I’m about to lay into her for the sheer stupidity of any male finding Caylee unacceptable when she says something that stops me cold.
“I think there’s a tracker in the shoes.”
Of course, there is. Could this thing be any more James Bond?
Turning her head, Caylee scans the crowd. “He could be anywhere in here right now, checking me out and deciding if he wants to go through with it.” She frowns and adds in a small voice. “It could happen, you know. I might not be chosen. They said that in the contract.”
As if.
Mother Nature built Caylee Bennett like a pint-sized Barbie: skinny all over, but curvy where it counts. She’s been turning heads since she was twelve. Males gravitate to her as if propelled by some mysterious, magnetic force in nature that grabs them by the balls and shoves them her direction. It was the same way with this deal with the red shoes—it just came to her out of the blue. She said some woman approached her in a coffee shop, raving about the most amazing deal. She was sure Caylee would love it.
Ten thousand large for starters is enough to get anyone’s attention.
I’m forced to admit there’s something sexy and exciting when I think about a mysterious stranger studying me, imagining all the things he wants to do to me. One night and no facing the jerk at work the next day. (God, what was I thinking?) So yeah, I can see the attraction and not just the dollar signs of a big payout.
“What’s Samantha doing tonight?” Caylee asks.
“She’s spending the night at a friend’s house. She’s still pissed we had to cancel her birthday party and re-schedule. I promised to make it up to her.”
“She’ll get over it.” Caylee flashes me a wicked smile. “Here’s the thing: if you’ve got the place to yourself tonight, girl, you might as well go for it.”
The club reeks of luxurious perfumes, sex, and a light overlay of sweat. The odors swirl below my nose. I take a sip of my martini and let the icy liquid trickle slowly over my tongue. I think about taking a man home, putting him in my mouth, feeling his girth and his heat. I let my gaze wander across the crowded space, skipping from one expensive suit to another. A few of the men fill out the sleek cuts of their silk and wool suits with massive shoulders and impressive pecs. My eyes linger on them. I have a weakness for big men who make me feel petite. What would it be like if I wore the red shoes? What kind of man would play a game like this?
That’s when I suddenly understand: this deal must appeal to men who have everything, men who can buy anyone. They don’t merely want a night with a young and beautiful woman. They can have that easily; probably have more opportunities than they have time for. The staid business address in New Jersey offers an experience, something unique; one they can’t have anywhere else or with anyone else.
What would that mean for the young woman who slides her feet into a pair of special shoes?
Butterflies in my stomach. . .
If I were wearing the red shoes right now, he’d be here in the club, somewhere, watching. Would he show himself to me right away? Or make me wait? Will he stalk me like a hunter only to take me without warning. . .
My nipples go tight imagining my fantasy mystery man and if he’s wondering how my tits will feel in his hands, how my pussy will get wet for him. Will he get hard just looking at me? Heat rushes from my pussy up my belly and across my chest.
“I don’t know what they put in that drink, but oh girl, it must be good.” Caylee’s words jolt me from my reverie.
I toss her a sheepish grin and realize I’m blushing. She grins right back at me. “Admit it, you were thinking about sex, the really, really hot kind; the kind you dream about; the kind you need. Am I right?” When I don’t answer, she waves a hand at me. “Oh, don’t bother. I know I’m right.”
It’s my turn to shrug as I try to act casual. Fat chance of pulling that one off when I’m feeling anything but casual.
Reality check, Brooke. You’re too cautious to take a risk. Nobody delivered expensive red shoes to your door and no one in this place has looked twice at you, not to mention the fact you’re way too practical and conservative to show up at a random office in Jersey and sign a freaking contract.
Try telling that to my body. The ache between my legs is still pumping sexual energy into my veins like a drug. I could probably get off if a man dragged his gaze over me too long.
Which is pretty sad when you think about it.
Caylee laughs at my obvious discomfort and kicks back the last of her drink. Her eyes are bright; her cheeks flushed. I’m about to suggest we head down to the main floor when a guy in a dark suit comes up behind her. He’s there only long enough to slip something into her hand before disappearing again into the crowd.
She stills, her eyes going wide. “This is it!” She opens her palm, revealing a burner phone. A red light blinks and then a line of text marches across the screen. After studying it, she holds the phone, so I can see the screen. It looks like a regular incoming call message, except there’s a red button for accept and a blue button for decline.
She flips the phone around and her finger hovers over the red button.
Fear clutches at my throat. I have this feeling something bad is going to happen. “Wait! This is too strange. You don’t know enough. You haven’t even seen the guy or talked to him. That’s not a real choice.”
She shakes her head slowly, seeming a little dazed, maybe from finishing her drink too fast. “I already signed the contract. I can’t say no. I have to do this.”
“But wait—”
Before I can grab the phone away from her, she stabs the red button. We both freeze, staring at the screen. For a few long seconds, nothing happens. Then a green text message pops up: Report to the east door. Mr. Daniels will escort you from that point.
She turns in a circle. “Which way is east?”
While I’m trying to get my bearings, a tall guy who looks like an MMA fighter stuffed into an expensive dark suit appears at Caylee’s elbow.
“Miss Bennett?” he inquires. He’s not wearing a nametag, but I assume he’s the Mr. Daniels from the text message.
She half turns, staring up at him while at the same time reaching back toward me and shoving the burner phone into my hand. I take it and manage not to fumble. Fortunately, Mr. Daniels is preoccupied with Caylee and doesn’t appear to notice what she’s done. His voice is deep, and he’s speaking too softly for me to hear, but Caylee hangs on every word.
The guy finishes his spiel and turns to go. Before following him, Caylee pivots quickly, pulls me into a fierce hug, and whispers into my ear, “Hold onto the phone for me, okay?”
Then she’s off. I watch her follow the big man across the club until they pass through a door marked with gold letters, VIP.
I shove the phone into my bag while muttering to myself how ridiculous the whole situation is, including my irrational fears, which have no basis in reality. The truth is that my friend is going on an adventure and will probably have fabulous sex and come home a whole lot richer. Even Samantha is probably having a better time than I am—assuming she was telling the truth about spending the night at her friend’s house. I should call and check up on her, but I want to trust her; I need to trust her. So I’ve told myself I’m going to do just that until she gives me a solid reason to do otherwise. Meanwhile, I’m standing here like I’m 24-going-on-80 and worried bad things will happen if I stay out past my bedtime.
Fuck that.
I decide Caylee is right. I needed a night out, and I’m here. Why waste an amazing dress or a hot club filled with even hotter guys?
Oh my, check out that one. . .
NATHAN
All I’m thinking about is getting my hands on that redhead as I stride through the door from the private section back into the club. Then it’s Marco’s voice in my ear saying Tucker needs to see me right away. I halt, scanning the crowd. I don’t need a scope to find the redhead. She’s taller than most of the other women, and the overhead lights make
her amazing hair gleam like a beacon. I don’t know her name or anything about her. There’s nothing I want more than that woman right now.
I’m tipping over the edge into an obsession with this chick because it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. That and the taunting from the French dude’s pawn.
“Nathan, get your ass up here.” Marco’s voice echoes through the earpiece.
Turning on my heel, I head for the elevator. “On my way.”
Inside the Eye—the security room for Dominion and H&S operations in the city—Tucker stands in front of a bank of monitors displaying the club from all angles and levels. Normally, technicians hunching over their screens occupy the workstations. Tonight, the chairs are empty, making me think whatever’s up must be big to have forced Tucker to send the surveillance crew home.
“Bitch almost got the best of you. Good thing you found a way to turn her around without using your dick.”
Tucker’s nasty tone is often mistaken for humor. The bastard doesn’t have an ounce of humor in his body. He smiles and tugs on one end of his mustache. Even though Tucker Voss looks like a paunchy used car salesman and hasn’t lost his Alabama accent, he’s a made man—tested, trusted and honored by the old men who used to call the De Luca syndicate mafia. He’s equally respected by younger generations who reject the term mafia, as if uttering the syllables might sully their virgin lips.
Running Harley & Sweet for the syndicate was the prize Tucker won the day he was made and took his seat at the table. To emphasize the fact that all power in this place runs through him, Marco De Luca, grandson of the old Don, appears at Tucker’s elbow. His presence tells me he was the one with de Hainault and saw everything play out on the monitor.
“Miss . . . Booty expressed some reservations, however—”
“I like the way you handled her,” Marco interjects, “but next time, make sure she’s not wearing a wire.”
I tilt my head. “Wire? Who thinks that girl is wearing a wire?”
“Don’t stress, Nathan. We’re good. Miss Booty is on her way to her date.” Tucker half turns and regard the bank of monitors. “Our boy Marco here got a tip the FBI is taking a close look at us. We can’t be too careful going forward.”
“Tip? Based on what?”
“Based on the FBI can do whatever the fuck they want.” Tucker rests a puffy hand on my shoulder. “From here on out, all the girls that come through need to be checked. Thoroughly and personally. Think you’re up for the job?”
Marco grins darkly. “If you’re not, I can—”
I don’t let the bastard finish. “Whatever you need.” I glance from Tucker to Marco and back again. “Where’d the tip come from?”
It’s Marco who answers. “You don’t need to know.”
“If there’s a threat to the organization, I do need to know. It’s my job to take out threats.”
“We’ve got this.” Tucker’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “You’re a weapon, Nathan. That’s what I’ve always admired about you—you know exactly what you are—you don’t try to be anything more than what you are. You don’t try to reach above your station. Understand? And that’s a good thing because weapons are important. They help us get shit done without a lot of fuss. Things we couldn’t do if we didn’t have that weapon in our arsenal.”
Jesus on a fucking pogo stick. Tucker loves to ramble on and tell stories, but I wish he’d left them back where he came from with the Dixie Mafia.
“What’s the one thing a weapon can’t do, Nathan?” Tucker asks.
Despite the fact I know the answer the way holy rollers spout Bible verses, I have to choke the words out of my throat. “Think, sir. Weapons don’t think.”
“That’s my boy.” He pats me on the back. “We don’t know if the tip is legit or not, but we’re not taking any chances. Not with Ferrara arriving soon.”
“Alexander Ferrara?”
“You got a problem with that?” Tucker asks. “Cause I know you two got some history. No need to go digging up shit that’s better of buried, am I right?”
Billionaire Alexander Ferrara blackballed me the last time (the one and only time) my name was placed before the De Luca syndicate for the chance to become a made man. Back then, I thought about taking him off the table permanently simply for the insult. Of course, I came to my senses and backed down. That and the fact that Ferrara plays some of the most twisted games H&S can conceive. As far as I know, he was responsible for the death of at least one young woman, possibly more.
For all the good it did me, I ended up stalking him for a couple of months. What I found out was that eliminating Ferrara was easier imagined than actually achieved, considering the state-of-the-art security that accompanies him everywhere he goes on the planet. For that reason, he got to live.
“I have no problem with Ferrara,” I lied.
“Good.”
“Because if the feds managed to insert one of their own into Ferrara’s game. . .” Tucker pauses meaningfully, “I don’t think I have to spell out just how ugly things could go for all of us.”
There’s no love lost between Ferrara and Tucker Voss. I suspect Ferrara would have kicked Tucker out of the syndicate years ago if he could have pulled it off. It’s mainly Tucker’s powerful connection to the De Luca family that has kept him safe. Plus the fact that whenever the billionaire is in the city, Tucker has his lips firmly suctioned on Ferrara’s ass, providing the freaky fuck with anything he desires.
Would Tucker back me if I promised him I could take Ferrara out?
The voice in the back of my head is cold and calculating. It’s the hunter within who hasn’t been able to do what he does best for weeks and weeks. Just thinking of stalking and tracking Ferrara while he’s in the city makes my fingers itch to haul my weapons out of storage.
Tucker has turned back to the monitors again. He’s watching Hunter Daniels escort a new pawn back to the VIP section. “See that one?” He points at the screen. “Bitch broke the rules. She didn’t come alone like she was supposed to. She brought someone with her, and on top of that, she passed her phone to the bitch.” Tucker points to another woman on the screen. “That’s the one she gave the phone to. Check her out. Find out what she knows.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for fuck’s sake, make sure she’s not wearing a goddamn wire,” Tucker shouts after me as I pass into the elevator and punch the button for the main floor.
I don’t bother to hide the shit-eating grin on my face. Tucker just ordered me to investigate the redhead.
I’m going to be all over that job.
BROOKE
I lock eyes with a tall man in a dark suit who shouldn’t look any different than the three hundred or more other impressive men clustered in the club. Except there’s something about him that draws me. Vaguely, I remember seeing him in the crowd near the front door when Caylee and I arrived—just another hot guy in a crowd of hot guys. Only now he’s staring at me with an intensity that feels intimate, like a touch capable of crossing the room all by itself, sliding under my skin and doing dirty things to me.
As I realize I’m doing a pretty good job of staring right back at him, he grins. It’s an insolent, heavy-lidded kind of grin that says he knows exactly who he is and what he wants to do to me and how much I’m going to like it. Part of me wants to act offended like I’m not that kind of girl.
Get a grip, Brooke, tonight you are that girl.
Desire slams into me. I want him.
Underneath the craving, a slow beat of need, deep and hot, coils in my gut and before I’m quite aware of it, all kinds of images are tumbling through my mind—most of them involving the two of us, a lot of nakedness and sexy times.
He closes the distance between us, weaving his way through the crowd with the kind of skill that tells me he’s no stranger to this place. All the while, that hot stare never leaves me. Talk about deer in the headlights; I couldn’t move out of his way even if I wanted to, which I do not. I focus on every
detail about him. The European cut of his suit that screams custom-made because off-the-rack would never fit those shoulders; the slight sheen to the dark gray silk and the way it moves over his powerful body; the startling white of his crisp shirt; the contrast of the subtle lavender tie that couldn’t look metrosexual on him if it tried. Tracking the specifics about him keep me grounded, breathing steadily.
When he nears, I notice a bump in the middle of his nose that makes me think he broke it when he was a kid. Somehow the effect only makes him more attractive if a little rough around the edges. The planes of his face aren’t handsome, but they’re compelling, and he pulses with undeniable sex appeal. I notice the smidge of flesh-toned plastic tucked into his right ear.
Which makes him an employee. The hottest guy in the room singles me out of the crowd only it turns out he’s security. Disappointment cascades through me.
Figures.
This is how things always work out for me. Caylee gets the fairy tale; I get a rent-a-cop in an expensive suit. I can’t decide if it’s props for me that he’s hot or if that’s a cosmic joke sort of like the universe dangling before me everything I want but will never have.
“I believe you’re holding on to something that doesn’t belong to you.” His voice is deep and rich and skates over my nerves. His words confirm my suspicions. Only what have I done?
Just be cool and act innocent, maybe a little dumb.
“Please give me the phone.”
I place my empty cocktail stem on a nearby table and hold up the small beaded bag I borrowed from Caylee. “Phone? You think I have it? In here? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I make a show of fumbling with it. “There’s not much room. I’ve got my lipstick and my—”
He reaches, and I think he’s going to take my bag. Instead, his thick fingers curl around my hand from beneath. When his skin makes contact with mine, an electric current leaps between us, silencing my patter of nonsense. I stumble backward a step. He doesn’t let go. It’s a good thing he’s holding on because in these heels I’m not used to wearing, I wobble, and he catches me.
Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) Page 3
