by Brynne Asher
Holy fuck.
I exhale a whoosh of air. That must have gotten his attention because his eyes jump to mine right before he pulls me closer. His breath is warm on my temple as Ed sings on, his words and music impossibly sexier than I ever realized while in the arms of a stranger named Eli.
Just as I drag my hands up his body, feeling his abs and wide chest through his thin tee, his hand drops to my ass for a quick squeeze before he spins me, holding my back to his front. But now, I feel all of him, his hands tight on my hips and his face dips, pressing into my hair. I let my head fall back onto his shoulder when his groin moves against my lower back and ass. His hand sneaks around my waist, dipping under the hem of my blouse to tease my bare skin, and it’s all I can do not to give him my weight.
In all my thirty years, I’ve never experienced a sexier four minutes. At this moment, I think I’d do anything he asks as long as he never stops touching me.
My body is buzzing in a whole new way—a better way. An off-the-charts way.
But all good things end.
It seems to be the fucking rule of my life because, just as the song is winding down, I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket.
Like a bucket of ice water, the warm body encasing mine stills. As if an alarm woke me from an erotic dream filled only with music and a stranger, the tremor of my phone rocks us both out of the moment. My dance partner’s hands tense and, just like that, I lose his heat.
He lets go of me and I have to catch myself on my heels from the loss of his support. I turn to look at him and what I see is not what I expect.
His expression is hard and he’s glaring as if I’ve committed a crime—a terrible one, at that.
I try to catch my breath and he brings his hand up and roughly grips the back of his neck as his glare intensifies which makes my insides tighten. Dammit, I’m always in control—of myself and most definitely my emotions. I almost jump when my ass vibrates again and I hate that I’m left feeling rejected after only one dance with a stranger.
I look down at my phone. It’s Donny. He’s here, waiting for me, double parked at the front door. Just like always, he said he’d be there until I’m ready.
Reaching up, I tuck my hair behind my ear and hate that my face is probably flushed more from his touch than the heat of the crowd. When I sneak one last look, hoping for some explanation of his sudden change in demeanor, I find the same stormy, dark eyes.
Wanting nothing more than to escape, I don’t even take the time to find my friends. It’s late. I’ll send Donny back for them. Waving my cell lamely, I mutter, “My ride is here.”
I don’t want to touch him again, but have no choice since he’s standing between me and my much-needed exit. Putting my hand to his wide chest, I give the guy a decent shove and he shifts, forcing me to brush by him as I muster up all my confidence to walk with purpose.
And I do.
I walk away. It was only four fucking minutes. I know nothing about him and he hardly spoke a handful of words. Though, he did rescue Mr. Blondie from a broken nose that would have possibly meant blood all over me.
So maybe he saved me.
No. I would’ve been fine. Eli was a convenient, yet sexy, excuse to escape from an asshole and I took it. It just sucks Eli, the stranger, turned out to be an ass, too.
I push through the front doors and just like he said he would be, Donny is standing beside our black Escalade. He’s worked for my family for years and, since he’s good at his job, his eyes are on me before I even spot him. He does all kinds of things for Montgomery Industries and on the ranch for my dad. Sometimes he’s security but on nights like tonight, he’s my driver.
Right now, I’m more grateful for him than ever.
He holds the back-passenger door open for me as I hurry to him, cars trying to make their way around the double-parked SUV.
As I take his hand, climbing up into the back, he asks, “You okay, Jenny? Where’re the others?”
“I’m fine. Just too tired and too old for this. Do you mind coming back for them?”
Donny, who’s in his late forties with a full head of beautiful peppered-gray hair, smiles. “Don’t you worry. I’ll get them home safe and sound.”
I sink into the leather seat and reach for my seatbelt. My adrenaline crashing, I’m suddenly exhausted and can’t even muster a small smile for one of my favorite people. “Thanks.”
He shuts my door and, when he moves to walk around the back, my eyes dart to the sidewalk where Eli has appeared. It’s like night and day seeing him under the bright streetlight, but it doesn’t change a thing. Even though I know he can’t see me through the dark tinted windows, it feels as if he’s staring straight into my soul when he runs a hand roughly down his face before closing his eyes.
“Traffic isn’t bad. We should be at your place in less than ten minutes.” Donny slides behind the driver’s seat and I hear the turn signal as he waits to merge.
I let my manners ingrained into me by Hattie Montgomery take over but I know it sounds disingenuous since I can't take my eyes off my dance partner. “Thank you.”
As Donny pulls away, Eli throws his tattooed arm down and, even though I can’t hear it from inside the soundproof Cadillac, the last thing I see is the word fuck tumbling angrily from his lips.
The same lips that brushed my hair, my skin, and hummed into my ear on the makeshift dance floor.
Then, he’s gone.
And for someone who manages millions on a daily basis and deals with some of the shrewdest men in the industry, I find myself feeling … alone.
What the fuck?
That’s when I decide I’m never going out again.
Chapter 2
Person of Interest
Jen
“We’re behind schedule.”
Sitting in the conference room, I look across the table at my brother-in-law, Robert. He joined Montgomery Industries recently and reports to me. When our long-time CFO retired and I stepped into the position, Robert convinced my father he wanted to contribute to the family business. After many months of discussion, I relented, but only for my sister’s sake, and he took over as controller. Not that she ever got in the middle of it—Ellie has no interest in MI, she’s set between her trust fund and what Robert makes.
But I was afraid she was catching shit at home from Robert—he’s difficult and that makes him somewhat of an asshat.
He’s not the kind of asshat who’d abuse his wife and child—I’ll give him that. If any of us thought that was the case, the Montgomerys would go guns-a-blazing and rip his balls off before taking him for a long walk to the north forty to never return. No, Robert Ketteman is smart. He worked his way up to the vice president position in his last company, but that company wasn’t in the same league as MI.
No, he’s the kind of asshat who’s a blowhard and thinks he’s smarter than everyone around him. But worse, he’s so wrapped up in himself, he pays little attention to his son and even less to his wife. If my baby sister thought having a baby would fix that, she was mistaken. As sweet as my nephew is, having Griffin hasn’t improved her stale marriage in the slightest.
Since Robert started, his know-it-all personality has blazed like a forest fire and it seems every answer I give him is nothing but fuel-soaked kindling. His newest point of contention is our latest acquisition. I need a team player who’s willing to offer insight and solutions as opposed to judgments and roadblocks. I was controller for two years before taking the CFO position in preparation for my father’s semi-retirement. It’s not like I don’t understand his job.
I lean back in my chair and cross my legs as I look straight at Robert, ignoring the rest of the principals in the room. “We’re not far behind schedule. Taking a publicly-traded company private isn’t done overnight. You know proposition letters have been sent to shareholders and we’ve been in contact with the SEC. Our offers are well above market value and, since Birmingham shares have done nothing but nosedive in the last six months, the
re shouldn’t be a problem.”
He steeples his fingers and his voice remains unimpressed. “I’m aware of the proposition letters. But Birmingham Refining is in the red, not to mention the negative press surrounding them for environmental infractions. The longer we let this go, the harder it’ll be to dig ourselves out.”
“This has been in the works for over a year. Enough Birmingham stakeholders have either already sold off or accepted our offer. Since we’re close to the shareholder threshold required for them to deregister on the exchange, we’re in a perfect position.” Birmingham Refining is in the toilet, but they have the infrastructure we need to expand in the southeast. We’re purchasing strictly for their assets but, in exchange, we’re getting most of their workforce who will keep their positions.
The phone in the center of the conference table rings but I ignore it and keep talking. My patience is wearing. “Your experience is in the tech and service industries. Refining is a different ballgame. Trust me when I say, their assets are well worth the cash we’re shelling out and our PR team is ready to inform the public of all we plan to do to clean up their messes. It’ll only make us look better.”
He just won’t stop. “All I’m saying is there are other refineries out there we can look at that aren’t the level of risk as—”
“Excuse me, Jen?” My assistant, Callie, interrupts over the speaker.
I wonder if I should be grateful for the disturbance even though I asked her to hold everything. “Yes?”
She clears her throat. “Um, can you pick up, please?”
I frown, but reach for the handset and press a button as I put the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”
Now that I have her off speaker, my assistant, who isn’t much younger than me, is hurried and unnerved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. Reception just called up. It’s the FBI. They’re here and security is keeping them in the lobby.”
What the hell? I look around the table at everyone eyeing me with the same curiosity that’s zipping through me. “Did they say why they’re here?”
“No. But they’re asking for you.”
I look down at my fingernails and lower my voice. “Excuse me?”
“I know!” she panics through the phone. “More like demanding to speak to you. And from the way reception described it, they’re not interested in waiting for you to finish your meeting. Jen, they have a warrant!”
“I’ll be right there.” Looking around the room, my eyes land on Rick Byrd, our long-time Chief Operating Officer and my father’s long-time friend. “Excuse me, something’s come up. Will you please update everyone on operations and the transition plans?”
Rick nods and I don’t look at anyone else. Smoothing my pencil skirt, I turn on my spiked heel, but instead of going to the elevator to do as the FBI has asked, I move straight for the office of our lead counsel. No way am I dealing with the feds without an attorney at my side.
*****
Eli
In life, there’s no state of right and wrong. Even in the legal system that I’ve been a part of for the last nine years, there’s black and there’s gray—which is another word for not guilty.
It’s how humans are wired. We’re sinful by nature—hell, it all started with Adam and Eve and that forbidden fucking apple. That first insidious, juicy bite set the rest of humankind on a path straight to hell and the only thing keeping us out is our own sheer will and determination to stay on a northerly course.
That’s the gray.
If we aim for what’s right, and, in the process, veer, hitting that murky area between black and white, we should smack ourselves on the ass and call it a good day.
I should know. After working undercover, I’m a poster child for living in the gray and had that shit tattooed on my skin the day I was done working in the depths of the mafia.
But Saturday night, while working surveillance on a case, I crossed the line, causing my compass to point straight south. From what I gathered after leaving the bar with my new co-workers that night and so far this morning, no one knows but me and the target of the white-collar crime case I was assigned to—Jensen Montgomery.
“I know we’re not busting down doors, but you could try to not look like you’re going to die of boredom,” Bree chirps. When I look over, she’s glaring at me while Dean just shakes his head.
“He’s not used to this shit,” Dean drawls before throwing me a glance. “This is what happens after being made on a huge case—you get sent to white-collar crime. Not that you should be surprised. I’ve heard about you—you were hired for it in the beginning before you went under.”
He’s not wrong. The Bureau hired me right out of Harvard Business School. I went straight to the Academy after graduating with a major in accounting and a minor in criminal justice. After two years of working every type of case from fraud to embezzlement to money laundering, I went under to investigate the money trail in an organized crime case. That one went well and I went under again on a much bigger case—the MacLachlan family. And Dean’s right—the way that ended up, I was made. My name and face were plastered all over the national news for helping dismantle one of the largest organized crime syndicates in more than a decade.
I gave the color gray a new definition while I was in deep with the MacLachlans. Walking the line of right and wrong became my way of life. Hell, it was my way of surviving.
The FBI shipped my ass halfway across the country and put me back on white-collar crimes because of the publicity. At the age of thirty-four, I’m pretty sure I won’t see any action for the rest of my career, which sucks.
I’ve only been in Texas for a few days and am just getting up to speed on the Montgomery case.
But Bree is wrong. After working undercover, I might’ve perfected the look of boredom but right now my blood is pumping faster than a Lone Star State oil rig as I stand here and wait for the subject of our current investigation. The same subject I lost control with two nights ago while on surveillance at a club.
I’m fucking furious with myself.
I’m Elijah Pettit. I don’t lose control.
Jensen Omera Montgomery has been the main subject of this investigation for months and under constant surveillance for nearly four weeks. I read up on her when I joined the case late last week but Saturday night she did something no other target has ever done—she fucking drew me into a conversation.
Jensen, aka Jen to those close to her, is the middle child of Kippling “Kipp” and Harriet “Hattie” Montgomery. Kipp Montgomery is a third-generation rancher and, after reading his background, it’s not the kind of ranching anyone gets into because they like to kick shit around in dirty boots. The Montgomerys aren’t only rich in land, but cattle, horse racing, and even breeding. At a young age, Kipp struck oil on his land and has turned that into one of the most productive and fastest-growing private refining corporations in North America.
If the Montgomerys thought they were wealthy as ranchers, it’s nothing compared to their few decades in the oil business.
I spent my Sunday researching Jensen and the company further after what I did Saturday night. I couldn’t help it. I had to know everything about her. It looks like Kipp’s oldest son, Campbell, was a college football great back in his day, but has settled for the quiet life in Nebraska as a teacher and coach, and is soon to be married for the second time. The youngest Montgomery, Ellie—whose given name is Twichell—studied at Julliard and is now a stay-at-home mom.
It doesn’t take a trained investigator to see that Jensen Montgomery was molded to follow in her father’s footsteps. She worked for her dad all through high school, starting in the mailroom. She stayed close to home for college and went on to Southern Methodist, so she could work and intern. Kipp Montgomery has made it clear who’ll take over someday and he’s keeping it all in the family. His middle child just turned thirty and she’s currently the Chief Financial Officer. There’s not much room to move up until her father steps aside completely.
&
nbsp; From looking over the surveillance records, she puts in her time. She doesn’t do much besides work. Saturday night was the first time in the last month she’s done something besides attend a business dinner or make trips to the family ranch outside of town where her parents live.
All the woman does is work.
By hitting Deep Ellum with her friends, the agents got into a frenzy thinking this was the time they’d see her doing something of interest. Oh, she was interesting all right. So much so, I think I lost my fucking mind.
I haven’t investigated many women, so it’s not a stretch to say she’s by far the most beautiful of my targets, but seeing her in person was another thing altogether. After watching her for hours and learning nothing, I gave into my instincts and allowed myself to get close even though this isn’t an undercover assignment.
The problem is that the instincts I let take over had nothing to do with being a special agent for the FBI and everything to do with my cock. All it took was one guy touching her and the next thing I knew, we were on the dance floor and she was moving under my touch in all the right ways. It took everything I had to not touch her more than I did.
And I touched a lot of her that night.
I fucked up.
Since then, I haven’t gotten her out of my damned head. I’ve jacked off like a middle schooler in heat to memories of her moving against me more times than I care to admit in the last thirty-six hours. I thought that would help, but I’m pretty sure it just made things worse. The last time I felt like this was when Weston MacLachlan almost blew my head off right after I watched him murder his own man in cold blood, though that was a different kind of high that didn’t give me a raging hard-on.
So, yeah, I’m a little on edge.
I lost control and now I’ve got to see how Jensen Montgomery reacts when she finds out the man she met at the bar—who fucking enjoyed his hands on her—is also the new assistant investigator in a federal case being made against her. In my ten years and all the situations I’ve been in at the Bureau, I’ve never put myself in this position. Bree and Dean know I spoke to her that night—we were taking turns getting close to her. But they didn’t mention the dance floor. As far as I know, that’s a secret I share only with our target.
