Sins, Lies & Naughty Games: A Blackwell-Lyon Security Collection

by J. Kenner

  He, however, wanted to jump straight to Plan B.

  And while the client isn’t necessarily always right, he’s definitely the one with the checkbook. And so Plan B it is.

  Which explains why I’m here in The Driskill Bar drinking whiskey and watching a beautiful woman flirt with a bartender.

  Not because I’m kicking back during Happy Hour. And not because I’m on the job doing a surveillance shift.

  No, I’m drinking and watching because I’m working up a plan. Studying the subject—learning about my mark.

  Because in my book the very best way to tell if a woman is the cheating type is to see her in action. And if you can’t catch a few snaps of her with the boss or the pool boy, then the next best option is to seduce her yourself.

  And that, my friends, is the plan for tonight.

  Chapter Three

  Gracie leans forward, her elbow on the polished wood bar, as the bartender slides a fresh glass in front of her. A reddish-brown cocktail in a martini glass that I assume is a Manhattan. “So, was I right?” she asks, then props her chin on her fist as she waits for his answer, her ocean-blue eyes full of eager anticipation. I know this because I’ve abandoned my station on the couch. Now I’m few stools away on Gracie’s left, and with the way the bar curves around, following the arc of a circle, that gives me a nice view of her exceptionally pretty face.

  “All right, I admit it,” the bartender says. “You were dead on. She told me it was the best date ever.”

  “I’m so psyched for you.” Gracie’s smile sets the dim room on fire, and as I watch her, I tap out a rhythm with my finger on the bar, mentally revising my earlier assessment. Apparently Gracie isn’t getting cozy with the bartender after all. Or at least not the kind of cozy my Mr. Peterman would be interested in. But that doesn’t mean she’s not on the prowl.

  “Need a refill?” the bartender, whose name tag says Jon, asks me. “Or a menu?”

  He just freshened my drink and there’s a menu within my reach. For a second I’m confused. Then I see my tapping finger and still it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that as a signal for you.”

  I notice that Gracie is looking curiously in my direction and realize I can shift this potentially awkward situation to my advantage. I lock my gaze onto Gracie as I conjure an enigmatic smile, just enough to highlight the small dimple that Kerrie used to tell my twin, Connor, looks sexy as hell. (For the record, at the time she was talking about Connor’s dimple, but since we’re identical twins, I feel more than justified in using that bit of intelligence.)

  “I was thinking about something else entirely,” I tell the bartender, still smiling. Still eyeing Gracie.

  A hint of a grin struggles onto her lips, but then she looks quickly away, her cheeks blooming pink as she twirls a dark blond strand of hair around one finger.

  Bingo.

  I’m in.

  When I returned from Afghanistan with my left eye blown out, a nasty scar memorializing the incident, and a black eye patch as my new fashion statement, I confess I felt pretty damn sorry for myself. It was Kerrie who kicked my ass and got me looking at reality again.

  Kerrie’s not only our office manager, she’s also my best friend’s little sister. And for a short while, she was sleeping with my brother, though they both swear they’re just friends now, and insist that’s all they’ll ever be.

  Whatever.

  I’m hardly going to push them if they don’t want to be pushed, especially knowing how much the fourteen year age difference bothered Connor. But Kerrie’s an example of the female sex that I’m happy to put on a pedestal. She’s got her quirks and foibles—and her typing is for shit—but I know without a doubt that she would never, ever, pull on Connor what Vivien pulled on me.

  And in my book, that means a lot.

  She is also damned insightful. Which is why it was Kerrie who realized—rightfully so—that my homecoming from the Middle East marked my increased amperage over my brother, at least in the context of attracting female attention.

  “It’s the patch,” Kerrie announced at Happy Hour a few weeks after my return. “You and Connor are both so freaking hot already it’s not even fair to mortal men like my brother—”

  “Thanks a lot.” Pierce, who never lacked for a woman in his bed, tossed a vodka-soaked olive at his little sister.

  “Am I the only one who cares about propriety?” she complained, aiming an apologetic smile at the amused bartender.

  “Hold on, Princess,” Connor said. “You were about to spout some bullshit about how my lump of a brother is hotter than me? Not even possible.”

  “It’s the patch.” She shrugged. “Just is. Gives him that pirate attitude on top of the already crazy-awesome movie star looks. And do not even pretend like you two don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re hotties and you know it. But Cayden’s a hottie on overdrive now. Because, you know, the whole fantasy of a pirate tossing her down and ravaging her.”

  Connor narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re serious?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Tossing and ravaging in real life? Not so cool. Fantasy ravaging? I mean, I think pirate and I think Johnny Depp. So, yeah, I’ll own up to that. And Cayden’s new look gives him lots of fantasy potential. Sorry, Connor. You’re just going to have to suck it up. Your brother wins this one.”

  Which was why, when Peterman pointedly stared at my patch and asked if I thought I was really up to the task of seducing the girl, I assured him that I was the best man for the job.

  Considering the way Gracie’s cheeks have turned pink from nothing more than my singular stare, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I made a good call. And when she looks in my direction again, I lift my glass to her in a silent toast, then take a sip. She offers a flash of a smile before her eyes dart quickly away once more.

  The couple seated between us downs the last of their drinks. The man, older with graying temples, signs the check to a room, then helps his companion off her stool. She’s probably a little younger than him, but not by much. There are lines around her eyes and mouth that suggest a life filled with laughter. And the affection on his face as he gently takes her arm is so profound I find myself staring.

  She wears a diamond infinity band. He wears a plain gold ring. I wonder how long they’ve been married. I have a sudden image of their life together. Mona and Ted. That’s what I name them in my imagination, where they live their contented life with two kids and a collie on a tree-lined street where they still walk hand-in-hand at sunset.

  I wonder if Ted’s ever worried about finding Mona in bed with a co-worker, a friend, the handyman. Probably not—and that’s a melancholy thought since it’s both happy and sad. Happy because it gives me hope. Sad, because they’re a rare specimen. Like a museum display. Something you might see in the wild, but probably never will.

  I suppose that makes me the rare lucky witness.

  I watch as they weave their way through the bar to the hotel lobby, his hand lightly on the small of her back, ostensibly to guide her, but also to make that connection.

  That’s what I never had with Vivien, of course. A connection.

  Connections are another of those rare specimens. Something that lives in the pages of Kerrie’s romance novels. Real life is a hell of a lot lonelier.

  I draw a breath, then turn back to my drink. It’s bourbon-flavored melted ice now, and I toss it back in one swallow, then signal for another. Normally, I nurse one drink for the whole evening when I’m on a job. Tonight, I feel the need for another hit of liquid courage. I’m not sure why, and it’s a question I don’t want to examine too closely. I don’t get tongue-tied around women, and I don’t get nervous tailing a subject. Maybe it was the couple. That happy, contented couple with the life I’d expected, but won’t ever have.

  Maybe I’m sick of chasing their antithesis.

  Hell, maybe I’m just a little sad that Gracie, with her brilliant smile and sweet manner, is a Vivien and not a Mona.

&n
bsp; Maybe I’m regretting taking this job.

  “So what was it?”

  It takes me a second to realize that it’s Gracie asking the question, and I look up to find that not only has the bartender put a fresh drink in front of me, but Gracie is smiling at me, her head tilted just slightly. Flirtatiously.

  Right. Okay.

  I’m back in business.

  “What was what?” I ask.

  “When I was talking to Jon and you were tapping your finger. You seemed so intent. I was just wondering what you were thinking.”

  Intent. Considering I’d been staring pointedly at her, that one little word is just oozing with meaning. If I were here looking to get laid, I’d be thrilled. Since I’m actually here searching for infidelity, I should be satisfied that the job’s on track.

  Instead I feel numb, unable to shake that lingering ennui.

  I take a long swallow of my drink—the alcoholic equivalent of kicking my own ass—then move over, taking the seat next to her that Ted recently vacated. “I was curious about what he said,” I tell her, indicating Jon with a lift of my chin. “That whatever you’d suggested had turned into the best date ever.” I stroke my finger lightly along the rim of my glass as I focus on her lips. “I figure that’s the kind of information a man should have. Will you share?”

  There’s a sectioned tray of bar snacks in front of her, and as I ask the question, I take a handful of salted nuts. I pop them in my mouth, then lick the salt off my fingers, my eyes never leaving her face. Everything entirely innocent. Everything completely flirtatious.

  I see her throat move as she swallows and know that she’s right there with me.

  “Planning a hot date?” she asks, then lifts the tiny straw out of her Manhattan and sucks on the end. I notice that she’s wearing no rings, engagement or otherwise.

  “Always.”

  As I’d hoped, she laughs. “Well, then my suggestion may not be for you. It’s more subtle. More…” She trails off with a shrug.

  “Romantic?”

  “Friendly,” she says. “A getting to know you date.”

  “Getting to know you,” I repeat, holding her eyes with mine. “I think I’d like that.”

  She turns her head away, her hand going up to cup the back of her neck as her shoulders rise. Her cheeks flush, and I see the reluctant smile on her lips. She looks entirely innocent—shy, even—and I marvel at the duplicitous potential of women.

  After a moment, she readjusts, looking at me sideways as she takes a sip of her drink. “I suggested a shopping date,” she tells me in an entirely matter-of-fact voice, as if I’d never flirted and she’d never reacted.

  “A shopping date?”

  “Shopping and cocktails,” she clarifies. “There’s this fabulous store on North Loop that has all sorts of cool vintage things. Oh, are you local? That’s north of downtown, but not far. You just—”

  “I’m local,” I tell her. “I work across the street. This is one of my favorite places to grab a drink.”

  “So you know that area? Around North Loop, I mean.”

  “I’ve been there a couple of times.”

  “Lots of artsy small businesses,” she says. “Eclectic stuff.”

  “And that’s where you sent Jon?”

  “Mmm-hmm. A place called Room Service. It’s great for shopping, but it makes for a fun date. Lots of Art Deco. Kitsch. Clothes and dishes and furniture. Some books. Jewelry. A little bit of everything. The kind of stuff that can start a conversation.”

  I notice Jon watching us, but he doesn’t chime in. For a second, I wonder if this is a standard pick-up routine for her. Describe a romantic date. Get close. Suggest a drink in her room…

  It’s possible. I’ll just have to see how it plays out.

  “You go there a lot, then?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. All the time.”

  “On dates?”

  She polishes off the last of her Manhattan as she shakes her head and makes a negative noise. “Not usually. I just like to browse. But what I suggested to Jon was that he take this girl he’s interested in to the store, then they could wander down the street to this little bar that makes awesome cocktails. It’s called Drink.Well. Ever been there?”

  I shake my head, but make it a point to store the name away. I’m always looking for a good bar.

  “You should.” She lifts a shoulder. “Anyway, I guess it was good advice.” She nods toward the bartender, who’s at the far end of the circle, out of earshot. “They went out last night after she got off work, and he says it went well.” She leans toward me, then lowers her voice. “They’re going out again tomorrow.”

  “Ah, the Friday night date,” I say, also leaning in and talking low. “It must have gone well if they’re moving on to the big guns.”

  “My first offer of dating advice,” she says. “Clearly I have a knack.”

  “First? I would have guessed you were a guru.”

  “Hardly.” She makes a scoffing sound as she lifts her hand. I look up to see that Jon has turned around and realize that she’s signaling for the check. Damn. “What’s that saying?” she continues, her brow furrowing. “Those that can’t do, teach?”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute.” I keep my voice charming while I’m mentally cursing. Because we aren’t nearly far enough along in the flirting and drinking part of the evening.

  “Heading up?” Jon says, sliding her a folio, which she opens, then reaches for the pen.

  I bite back a frustrated grimace. If I’m going to get any proof for Peterman, I’m going to have to kick it up. I put my hand over the tab. “Let me.”

  “Oh, I really couldn’t.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” I wave to Jon, who nods.

  For a moment, Gracie hesitates. Then she says, very politely and simply, “Well, thank you. That’s very kind. I’m Gracie, by the way.”

  “Cayden. Can I walk you out? Are you parked around here?”

  “Actually, I’m staying at the hotel.”

  “Oh.” I feign surprise. “With all your talk about that vintage store, I assumed you were a local.”

  “I am,” she says. “I’m just—” She shakes her head as she clears her throat and a blond curl bounces free from where it was tucked behind her ear. I start to reach for it—imagining the silky strands against my fingers—and have to forcibly will my hand to stay where it is.

  “I’m just staying here while some work is being done on my place,” she finishes, pushing the enticing strand away. “Turns out they had to turn off the water and the electricity for a few days.”

  “Ah.” I force myself to stop imagining her hair against my skin and wrangle my thoughts into some semblance of order. “And your boyfriend? Husband? Fiancé? Did you pick The Driskill so you could turn an unexpected stay into a romantic getaway?”

  The blush that had faded blooms again. “Ah, no. Sadly, I’m fresh out of boyfriends, husbands, and fiancés. I just picked The Driskill because it’s my favorite hotel in the city.”

  “Mine, too,” I say.

  She flashes that sweet smile, and I have to remind myself that this is a job and not a social event.

  “It’s supposed to be haunted,” I add.

  “So they say.”

  “Seen any ghosts on your floor?”

  “Not a single one.”

  “I’m surprised. I would have thought all the ghosts would gather around, just to get a good look at you.”

  She laughs as she slips off the stool. “If that’s a line, it’s not a very good one.”

  I stand as well. “I’ve had two bourbons, cut me some slack.”

  “Well, A for effort, then. And it really was nice talking to you. I should say good night.”

  I should say good night. Magic words, those. It means she should but she can be persuaded otherwise. Which, of course, is what I’m here for. “In that case, I should probably see you to your room. Just in case.”

  “In case?”

  �
�Ghosts,” I say, then offer her my arm.

  She hesitates, and I wonder if I’m going to have to move up to DefCon 1. But then she slips her arm through mine, and we walk together to the elevator. “Four,” she says when we’re inside, and as the elevator rises she continues to hold on, and for a moment—just a moment—I actually wish this were real.

  But it’s not, and it shouldn’t be, and I don’t need to be wallowing in sentimentality. I’m on the job. And even if I weren’t, I’m not looking for any sort of attachment. I’m not setting myself up to get hurt again. And this woman is my subject, which makes her off limits, anyway.

  She’s not in my life. She’s only on my arm. Although, of course, I’m going to try for more. Not that I’ll actually sleep with her—there are ethical considerations, after all. But deep, hot kisses? Lingering caresses? A bit of bared, intimate skin? That’s not only expected, but arguably required. After all, I have to be able to go back to Peterman with proof.

  Usually, that aspect of the job gives me no pause at all. With Gracie…

  Well, I can’t deny that I want to feel her bare skin under my fingers.

  And at the same time, I really don’t want her to be the kind of woman who’ll let me.

  “Cayden? Hey, have I lost you?”

  Her voice breaks through my roiling thoughts. “Sorry, what?”

  “This is my stop.”

  “Right,” I say as we step out into the alcove. “Sorry. I was thinking about—well, about you, actually.”

  “Oh.” Her smile is tentative, but she seems genuinely pleased. “Um, I can probably get to my room from here. I think the ghouls will leave me alone.”

  “Nonsense. I provide full-service protection from spooks.” My eyes never leave hers.

  “Oh.” The word is barely an exhalation of breath. “Well, that’s very chivalrous of you.”

  “I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes.”