Bang: B-Squad Book Two (15 page)

T
he ice queen
had returned and Isaac didn't give three shits. He'd taken his time at the diner, filling up on eggs, real bacon, hash browns, and more while she nursed her cup of coffee like it was ninety percent moonshine. By the time he put a wad of cash on the table that would cover the meal and a decent tip, the disdain in her eyes had gone from frosty to glacial to downright arctic-tundra-on-the-winter-solstice cold.

"Ready to go, darlin'?" He was too pissed to care that he was being a petty asshole.

She narrowed her eyes and slid out of the booth. "Don't call me that."

"Do you prefer wifey?" he asked, giving a quick wave to the waiter, a Crest Society lookout judging by his tattoo and the way he hadn't taken his eyes off him and Tamara since they walked in.

The waiter gave him a commiserating look as Isaac opened the diner's door for his fake bride.

"I'd prefer you tell me what the fuck is going on," she said, her voice clipped and cold.

"Why, we're on the road trip from hell and fighting like two alley cats with their tails tied together."

An answer and a warning. She wasn't a field operative and she was pissed, but that didn't excuse fucking up this operation by asking questions that were better left until they were alone. Tamara cut him a glare that showed all the fire underneath that frigid facade of hers before stalking past him. He barely made it to the door before she did to hold it open for her like his mama had taught him. Tamara barely acknowledged the gesture as she stalked past, her chin high and her ass just as abso-fucking-lutely perfect as it was two nights ago when he'd cupped it and driven deep into her while she writhed in ecstasy underneath him.

He followed her out into the bright sunshine, across the gravel parking lot, and into the Idaho Inn's lobby. Sure, he could have outtalked her easily, but the view wouldn't have been nearly as good, and he had enough testosterone in him to appreciate that fact even if he was an eight on the ten-point-pissed-off scale.

The tiny lobby was cramped and in about as good condition as the rest of the motel. An older woman with sun-dried skin and cast iron gray hair sat behind the desk.

Isaac put on his tourist voice. "Hi there. We have reservations under Pat Hargrove." He laid enough cash for the room on the counter.

The woman didn't blink at the money or ask for ID. Instead, she slid the registration log toward him. "Sign here." When he did, she turned and grabbed a pair of keys from the ten or so hanging on the peg board behind the desk. "Room twenty-three. It's around the corner at the end."

He scrawled “Pat Hargrove” on the log, took the keys, and strolled out the door. Tamara would follow. The stubborn woman wanted answers more than she wanted to make a stink. He wasn't wrong. She marched alongside when he grabbed their duffle bags from the car—although she snagged hers and slung it over her arm—and on to the room.

It was gloomy inside, even more so when he shut the door and locked it behind them. His first instinct was the open the shades, but he wasn't sure he wanted a better look at the room than the dim light from the bedside lamp offered. His eyes had just adjusted when Tamara flicked the overhead lights on.

She let out a relieved sigh. "It's not pretty, but at least it looks clean."

That about summed it up. He dropped his duffle on the turquoise and yellow bedspread and turned around to face her. "So let's have it."

He'd spent his life surrounded by women. He'd learned the hard way that ignoring the elephant in the room only made them more pissed off. He should have filled her in during the drive, but he didn't. He was an asshole. So what?

So you made a shitty situation worse, Camacho.

She dropped her bag on the small table by the window and strutted forward until she was inches away from him. Her anger vibrated off of her, pressing against his skin and setting every nerve ending on edge—not because he worried she'd strike out, but because he loved it when she lost her icy reserve. He really was a bastard—a horny one with a hard-on for bitchy blondes.

"When were you going to fill me in on the plan to have Marko and Elisa spend the night at the compound?" She jabbed her finger into his chest. Hard. "When are we going in?" Another jab as heat rose in her cheeks. "When are we getting Essie?"

He wrapped his fingers around her hand and tugged it down to the side. He could have let go of her. He should have let go of her, but he didn't. The sparks of awareness zipping up his arm before diving lower felt too good to let go.

"Marko and Elisa didn't have a choice," he said, trying his hardest to focus on the mission and not the woman driving him nuts. "The only way to get on the compound on short notice was to say they were passing through on a planned vacation. Fane's people offered to let them stay the night. Their cover story is that they are considering joining the Society and bringing a shit ton of cash with them. They had to say yes."

"The longer Essie is there, the greater the chance Jarrod is going to sell her off to one of his followers." She took in a shaky breath. "We have to get there before it's too late."

Damn. He hated that little hitch in her voice because he knew just how much it cost her. If there was anyone in the world who hated being vulnerable or needing help, it was Tamara Post. He wanted to pull her close, wrap his arms around her like he had at Albert's house, and reassure her that everything was going to be okay. But that wasn't the way things worked between them anymore. She'd made her wishes clear.

"We will." He let go of her and took a step back. He needed space, breathing room. The woman was making his thinking muddy. "The plan is for Marko and Elisa to get a full look at the compound. We need to know where everything is situated before we can do the extraction. They'll report back here tomorrow morning. The Feds are flying in tomorrow morning to act as as backup if we need it."

The pink in her cheeks turned to red. "What about me?"

He was ready for this one. "You’ll stay here. You're not an operative."

She opened her mouth to argue, no doubt, but closed it without a word. Isaac mentally marked it on his calendar. It wasn't every day that Tamara didn't have a lightning-fast comeback to something.

Finally, she harrumphed and paced a path on the worn carpet going between the door and the king-sized bed. "Waiting around until tomorrow doesn't seem right. She's my niece. I promised to protect her."

It would bust his chops if he was the one not going, too. He couldn't blame her for being frustrated, but nothing was going to change this.

"It's the way it's got to be done." He clasped his hands behind his back before he lost the battle to touch her again. She'd made the call to end things between them. He wasn't so hard up that he had to chase after women who had no interest in getting caught. "We go in blind and there's a chance we won't get Essie out of there at all. Fane is armed and his people are fanatical. That's a shitastic combination. We have to do this right."

She stopped pacing and stood with her arms crossed and one hip popped out, all attitude and sass. "So what, I just sit here and twiddle my thumbs all night like a good girl instead of making sure Essie is safe?"

Oh God. The ideas that popped into his head at the mention of all night were very R-rated and totally unobtainable. She'd made the call. There wasn't going to be anything between them. Fine. He just had to think of it as a mission. He had to babysit the client. What would he do with any other client in this situation? There wasn't a TV in the room. He spotted a box of cards in the middle of the small table.

"I was thinking we'd play cards."

As long as it wasn't strip poker, he just might survive the night without losing his mind.

B
eing
someone else could be fun—like trying on an expensive pair of leather pants and knowing you'd never buy them, but still loving the way they made your ass look. Other times, it was exhausting, as if you were trudging your way through a muddy swamp in high heels. Pretending to be a gun-toting, hate-filled, prospective cult member sure as hell fell into the second category.

Elisa shut the heavy oak door behind her and managed to keep her game face on, pretending to admire all of the homey touches to the guest cottage while Marko swept the place for bugs of the video and audio variety using what looked like a cell phone. The member of the Crest Society were paranoid sons of bitches, and she wouldn't put it past them to have the cottage on a closed-circuit video and audio feed. It's exactly what she would have done.

"We're good." He pocketed the frequency counter and sat down on the corner of the bed. "Next time I say I'm up for a little undercover, please remind me of today."

Like he ever listened to her about anything. If he did, she would have already seen all those glorious muscles of his up close and personal. The B-Squad was full of prime hotness, but no one was quite like Marko. He was big—six feet five inches big—and built like a tank covered in tattoos. He had dark eyes, black hair, a trim beard, and steel bars that ran through his nipples. The last bit she'd spotted when he'd swapped shirts on a mission a few months ago. To her utter disappointment, that was all the clothing he'd taken off. Good thing she had an amazing imagination to fill in all the blank spots—one that was already putting images in her head that involved lots and lots of exposed, tattooed skin and hard muscle.

"What? You didn't have fun in Patriarchy Land?" she asked, teasing him to get herself back on level ground before she lost focus, a definite problem around him.

"Not even close." He let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Plus I never set eyes on Fane."

"He must be keeping a close watch on Essie." She stopped in front of Marko, standing between his parted legs, and turned around. "Unzip me so I can get out of this thing."

The tight collar on the sister wives' horror of a dress had scratched against her neck all day. The only thing that sounded better than busting Marko's chops was getting the stupid outfit off.

"Can't you do it yourself?"

Dudes. They did not understand the pain of being a girl. "Asks the man who's never been trapped in a dress that's half on and half off. Help."

There was a moment of utter stillness behind her before strong fingers grasped the zipper and lowered it down to her ass in a rush. The back of her dress flapped open and she took a deep breath of freedom.

"Thank God. I thought that thing was going to choke me." She shimmied out of the dress and stepped over the pile of material at her feet while luxuriating in the cool air-conditioned air blowing against her overheated skin. "Women's retreat." She barked out a hard laugh and rolled her sore shoulders. "More like detention center. I spent the day sweating my ass off making bread in a hot kitchen while you had your little tour. Please tell me you learned something worthwhile."

"Get dressed," he said, his deep voice strained. "Then we'll talk."

She went still. Claustrophobia had been clawing away at her all day thanks to that dress, and she hadn't been able to think past the relief of getting the damned thing off. Now that her fear of being constrained wasn't shredding her control, she looked down.

Oops.

She was wearing a black bra and boy shorts the Crest Society would definitely not approve of and a pair of nondescript ballet flats. The undergarments covered more than her string bikini but, judging by his tone, not enough for Marko. Her smirk came automatically. She couldn't help it. Something about teasing the quiet giant just plain did it for her. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Elisa managed to smother her grin before putting a hand on one hip and turning around to face him. "What's wrong?"

He stared at a spot right over her right shoulder, tension squaring his jaw. "You're in your underwear."

She cocked her head, playing the dumb routine to the hilt. "Uh-huh?"

Marko's dark gaze slid over her, blasting heat across every millimeter of bare skin. "Cut the crap, Elisa."

Poking the bear was a bad idea, but damn, it sure was fun. She glanced down at herself and then back up at Marko, taking enough time to enjoy the view from his thick thighs to his broad chest to his glowering face. This was their game. She teased. He resisted. They both knew eventually it would come to a head. She just hoped her headboard would survive the encounter.

Fuck that. She'd be disappointed if it did.

"It's more than I wear to the beach, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Yeah, you do."

She gave him the big-eyed look that always made men stupid. "Why would I want that?"

"It helps you distance yourself."

Bam. His words hit like a solid punch to the head, just enough to shock you silent but not enough to knock you out. She took a protective step back and was lifting her foot to take another before she caught herself and flipped him the bird.

"Whatever." She strutted over to her suitcase, which some Crest Society flunky had brought from the truck, and unzipped it before pulling out an oversized T-shirt and putting it on. It hung down to mid-thigh. "Better?"

He uncurled the fists he'd held tight to his thighs, but otherwise didn't acknowledge her question. "There are armed patrols on the perimeter and surveillance cameras at regular intervals. Once inside, only the guards are armed, and they're stretched thin because so many men are working outside the compound."

That wasn't how the Crest Society had worked in Daddy Fane's day. Back then they were a self-supporting operation. Looked like junior wasn't up for the task. At least not without an influx of money.

"That explains why he's so anxious for Mark Ryan's cash."

Marko nodded. "Exactly."

The information was good, but not the kind Clay Blackfish's friends at the ATF were looking for. They cared about weapons, not problematic change management.

"Did you spot anything that will get the Feds all hot and bothered?" she asked.

His mouth curled into an ornery grin. "Just the armory. Lots of stuff in there that Uncle Sam does not clear for sale to the general public."

"So why'd they show it to you?"

"Because I'm just that damn charming." Marko practically snarled his response, obviously not liking anyone questioning his abilities.

She lifted an eyebrow, but let it go. Marko was many things—intimidating, smart, tough, sexy as hell—but a sweet talker he was not. "Don't tell Lash. He'll think he's out of a job."

Marko snorted. "What did you find out?"

"I was with all the women, remember?" she asked in her best Southern belle accent while batting her lashes. "What could they possibly know?"

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The don't-bullshit-me look on his face was enough.

"Fine." She shrugged. "Fane is having problems. We already knew about the money, but he's losing his power base. Too many of the patriarchy patrol saw him agreeing to a divorce as bad enough. That he let Tamara steal away with Essie was about as bad as it could get. There's talk of getting a new leader. Some think you and I are here to be Fane's replacement."

That last bit was what had made the ladies so chatty. When you depended on others for so much of your survival, you learned to always keep your options open during a power play.

"So why would Fane welcome us with open arms?"

"Maybe he didn't have a choice." She paced in front of the bed, rolling the problem in her head like a multi-colored marble that looked different depending on how the light shone through it. Finally it hit her. "To not let us in would be as good as admitting weakness."

"More than a pretty face, aren't you?"

She executed a quick bow that brought her face level with his chest and the faint outline of those tempting bars against his T-shirt. Desire rolled through her, hot and hungry, as she straightened.

"Care to find out? Does the submissive miss get you going?" She lowered her gaze to the floor. "I can put the dress back on." She grasped the edge of her T-shirt and inched it up higher. "Or maybe it's the opposite and you're looking for a dirty girl to do all sorts of naughty things." She met his gaze, saw the same lust burning her up inside in his dark eyes. "Come on, Marko. I know the thought of it turns you on. Tell me what you want."

He stood up slowly, and the full impact of him hit her hard. It was more than just his size or the steely control he seemed to exert just by breathing. It was all of him. The testosterone-filled manliness of him. It sounded dumb even in her head, but there was just no other way to describe it. He was strong, self-contained, and devastatingly male. It took her breath away.

"You." He reached up and glided his thumb across her bottom lip. "No act, no fake personality. I want Elisa Sharp."

The declaration was a sudden wind that blew out a candle flame. All the heat, the wonder, the lust disappeared. No one got her. No one got the real Elisa. She'd made sure of that.

"You couldn't handle me." It sounded defensive even to her own ears.

"More like you can't handle you," he said, all the gruffness in his voice replaced with a softness she didn't understand and sure as hell didn't want.

This wasn't how this was supposed to go. Then again, it never was with Marko. He was the one man who didn't fall prey to her con. Time for her to smarten up and cut her losses. She jutted out her chin and blew him a kiss.

"I'll leave you to your little therapy session then." She whirled around. "I'm taking a shower."

Years of practicing how to present just the right facade got her across the room and into the bathroom, where she could get her brain straight under pounding hot water before she admitted out loud just how on the money he'd been.