Midnight Alias: A Killer Instincts Novel (7 page)

“This sounds like a trap,” Trevor said flatly.

“If it were, I wouldn’t be asking you to handle it.” Morgan’s next words rang with confidence. “She’s legit. Trust me. I’m texting you the address now.”

As Morgan hung up, Trevor shook his head in bewilderment. Would it kill the boss to offer a few more details? Like the informant’s name, for Christ’s sake?

Hell, of course it would. Jim Morgan played his cards close to the vest. Always had and probably always would.

Trevor rose from the king-size bed and went into the private bathroom. As team leader, he’d commandeered the master bedroom, despite the grumblings of the other men. The memory made him grin. It felt good to be back in the game, exchanging insults with the boys and kicking some ass again.

This time last year, he’d been nursing a vodka bottle in his condo, staring at a framed photograph of him and Gina, taken in Hawaii. Where he’d proposed to her.

That
memory brought an ache to his heart, but not the bone-deep agony that used to slice into him whenever he thought of his fiancée. It had taken a long time, but he could finally think about the woman he’d lost without wanting to put a bullet into his head. Definitely progress.

After he took a leak and splashed some water on his face, he strode out to the living room. D was sprawled on the sofa, but sat up the second Trevor entered the room, alert as a hawk.

Of all the men on Morgan’s payroll, D was the only one Trevor didn’t know very well. What he did know was kind of terrifying. Derek Pratt had been Delta at one point, then moved on to some covert agency that didn’t seem to have a name and of which D never spoke. His training was top-notch, his instincts spot-on, and he could kill a man in the blink of an eye. Everything about the guy screamed
lethal
. The shaved head, coal black eyes, huge shoulders, and abundance of tattoos. Trevor had never seen the man smile, but Kane and Luke both swore that he was capable of it. He thought they were full of shit.

“What’s up?” D asked in that gravelly voice of his.

“Go back to sleep,” Trevor told the other man. “Morgan’s got me running an errand.”

“Need backup?”

“Nah. I’ll be fine.”

D lay back down and closed his eyes. Just like that, end of conversation.

With a wry grin, Trevor swiped his nine-millimeter Sig off the granite counter in the kitchen and slid it into his shoulder holster. He shrugged into a black wool coat and pulled the collar up, then left the apartment.

Outside the building, he breathed in the crisp afternoon air, only to inhale the exhaust of a passing taxi. He grimaced, the bustle of the sidewalks and blaring car horns confirming what he’d already known. He was
not
a city person. His condo in Aspen was tucked away in the mountains, far from the noise and people and bullshit. Though really, he probably ought to sell the place. It had been Gina’s home too, and now that he was making a conscious effort to work through the loss, it might be good to start fresh.

But not here. He didn’t find the Big Apple the least bit appetizing. Too big and far too loud.

He pulled out his cell phone and entered the address Morgan gave him into the GPS app. Sweet. Only a fifteen-minute walk. He’d way rather trek it to SoHo than sit in some stuffy cab.

He headed west on Canal Street, still contemplating the notion of selling his place in Colorado. He could always move into Morgan’s compound. God knows it had enough bedrooms, and it would be nice having the team around. That way, when his thoughts turned dark—which they still did every now and then—the company could distract him. He tucked the idea away as he turned on Sixth Avenue and headed north, pausing to check the GPS again.

The girl’s apartment should be over on the next block. He passed a corner store with a display of Halloween costumes in the front window, then crossed the street and walked until a converted warehouse building with ivy-covered brick walls came into view.

He climbed the front stoop and scanned the intercom mounted on the wall, then keyed in the numbers 2-3-2.

A static-ridden female voice wafted out of the speaker. “Who is it?”

“Your three o’clock,” he answered as per Morgan’s instructions.

“Come on up.”

The building didn’t have an elevator, so he headed for the stairwell, which was surprisingly clean and smelled like pine. On the second floor, he emerged into a wide corridor with a gleaming hardwood floor. Huh. The place was a lot nicer than it looked from the outside. Apartment 232 was at the end of the hall, and he was about to knock when the door swung open and a pretty blonde with big blue eyes appeared in the doorway.

He didn’t recognize her at first.

Not until she spoke, and that warm, melodic voice met his ears. “Hey, Trevor.”

He swallowed. “Hello, Isabel.”

Chapter 4

As Olivia gaped up at him, her expression a combination of shock and disgust, Luke held up his hands in surrender. “I was kidding about the lap dance,” he assured her. “Just trying to ease the tension.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Tension?”

Sighing, he hopped up on the counter and rested his hands on his knees. “Last night you were dancing on top of me half-naked. Today we’re doing laundry together. I don’t know about you, but I find it pretty damn awkward.”

After a moment she laughed. “Yeah, it’s awkward all right.”

She went back to separating her wet clothing into two piles. Luke gulped when he noticed her pick up a pair of lacy red panties. Fuck, did they have to be lace? He was a total sucker for lace.

He rapidly looked away, focusing on the woman instead of her underwear. Too bad she was as tantalizing as her panties. Some men preferred their women dolled up, high heels and skimpy dresses and all that shit, but he’d choose a pair of faded, ratty jeans over a short skirt any day. It was always sexier when a woman wore clothes that actually covered her up—it got you thinking about all the fascinating possibilities that lay underneath.

But he got the feeling that it was impossible for Olivia Taylor
not
to look sexy. Even now, with her hair up in a haphazard twist and the purple sweater that kept sliding off one shoulder, she was dazzling. Yep. He was totally dazzled.

Stop thinking with your dick. Remember who she is.

His shoulders tensed. Right. This was Vince Angelo’s girl. He needed to remember that.

Though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how a woman like her had fallen for Angelo’s smooth lines and dark, reptilian eyes. It had only taken Luke five minutes in her company to decide that she was much more than some stripper airhead. She was funny and serious and smart, and not the kind of girl he’d picture with a guy like Angelo.

Then again, five minutes of talking—during a lap dance—didn’t mean shit. Maybe she had a thing for slick Italian mobsters.

Well, that’s why he was here. That’s why, when he’d seen her walking into the Laundromat, he’d ducked into a store and bought a fuckload of T-shirts just so he’d have a reason to be here. The reason was simple—find out what Olivia Taylor knew.

“No school today?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

She shook her head. “No classes this week. Midterms start next Wednesday.”

“You’ve got a lot of studying to do, then.”

“Yep.” She continued to divert her gaze. “Do you live around here?”

“A few blocks away,” he lied.

She nodded. “So. Are you following me?”

Yep.

And so was that thug with the shaved head and black trench coat, the one who belonged in a
Godfather
flick. Luke had spotted the goon five seconds after beginning his tail on the dancer, which made his own task more difficult, since he then had to evade both Olivia and her watch guard. Luckily, Angelo’s man had proven to be totally incompetent, so focused on his target that Luke wasn’t even on his radar.

Nevertheless, he made a conscious effort to angle his face away from the front window. He didn’t want the goon getting a good look at him or snapping a photo, though if that happened, no biggie. Sully could always take his place as the eyes inside the club. And the Australian wouldn’t have a single complaint about it either.

Pretending to be perplexed, he said, “Of course not. Why would you think I’m following you?”

“It’s just . . . I’ve danced for hundreds of men, and this is the first time I’ve ever run into one of them outside of the club.” Suspicion laced her throaty voice, but she kept her head down, fiddling with her clothing.

“Maybe none of those other men do their own laundry.”

A laugh burst out of her mouth. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Rest assured, I’m not some sick stalker.”

“That’s exactly what a sick stalker would say,” she pointed out, but the doubt on her face had eased. She still didn’t meet his eyes, though.

“You know, it’s common courtesy to look someone in the eye when you’re having a conversation with them,” he said lightly.

She stiffened. Her sweater fell over her shoulder again, revealing a flash of golden skin. Then she looked up and sought out his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude, aren’t I?”

“Perfectly understandable.” He shrugged. “We’ve already established that last night’s lap dance is the big uncomfortable elephant in the room.”

“Do you do it often? Get lap dances, I mean.”

“Honestly? No. Yesterday was my first.”

She looked surprised. “What made you ask for one then?”

Luke knew he had to tread carefully. He had to be a normal guy. A man she could confide in. “I was curious.”

She raised one delicate brow. “Curious.”

“I’d never had one before, and I’m a firm believer in the try-anything-once philosophy.”

She smiled, and something shifted in his chest.

Vince Angelo’s girl
, he swiftly reminded himself.

“A risk-taker,” she said knowingly.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He flashed her a grin. “I can probably go on for days about all the dangerous things I’ve done.”

Instead of the “Oooh, tell me more” he’d expected, Olivia remained silent and her expression lost its playful light. Even worse, he could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of annoyance in her eyes before she carried her things to the dryer.

“Not a fan of danger?” he asked.

She spared him a pithy glance over her shoulder. “Not really, no.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he could see all his hard-earned progress flying right out the window. Damn it. The daredevil stories usually worked like a charm. Chicks
loved
a man who flirted with danger.

But apparently not this one.

He mulled it over, then opted for a different approach. “So there’s no room for risk in your life? You’re forever playing it safe?”

She turned to face him with a coy smile. “No, I take risks. Last week I ordered a double cheeseburger at McDonald’s instead of a regular old cheeseburger.”

Luke laughed. “How’d that work out for you?”

“I had a stomachache all night.” She shrugged. “See? Taking risks is overrated.”

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “But sometimes you’ve got no choice. Like, wouldn’t you do something risky or dangerous if it meant helping someone you cared about?”

Olivia seemed to ponder that. “Yeah, I would.”

“See?” he said, mimicking her. “Risk-taking can be necessary at times.”

“I guess.” She sauntered back to the counter. “So what’s the riskiest thing you’ve ever done for the sake of helping someone else?”

“Faced down a pack of wild dogs with nothing but a stick,” he revealed.

“Really?”

“Yep. That’s how I rescued my mutt.”

“I’m intrigued,” she said, waiting expectantly.

“Well, there was this pack of dogs roaming the streets a few years back. It was New Orleans after Katrina, so a lot of strays were wandering around.”

The word
Katrina
plugged up his throat like a wad of gum, but thankfully Olivia didn’t seem to notice. Swallowing, he went on, trying to maintain a casual tone. “Anyway, I was leaving a bar one night when I heard a scuffle in the back alley. Got out there just in time to see the pack circling this poor mutt. He was another stray, from the looks of him—scrawny, rib cage jutting out, and his hind leg was broken. An easy meal for the pack. The poor thing looked so pitiful I couldn’t
not
save him.”

Olivia looked fascinated. “So you fought off the other dogs.”

“Yep.” He rolled up the right sleeve of his black button-down and held out his forearm to display the jagged white scar there. “That’s how I got this. One of the dogs got hold of my arm, but then I got hold of that stick, and they scurried the fuck out of there.”

“And the mutt?”

“Me and him both got rabies shots, the vet fixed him up, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”

That got him another smile. His chest felt kind of hot.

“So were you involved in the relief efforts after the hurricane?” Olivia asked.

He knew it was an innocent question, but he couldn’t control the way his shoulders stiffened, or the sudden tension in his jaw. Crap. Why had he brought up this damn subject to begin with? He’d wanted to get a conversation going, but now, as memories of Katrina blew through his head like the gusts that had blown his city apart, he regretted opening his big mouth.

“Yeah, I was involved,” he answered noncommittally. “I’m big on helping people.”

She slanted her head. “Okay, tell me another story then. Other than a stray from New Orleans, who else have you helped?”

Painting himself with a heroic brush wasn’t exactly Luke’s cup of tea—more like Sully’s style—but since he was the one who’d opened the door to this discussion in the first place, he couldn’t really complain.

Besides, with her green eyes shining and her exquisite face dancing with amusement, Olivia looked so fucking gorgeous that Luke would have given her any damn thing she wanted, including the clothes right off his back.

But he settled for a story instead.

* * *

Isabel hadn’t anticipated the thrill that shot through her body when she laid eyes on Trevor. She’d been trying hard not to think about him these past six months—and failing miserably at it. Now here he was, standing in front of her, and she couldn’t deny that his presence affected her.