Sweet Deception

by Angel Nicholas

  The dust and her sneezing fit finally subsided. She opened watery eyes. Moe stood over her, big arms crossed over his burly chest. Her heart skipped a beat. If he followed through on Victor’s offer, she didn’t have a prayer of stopping him. He was built like a Hummer—the military ones.

  “You are a load of trouble, woman.”

  Biting her lip, Ally eyed him.

  He didn’t fall on her, ripping her clothes off. “I feel sorry for the man who takes you on.”

  She bristled. “Hey.”

  Moe checked his watch. “Time to scream.”

  “Uhm…what?”

  “I’m supposed to be…” He waved a hand toward her pelvis and Ally reflexively crossed her legs. “You know, having my way with you. My reward for being a good boy.”

  “Seriously? ‘Having your way with me’? Nobody says that.” Ally rolled her eyes and struggled into a sitting position, no easy feat with her arms tied behind her back.

  “Just scream already.”

  She pictured a big, fat rat crawling up her leg and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Moe winced and fell back a step.

  She kept screaming. Moe leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed, the skin tight across his cheekbones and his eyes narrowed. He’d probably love to cover his ears but didn’t want to hurt the whole tough-guy, macho thing he had going. He could give Greg lessons in inscrutability, and Greg wasn’t any slouch.

  Moe’s lack of interest in raping her went a long way toward convincing her something else was going on. Despite the general absence of expression, switched up with a look of bored menace, which must come in handy in his line of work. DEA? FBI? CIA?

  “Shut up,” he bellowed.

  Ally started and shut her mouth with an audible snap.

  He walked to the side of the bed on silent feet. An impressive achievement, considering the age of house and its creaky floorboards. “Sorry.” His voice was pitched low. “I figured it fit the situation. Besides, one of my eardrums blew two minutes ago.”

  His lips twitched and she grinned. If she weren’t in love with Greg, Moe could throw her for a loop, now that he was on her side. He was very handsome, in a thickly muscled, too much testosterone, “me strong man, you little woman,” sort of way.

  “Would you mind scooting over?” he asked.

  Ally scooted. He sat beside her and flipped open a deadly looking little switchblade. Her saliva dried to dust as he leaned close. Guess she wasn’t quite convinced of his stellar intentions, after all. Moe grabbed her bound hands. The cool metal of his blade pressed into her wrist and she was free.

  Massaging her abraded skin, she eyed him. He winked, reached behind her and began banging the headboard against the wall. Repeatedly.

  Heat flooded Ally’s cheeks. “Good grief.”

  “If possible, I’ll hold off until Detective Marsing arrives,” Moe said between thuds. “Arresting Victor, rescuing you and holding Joe at bay at the same time could be tricky otherwise.”

  “So you are some sort of undercover agent.”

  Gray eyes void of expression, he merely continued the rhythmic thumping. The pretend sex rattled her.

  “You have a rather high estimation of your…err, capabilities, don’t you?”

  Something crossed his face, enough to remind her he’d seen her naked and spread-eagled.

  “Not really.”

  She swallowed. A woman would have to be dead to be immune to Moe’s virile appeal. Especially once he stopped snarling at her.

  He stopped hitting the headboard against the wall and groaned, loud and long, still holding her gaze. Ally couldn’t look away; her flush deepened until her face was on fire.

  He winked again and stood, breaking the spell. “Lay down.”

  Refusing to look at him, she obeyed. Moe stood and yanked open her blouse, scattering buttons everywhere. Then he flipped open the buttons on her jeans. She gasped, slapped his hands away and yanked the ends of her shirt together then shifted her hips to the side. “What are you—”

  He smacked her. The sting spread through her mouth. Numbness followed. Ally froze, eyes wide. Blood trickled down her chin. She put the tip of her tongue to her lower lip and tentatively felt where the skin had split.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but if you don’t look like you put up a fight and I did some damage, they’ll never believe…”

  The door creaked. His hands went to the fly of his pants. For an endless minute, he stared down at her then dropped his hands and turned.

  Moe blocked her view of the door, intentional or not she didn’t know and didn’t care. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth and her face throbbed.

  “If you’re through, bring her back into the other room,” Victor instructed from the doorway.

  Ally imagined Victor’s smug smirk and shrank back on the bed. Moe didn’t say a word, just nodded.

  “She must’ve been a damn fine lay, to have struck you speechless.”

  Victor closed the door, but his chuckle penetrated the thin wood. Moe turned back around and she lurched back, smacking into the wall. He didn’t move, simply watched her. “You okay?”

  “Do you care?” She flinched.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

  Biting her tongue, Ally faced the wall. Then she glanced back, too afraid of his lightning- fast moves not to.

  “I’m sorry, Ally.” He’d never used her name before. “I did what I had to do to keep you safe and me under the radar. For now. It would’ve been worse if I warned you ahead of time.”

  He didn’t look sorry. As a matter of fact, his complete lack of expression was downright creepy. The few times he hadn’t been without expression passed through her mind—when she’d taunted him, amused him or when he’d winked at her—but she shoved them away. Moe was clearly not trustworthy. The throbbing of her cheek was reminder enough, thank you very much.

  He sighed. “Let’s go.”

  Ally scooted away from his outstretched hand and slid off the end of the bed.

  Moe opened the door, grabbed her elbow, despite her attempted evasion, and ushered her into the room next door. He none too gently pushed her into the metal chair and knelt to retie her legs.

  Curly still held up the same portion of wall, eyeing her with vivid dislike. His nose seemed to have swollen more in her absence and his lips were parted to allow him to breath. She’d earned his enmity and couldn’t care less.

  Victor, on the other hand, bothered her big time.

  He eyed her critically. “You need to learn to cooperate, doll-face. You wouldn’ ge’ slapped around so much.” He strolled over and pressed a finger against the tender skin on the side of her face where Moe had slapped her. She winced.

  His sleazy smile emerged, not big enough to reveal his tobacco-stained teeth, but evidence enough to warn smart people away—the ones with a choice. “You might even find you enjoy it. ’Sides, I can’ keep having my property getting messed up.”

  Oh, hell no. Ally glared up into his slimy face. “I’m no one’s property, especially not yours. And enjoy it? Seriously? You are one sick freak.”

  Moe’s soft sigh penetrated her irritation and she glanced down at him. His eyes held a warning when they met hers. He yanked the ropes tight around her ankles. She returned her attention to Victor, uncertain of Moe’s motives and fighting off fear like the hard throb of a bad toothache.

  Victor’s smile vanished and he roughly patted her sore cheek. Her pain rose from a dull throb to rich, vibrant agony.

  “One fella mus’ no’ be enough. Tha’s okay. I have a lo’ of clients who would enjoy breaking you, doll-face, so I’ll le’ tha’ one slide.”

  Discovering an intensely fascinating niche in the wall, Ally stared straight ahead and ignored Slimeball. Curly snarled and straightened from the wall. Finished rendering her helpless, Moe stood and Curly subsided.

  Whatever. She didn’t need Moe to be her hero. Regardless of how Greg felt about her, she kn
ew he’d arrive sooner or later.

  She really hoped the sooner part applied.

  Ally raised her chin as Victor left the room and met Moe’s gaze. He watched her with his usual inscrutability. She barely resisted snorting. A CIA agent? What had she been thinking? Why would any government agency be interested in Victor?

  Forced prostitution was illegal, but the government wouldn’t be interested in a small-time criminal. She assumed he was small-time. Otherwise, why would he be hanging in a rundown, decrepit old house using her as bait to force a confrontation with a lowly detective?

  The thought of being bait reminded her of last time. Which reminded her of her freshly healing injury. A throb of exquisite anguish shot through her, originating below her shoulder and radiating outward until her fingertips vibrated with pain. She struggled to bite back a sob.

  Her vision hazed.

  “Seems only fair I should get time alone with the little bitch.” Curly’s whining voice grated, but she focused on it anyway. Anything to shut out the hurt. The tank top beneath her shirt was damp and warm liquid seeped down her front. Fantastic. Her freshly sutured and bandaged wound had started bleeding again. The doctor would be so pleased.

  Moe stirred. “Shut up, Joe.”

  “Who left you in charge?” Curly snarled.

  “I did.” Moe’s tone alone would have made her give way, but Curly was too thick-skulled.

  “She broke my fucking nose, man. The least she can do is provide a little fun while we wait.” Curly curled his fists, knuckles white.

  Moe leaned against the wall, not even looking at the other man, watching her. “No.”

  Face red, fists rising, Curly took two steps toward Moe. Moe whirled and pinned him to the wall. Again. How much humiliation could one man take? Curly flailed uselessly.

  Moe leaned in close. “You heard what the detective on the phone said. You wanna be caught with your pants around your ankles and your dick flapping in the breeze when the SWAT team arrives?”

  “My dick doesn’t flap,” Curly snarled.

  Despite his belligerence, his fists relaxed and the color receded from his face. Moe let him go. Curly’s feet thumped to the floor.

  Ally’s eyes widened. Sure, Moe’s muscles bulged and stretched the sleeves of his simple T-shirt, but Curly was no lightweight. The guy was huge. Massive. WWF material.

  Victor slammed into the room, his typical savoir-faire gone with the wind. His pale cheeks were flushed, his scraggly hair sticking up and his pockmarked face covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The clip-on tie of his business suit—Did he fancy himself the CEO of a successful sex-trade company or something?—sat at an odd angle.

  A burst of unholy amusement caught Ally by surprise. Counseling, and lots of it, clearly lay in her future.

  “He’s here.” Victor’s voice was high-pitched and almost feminine. “Move, you morons. Guard the doors.”

  The dude had lost it. His bellowing could probably be heard a block over. Real clever way to surprise the enemy. Or the good guys, in this particular case.

  Victor latched onto a handful of her hair. Her amusement fled. Pain shot through her skull and she winced. He pressed the muzzle of a gun she couldn’t see against her temple.

  Moe hadn’t moved since Victor’s dramatic entrance. “What are you doing?”

  “Wha’ the hell difference does it make? Ge’ in position.” Victor ground the gun against her temple and Ally fought back a cry of pain. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Too late, Victor.”

  Greg. Ally’s gaze flew to the doorway, where his broad shoulders filled the frame. Victor pressed his gun even harder. She ground her teeth and fixed her gaze on Greg, on the grim determination in his eyes and the ridged line of his jaw.

  “Wha’ are you gonna do, Detective? One wrong move and doll-face here is splattered all over the walls and tha’ fancy sui’ you’re wearing.”

  Greg was wearing an awfully nice suit. Ally frowned. Had he rushed to her rescue from a hot date? A very formal hot date? The no-good, two-timing jerk. Her stomach rolled and her narrowed gaze shot back up to his.

  “Give it up, Victor. This dump is surrounded. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, no? No’ even…” Victor yanked on her hair.

  She gasped.

  “If I take her along for a little walk?”

  “I’m not letting you leave this room with her, let alone for a stroll outside.”

  Greg widened his stance and Ally flashed to a movie scene. An old spaghetti western, the bad guy and the sheriff facing off at high noon on a dusty street. Granted, the bad guy didn’t have a gun to the head of a hostage in that movie. And the sheriff/hero wasn’t wearing a designer tuxedo. She frowned.

  A metallic click made her jump.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. Hard. She didn’t know a whole lot about guns, but she was very fond of movies. The click had sounded an awful lot like a firing mechanism snapping into place.

  Eyes squeezed tightly shut, it took a second to identify the scrabble of feet across the hardwood floor, followed by a grunt. Her world tilted. The pressure at her temple disappeared and she crashed sideways onto the floor, still tied up.

  Ally snapped her eyes open.

  Greg rushed forward and relief flooded her. He blew by—Rude!—leaving her lying on the nasty floor. More grunts followed. Squirming, she managed to turn the chair around. The three men rolled in a heap, the smack of flesh hitting flesh filling the room.

  Victor went limp. Greg and Moe sat back on their heels, eyeing one another. Greg broke first. “You must be Agent Daniel St. James.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A muscle twitched in Moe’s jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Greg stood and offered him a hand up, which he took with every appearance of wariness. “Really? DEA agent working undercover for over a year, gathering evidence of drug-dealing to put Victor away and take apart his operation? Ring any bells?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Amazing. Moe sounded totally pissed off, but his expression remained bland.

  “I have a few connections, Agent St. James.”

  “Pretty high connections, Detective Marsing.”

  Greg inclined his head and dusted off his suit. Ally knew from her up-close perusal the grime was an unholy combination of animal droppings, paint shards and dirt. The suit was a total loss. Pity.

  Ally cleared her throat and both men turned. “Hi. If you two aren’t too busy…”

  “Right.”

  “Sorry.”

  Moe, err…Daniel, uhm…Agent St. James reached her first. He sliced through the rope around her ankles with his trusty pocketknife. She rolled into a sitting position and he reached behind her to free her hands. Again.

  Greg’s gaze landed on her cheek and his expression hardened. “What happened to her?”

  Moe glanced at her cheek and winced.

  Fists clenched, Greg took a step forward. “So help me, if you did that, you won’t be walking out of here.”

  Ally let Moe help her up. Nibbling on her lower lip, she looked between the two men and raised a placating hand. “He didn’t mean to, exactly.”

  Greg turned glittering eyes on her. “Exactly?”

  She took a step back.

  Agent St. James spoke up. “You weren’t here, Detective Marsing. Things happen.”

  “Not to Ally. You were supposed to protect her.”

  “No, my job was exposing Victor for the drug-dealing slime he is and getting him and his drug pushers off the streets. Not protecting some woman foolish enough to get caught by Victor. Twice.”

  Ally straightened and glared at St. James. “Hey—”

  Who just kept talking over her. “Even if she is your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Greg growled.

  Ally sucked in a breath. Way harsh. Apparently, convenient fuck-bunny defined her better.

&n
bsp; “Then there’s no reason for you to be concerned.” Agent St. James stepped closer, placing her in the shadow of his well-muscled frame. Ally didn’t move, her muscles solidified by betrayal and heartache. She turned her face toward St. James, closed her eyes and breathed in his spicy cologne. Anything to distract her from Greg.

  The heavy thud of feet heralded the arrival of several police officers. Under Greg’s direction, they hauled Victor to his feet. He came to and the words pouring out of his surly mouth didn’t bear repeating.

  Greg followed the officers carting Victor to the door. He paused, his gaze darting from St. James to her. Eyes narrowed, Greg opened and closed his mouth several times. His lips thinned and he turned on his heel. Ally sucked in a quiet breath and blinked away a flash of pointless tears.

  In his absence, the totally embarrassing and extremely intimate things Agent St. James had witnessed flooded Ally’s memory. Cheeks warm, she looked down.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Lovely. You?”

  “Well, I could use a vacation.” He grinned. For a man so out of practice with smiling, it was lethal when unleashed. Warmth unfurled in her belly, pushing aside the pain of Greg’s denial. She returned his smile.

  “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  St. James nodded to the blood soaking through her shirt. “Your Detective Marsing seems like the thorough type, so I imagine there’s an ambulance out front. Better get that looked at.”

  Ally stiffened. “You heard him. He’s not my anything.”

  He arched his brow and walked away. She followed St. James out and let an EMT do her thing. Having assorted boo-boos patched up after being mauled and abused by some criminally inclined psycho was getting to be old hat. The EMT finished up with a few dire warnings about reopening injuries, and she hopped out of the back of the ambulance.

  St. James offered his arm. “Shall we go?”

  She grinned at the chivalrous gesture and accepted, even if she didn’t entirely trust him, ignoring the speculative looks cast their way by the police officers. Awareness of him as a man, an attractive man, further confused the emotions swirling through her.