”

  “You need this to be legit. You’re going to lose it all. Imagine what Nicola will lose.” She looked to each of them, at their weapons, and threw up her hands. “All thi
s testosterone and muscle, and you all got nothing? No badges?”

  Jared shook Emilio, looking frustrated ten times over. The guy winced, his jacked-up arms reaching toward their breaking points. Jared growled, “You want local blue and white here, be my guest. Call nine-one-one. Try explaining this scene to—”

  “Jesus H. Christ. This is why I shouldn’t give a king rat’s ass about the people I meet.” Sugar slapped her hands on her hips, cracked a bubble, and shook her head. “ATF. Emilio Gianori, you are under arrest for whatever the fuck you’ve done wrong and we can prove. You have the right to remain silent.

  “Anything you say, or Jared All-Brass-No-Brains Westin drags out of you, can be used against you in a court of law, where we’re going to prosecute your mobbed-up ass for every single thing we can find.

  “You have the right to your corrupt attorney who’ll buy a private island somewhere with all the money you’re going to spend on appeals. Said money-making attorney can be present, if your pansy ass requests. If you can’t afford one because Papa Mobster cuts you off for being a moron, one will be provided for you. I’ll make sure you get one of my personal favorites. Keep answering questions if you want. Keep providing us details. It’ll all be used against you. I cross my heart.

  “Do you understand these rights, as I have explained them to you, or do you need me to take a breath and repeat myself?”

  Cash choked on a swallow. “Holy fuckin’ shit.”

  Sugar smirked. “Shut it, cowboy. Jared, you have any bungee cords in that bag of yours?”

  Jared looked stunned at Sugar. Cash understood how he felt. “Cash, cords are bottom of the pack.”

  Cash nodded numbly and went to grab them, his mind spinning. The familiar clack of Sugar’s heels pounded behind him. She beat him to the bag, rifled through Jared’s stuff, and snagged the ties.

  Who is this woman?

  Bungee ties in hand, she glared at Jared. “I assume you don’t have cuffs anywhere either.”

  He smiled, almost as if he took her slam as a dare. “Actually, I do.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” She stepped to Emilio and palmed his wrists, pushing them toward the ground. The man cried out. “Whoopsie, did that hurt?”