I turn and start walking toward the black SUV at the curb, Adam, and Lucifer at my side. Adam heads to the passenger seat up front, the bastard. I climb in the rear, and Lucifer is already there on the other side.
Savage is behind the wheel. “You aren’t leaving me out, motherfucker. I’m going with.”
“You’re married, Savage,” I remind him. “You don’t want in on this.”
“Someone has to keep you from ending up dead,” he argues. “And I’m born and raised in Texas. I know Texas. Lucifer and Adam don’t.” I open my mouth to argue and he shoots me the finger. “That’s for whatever you were about to say. We’re brothers now, even if you do tell stupid jokes.” He starts to turn and pauses. “I packed you a bag. Thanks for putting me on your approved list with your building security.” He settles back into his seat and starts driving.
I curse under my breath and buckle in for what I suspect is the beginning of what is going to be a helluva ride.
***
An hour later, we’re in the air, and the ride is bumpy, the memories of two years undercover as a Devil, bumpier. But I’ve decided Lucifer’s a godsend, at least behind the controls of a private jet. Savage is a pain my ass trying to find out where my head is, and Adam, well—Adam is Adam. He knows when to shut his mouth and just ride the bumps in silence.
We land at a private airport outside Austin and Blake has a downtown house rented for us, not far from where Priscilla lives. By Friday night, I’m damn glad we got out of New York when we did. The airports are shut, and yet, Team Walker is already at work here in Texas. Lucifer and Savage have headed out to hunt down the Devils’ right-hand man, Jose Deleon, who is undoubtedly behind the murder of two witnesses. Meanwhile, Adam and I are going to watch Priscilla and decide if I’m going to testify.
My first glimpse of Priscilla is that morning, when she takes an early morning jog, her long, fit legs, and easy pace, establishing this as a normal routine. I jog with her but at a distance. She ends at a quirky little coffee shop by her house called Try Hard Coffee Roastery—Austin is full of quirky little places. I sit down at an outdoor table and wired to Adam, who’s presently searching her house, I hit my mic. “She’s wrapping up. How are you looking?”
“I was slow getting in. Buy me time.”
“Copy that,” I say, and since Priscilla doesn’t know what I look like, I have nothing to hold me back.
I stand up and walk into the coffee shop, stepping behind her in the line only two deep, a good move since she’s on the phone. “Yes, sir,” she says. “I know, sir. I’m aware this is an election year. I’m aware that you’re the first elected DA in Texas ever, but with all due respect, I’m not motivated by your re-election. I’m motivated by his heinous crimes.”
Obviously, she’s talking to the DA, Ed Melbourn, who I know from personal experience to be an arrogant asshole. A muffled, raised male voice lifts and reaches my ears. She holds the phone from her ear and when the shouting stops, replaces it and says, “I’ll get him.”
Apparently, Melbourn hangs up.
Priscilla makes a frustrated sound and shoves her phone back into a pocket on the side of her shorts. “Morning, Pri,” the fifty-something redhead behind the counter calls out.
Priscilla or rather “Pri” hurries forward to greet her. “Morning, LouAnne.”
Her shorts are red. Her voice is sweet. Her ass is sweeter. That doesn’t mean she’s sweet. In fact, some of the most dangerous people I’ve ever known had nice asses and cold hearts. I’ve never really found the idea of being fucked dead appealing.
“Your usual?” LouAnne asks her.
“I need a treat,” Pri replies. “White mocha, please, skim milk, but hit me with the whipped cream.”
“You got it, honey. I’ll charge your account.”
Pri heads down the counter to wait on her drink.
I lay cash on the table. “Same as her. It sounded good.”
“How cute,” she says, whatever the fuck that means. “But it’s a good choice. It’s the best drink we have.”
“Keep the change,” I say. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”
I step away from the register and find Pri staring at the television, watching a cooking show, of all things when she doesn’t strike me as the domestic type. I’m now at the pick-up counter when she speaks to the woman next to her, who is also watching the show. “These shows make me wish I could cook.”
The woman casts her a sideways look. “That bad, huh?”
“I’m horrible,” Pri says. “I gave up years ago.”
The male coffee barista calls out, “White mocha.”
Pri turns and reaches for the cup, I reach for it as well. I did, after all, order a white mocha.
Chapter Three
ADRIAN
My hand collides with Pri’s hand and a second later, I have my first close-up with the woman holding my future in her reach. And holy fuck, when her pretty blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes meet mine, I feel an unexpected, sharp pang of charge between us that has no place in this encounter.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, jerking her hand back and giving a nervous laugh. “I ordered a white mocha, I thought that was mine.”
She’s beautiful, polite even, and everything male in me roars to life. “Per the barista we very adorably ordered the same drink, but you were in front of me. I didn’t realize you didn’t have your drink yet.” I offer her the drink. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn’t wait my turn?”
“White mocha!” the barista calls out.
She smiles, and it’s charming as hell. “Now we both have our drinks.”
My lips curve. “I guess we do.”
I offer her my hand and my brother’s name. “Rafael Ramos,” I say, using my brother’s stage name, the lie told by necessity, not choice. I’m trying to stay alive, and I may be the person who keeps her alive. Or not. That’s still to be determined.
She accepts my hand and the charge between us is back and instant. She feels it too, her lashes lowering, as if she’s trying to hide her response, her gaze slowly lifting. “Priscilla Miller,” she says, and when I reluctantly, and I do mean reluctantly, release her hand, she adds, “but call me Pri. It’s not much better than Priscilla, but then everything is better than Priscilla.”
“Nice to meet you, Pri. You hate the name that much, huh?”
“Oh yes,” she confirms. “My mother had a thing for Priscilla Presley, as in Elvis’s ex.” She holds up a hand. “Don’t ask. I don’t understand either.”
“What do you do, Pri?”
“I’m an attorney. What about you?”
“Private security,” I say because the truth is, I’m going to face her as the real me, sooner than later. I’d prefer to do so with as few lies between us as possible. “What kind of law do you practice?”
“Criminal. I’m an Assistant DA.” Her brows dip with an obvious thought. “Rafael. There’s a singer named Rafael. You look like him. You’re not—”
“No,” I say, cursing my brother, who makes me proud as hell, but his newly escalated popularity in the states is not in my favor right about now. “But,” I add, “I get that a lot.”
“Priscilla!”
At the shout of her name, Pri turns away and then rotates right back to me, literally grabbing my arm, which is a surprisingly intimate gesture, not that I’m complaining. In fact, color me intrigued. “My God,” she whispers urgently, “it’s my mother. I can’t be alone with her. Please help. Pretend to be my date?”
I arch a brow. “Pretend to be your date?”
“Please?”
Oh, how I’d like her to say please again, and for many other reasons. “What do I get in return?”
“Priscilla, honey.”
Pri’s eyes plead with me and she says, “Name your price—later.”
She turns and her mother wraps her in a hug. “God, I’m so worried about you.” She pulls back to study Pri. “
You look horrible.”
“Thanks for pointing that out, Mom.” She grimaces and she even does that pretty. “I just went running,” she adds. “I have on no make-up.”
Her mother’s eyes find mine and there is no question Pri is her mother’s daughter, her eyes just as blue, her skin just as porcelain. Mother Pri gives me a once over, taking in my sweats and T-shirt, lingering on the ink on my arms, a tight inspection before she says, “Oh. My. You do pretty well for no make-up, honey. Muscles. Tattoos. Tall, dark, and good looking. Who is this?”
Pri face palms and amused, I say, “Rafael, and I don’t have on any make-up either.”
She laughs. “You’re funny. I’m Amanda, Pri’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, but she’s already dismissed me to scowl at Pri. “I like him. Does he know he’s in danger just being near you?”
Pri’s cheeks flush, her hands going up. “Okay stop, Mom,” she bites out, low but tight. “Please. Rafael doesn’t need you to scare him off. I can do just fine myself.” She motions to her face. “I look horrible, remember?”
“You look great,” she says. “Always. I’m critical right now because I’m worried about you. I’m looking for signs of stress.” She pauses for effect. “I’m sorry. Please come back to the firm. Drop this case.”
“No,” Pri says, and I can sense the strain between them, as if they were once close, but there’s now a wall between them. “And you should be happy,” she adds. “I’ve given you an excuse to go hide out in Paris for a couple of months. Why are you still here?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” her mother assures her. “Come with us.”
“No, Mother,” Pri bites out, prim but firm. “I have a case. An important case and right now, I’m with Rafael.”
I sip my coffee and arch a brow.
“Right,” Amanda says, glancing in my direction. “Please protect her.”
The plea hits a nerve, about ten, actually, that all tie back to my failure to kill the King Devil. Now people who didn’t have to die are dead. “I will,” I promise and I mean it—if she’s one of the good guys.
Amanda motions to Pri. “Can we talk?”
“So you can tell me why dad and I should talk and why I should drop this case and come back to the firm?”
“Yes, actually.”
“No to all of those things,” Pri says, “but I still love you. Text me your flight info and I’ll see you off.”
Amanda sighs. “You win. I’ll leave. I’ll just go get my coffee.” She hugs Pri, “I love you, too, sweetie.” She eyes me over Pri’s shoulder and releases her daughter. “Nice to meet you, Rafael.”
I give her a nod and she walks away. Pri steps in front of me, close, but not close enough as far as I’m concerned. “I’m so sorry. Can we step outside, beyond her prying eyes and ears?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
She turns and starts walking toward the door with purpose, offering me another delicious view of her perfect ass in the process. My lips curve, and I follow her, a predator with his prey in his sights, and soon we’re outside, the day heating up because in Texas it’s always heating up—the undercurrent of heat between us, even hotter.
“Thank you,” she says, the minute we’re outside behind a wall offering us privacy from the indoor guests. She rotates to face me, her breasts thrust high, every one of her many lush curves tempting my mouth and hands, but my attraction to her does nothing to dismiss my distrust. “And I’m so sorry I did that to you,” she adds. “You don’t even know me, but I’m good to my word. What do I owe you?”
The list of requests I could make right now are long and detailed, the most PG: dinner. Every male part of me wants to ask her out, to get to know her on the most intimate of levels—a plan I could justify easily as a means to establishing her true intent, but I’d be full of shit. It’s the wrong move, the move Adrian Mack of the Devils would make. I am not that man. I will never be him again.
Already, she’s going to be pissed when she finds out who I am and that is coming sooner rather than later. Already, I’ve ensured she will hate me when the real me is identified. Asking her out, leading her on, would be a death wish for me, at least with her. And right now, for all I know, she’s aiding Waters, the King Devil himself, who does want me dead.
“You owe me nothing,” I say. “I was just teasing you on that. I don’t believe in debts.”
There’s a hint of what I believe is surprise in her eyes. “Most people take where they can take.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Why is she so worried?”
“I’m prosecuting a very bad man.”
“Why is he bad?” I ask.
“Let me count the ways.”
“You’re not afraid?”
She folds her arms in front of her, a protective stance. “Terrified.”
I arch a brow. “And you’re still moving forward?”
“Someone has to.” She drops her arms, “And I mean, they really have to.”
“Because he’s bad,” I say and it’s not a question. He is bad.
“Very bad. And I care. I want to make a difference. It’s not political or showboating for me. I need to do this and do it well.”
I believe her. She’s motivated. She cares. But I’m also attracted to her, really fucking attracted to her, and I’ve learned the hard way that when it comes to people when it gets personal, fact-checking is lifesaving.
Adam’s voice sounds in my ear, “I’m out. All clear. And so far, so is she.”
I don’t reply to him. Instead, I study Pri, searching my gut for a bad reaction that doesn’t follow. “I changed my mind,” I say. “You do owe me.”
Her lips part and her head tilts, anticipation in her expression. “All right. What do I owe you?”
“The next time I see you here, you let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Surprise, and then pleasure, seeps into her eyes, curving her lips. “Deal.”
I know this is where she expects me to set that date, but I don’t do that. I can’t do that. Instead, I lean in closer, a little closer, not near as close as I’d like and I say, “You look sexy as hell without make-up.” I wink and turn away, leaving her standing there.
Chapter Four
PRISCILLA
When was the last time I looked into a man’s eyes and felt my stomach flutter?
The answer: too long to remember before today.
I leave the coffee shop, coffee in hand, and during the three-block walk to my house, I’m still reliving my encounter with Rafael, replaying every word spoken, every casual touch that didn’t feel casual at all. Of course, my mother showed up, and Rafael was too sharp not to notice the tension. I’m definitely not the girl who takes a man home to the family, especially since my ex, whose still the son my father never had, would likely be there.
Arriving at my house, I disarm the alarm, enter, and shut the door, listening for any sound that might not belong, and when my nerves are eating away at me, I reset the alarm and then yank open the drawer to the table by the door, and remove my handgun. This is insane. If I’m going to keep doing this job, I need to move to a high-security apartment. I try to remind myself that not every case involves the King Devil, as Waters calls himself, but that’s hard to digest. My life is the devil right now, and people keep dying. No. They keep getting killed. Witnesses are dying. I’m not a witness, but I do have a responsibility to ensure they’re protected and that the people the Devils hurt find some justice.
I ease down the hallway and good Lord, I can’t stop myself. I call out, “Hello? Anyone here?” As if a killer would just say, “Oh, hi there, Pri, I’m in here in the kitchen.” Angry at my stupidity, I stiffen my spine and head down the hallway, my tennis shoes soft on the search of the house. When I’m certain it’s clear, I set the gun on my teal kitchen island and pull up a stool in front of my MacBook to check my messages before I shower. I quickly scan my inb
ox, hoping to hear from Agent Pitt about former FBI Agent Adrian Mack. Mack was inside the Devils’ operation, close to Waters. His testimony can take Waters down. He’s the one man between Waters and freedom.
I press my hands to my face. This case is huge. I have a team of people working with me, and while the DA manages every step I take and runs the case from the golf course. The pressure is immense and now, the danger, extreme. At least if I’d been an FBI agent, I could go to work with my weapon on my person. I’m licensed to carry but in my role, a gun at my hip, could be called intimidation. It certainly works against easing the nerves of witnesses. Instead, it’s hidden in my purse, which isn’t close enough for comfort right now.
I sip my coffee, which is now cold, and toss it in the trash before I dial Agent Pitt. He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t answer. He’s the only link I have to Adrian Mack, who’s been in hiding for over two years. He’s supposed to be locating Mack for me. Why would he actually take my call?
For reasons I cannot explain, especially right now, of all times, in the middle of a killer case, quite literally, my mind is back on Rafael. I quickly google “Rafael,” looking for the singer, who seems to have no last name, and the first image I pull up has my lips parting. My God, I was right. He really does look like the man I just met, only not quite like him. The resemblance is uncanny though and just to be sure, I google Rafael’s, as in the singer’s, tattoos. I couldn’t quite make out all of the ink on my Rafael, but I know that it was black and red.
My gaze rakes over the singer’s naked upper torso, and his ink is brightly colored, which means he is not my Rafael. The singer Rafael does have really amazing ripped abs and I wonder if my Rafael has those abs. I’m fairly certain the answer is yes. I’m one hundred percent certain that I’d like to find out. My phone rings and I glance at the number to find Grace, a co-worker, fellow assistant DA, and friend, who wants me at a party tonight. I’d ignore the call, except she’s a good friend, the kind I never had back at the firm and it’s her birthday. “Hey,” I say, answering the call.
When He's Dirty (Walker Security: Adrian’s Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
