Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (16 page)

Needing
him
, damn it.

Her fingers trembled as she touched his face. The stubble shadowing his chin abraded her fingertips, serving as a reminder of his sheer masculinity. He was so very male—broad shoulders, solid chest, sexy beard growth.

A thrill sizzled through her as Trevor gently lowered her onto the bed and covered her body with his. They were both fully clothed, yet her skin was on fire, tingling and pulsing, little sparks crackling in her nerve endings.

“I haven’t done this in so long,” he said huskily, then moved his mouth to her neck and sucked.

Isabel shivered. God, that felt good. So good she could barely focus on what he was saying. “Done what?”

His lips kissed a path up to her ear. “Made out with a woman.” His tongue tickled the shell of her ear. “I feel like I’m totally out of practice.”

Somehow, his sheepish admission put her at ease. Her fingers were no longer trembling as she traced the hard line of his jaw.

“Me too,” she confessed.

They kissed again. Long and slow, tongues dancing, bodies arching and straining to get closer. With a groan, Trevor thrust one firm thigh between her legs and ground against her. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of boxers, but the material of those boxers was thin, so thin it was impossible to hide his arousal. Isabel moaned when she felt that thick erection pressing into her thigh.

Thrilling. Terrifying. She couldn’t decide what this was.

All she knew was that she didn’t want it to stop.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hooked one leg around his trim hips, a move that deepened the contact between them, intensified the friction. Every inch of her ached. Breasts. Nipples. Clit. Even random body parts she wouldn’t have associated with arousal throbbed with exquisite agony. Her neck. Her belly. The backs of her knees.

She’d never experienced anything like this before, this overpowering need to have a man inside her. To be claimed. Possessed.

“No sex.”

Her eyes flew open as Trevor’s half growl, half moan of anguish registered in her head.

An instantaneous gust of disappointment blew into her. “What? You don’t want . . . ?”

“Oh, I want. I want it very, very badly.” His whiskey brown eyes gleamed with such passion it took her breath away. “But not tonight. Not when it’s so late, and definitely not when it’ll have to be rushed.” That gaze burned hotter. “I want to take my time with you, sweetheart.”

Her pulse raced. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

He slid his hand down her body and cupped her mound.

Isabel nearly bucked off the bed. “But you just said . . .”

“I said no sex.” His laugh was surprisingly cocky. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do . . . you know . . . other things to take the edge off.”

To punctuate that, he rubbed her aching core in slow, teasing glides.

Pinpricks of pleasure danced over her flesh. When he applied pressure on her clit, she moaned softly, her hips beginning to move in a restless rhythm. The tension building inside her was unsettling, unfamiliar.

Male satisfaction darkened his eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Isabel.”

Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. “I don’t even look like me.”

Trevor smiled, an odd, secretive little smile. “Yes, you do. You look exactly like you, baby.”

What on earth did
that
mean?

She didn’t have time to dwell on her jumbled thoughts and confusing emotions because Trevor used that moment to slip his hand underneath the waistband of her leggings. His finger dipped inside her panties, and they both groaned when he encountered her bare sex.

“Christ, that’s hot,” he choked out. “Are you always like this?”

She managed a nod, though it was getting harder and harder to concentrate, what with Trevor’s fingers deftly moving up and down her slit.

“It’s easier to wax it all off than dye the carpet to match the drapes every time I change hair color.”

He stiffened, a flash of pure possessiveness setting fire to his eyes. “How often do your targets get a peek at the
carpet
, Isabel?”

A laugh burst out. “Not often. But now I’m always prepared, thanks to the French Riviera fiasco.”

“What happened on the French Riviera?”

“The man I was tailing loved nude beaches. I didn’t have time to hit a salon so I used some dye that ended up being way too strong. It burned like a bitch, totally wasn’t meant for such a delicate area.”

Speaking of delicate areas, Trevor’s hand was still between her legs, except he wasn’t stroking anymore.

“You walked around naked to get close to the asshole?”

“Yup.” She rolled her eyes. “Now can you ask Jealous Trevor to leave the room so we can concentrate on more urgent matters?”

The humor returned to his eyes. “Urgent, huh?” He dragged his fingers along her folds and toyed with her wet opening. “You’re feeling a sense of urgency?”

She gasped when he pushed one finger inside her.

He chuckled.

Heart pounding, she watched Trevor’s face as he pleasured her. His gorgeous eyes glittered with heat, lust, satisfaction.

And he was watching her right back, his gaze never leaving hers as his finger moved in and out and his thumb tended to her swollen clit.

It should have felt intrusive, that ravenous gaze fixated on her face. She should have felt exposed and vulnerable, but she didn’t. His hunger just fueled her own.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mumbled.

He added another finger and quickened the tempo, leaning in to kiss her as those talented digits worked her tight channel, as the pad of his thumb rubbed her clit in a persistent circle.

Trevor’s blistering kisses only stoked the fire building down below. Isabel clung to him, rocking her hips into his wicked hand. Her pulse drummed a frantic beat in her ears, her lungs working overtime to process the oxygen she was inhaling in shallow bursts.

“Come on, Iz, let go.” His hot breath tickled her nose, and then his mouth took possession of hers and she got lost in another reckless kiss.

Her muscles coiled tight, the pressure between her legs becoming so hot and unbearable she thought she’d die if she didn’t get some relief. This was uncharted territory for her. And it scared her, so much so that she found herself desperately trying to suppress the rising waves of arousal by focusing on Trevor, on
his
pleasure.

She reached out and fumbled with his boxers. “I need to touch you. I need . . .”

She gave up on talking and focused on wrapping her fingers around Trevor’s shaft.

His answering groan was loud and laced with desperation. As his fingers thrust deeper inside her, his cock thrust into her hand.

The haze of pleasure in his eyes floored her. He was the sexiest man she’d ever met, and suddenly her new goal in life was to make him come apart.

“Oh, Iz, that’s good.” His voice was strangled, hoarse. “A little faster, sweetheart.”

She tightened her grip and stroked him faster, teasing his engorged head with the pad of her thumb on each upstroke. They were both breathing heavily, their foreheads touching, hips moving.

Soon his expression became tortured and a low groan left his sexy mouth. “It’s been too long, sweetheart. I’m . . . fuck, I’m gonna come.”

As he trembled with release, her own pleasure mounted, the pressure increasing, but then his passion-glazed eyes locked with hers and that pressure spontaneously receded, the climax retreating as it always did. But God, she’d come so close to . . . well, to
coming.
How was that even possible?

“Christ, Isabel. That was . . .” He suddenly halted, narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t . . .”

“No,” she admitted.

“Well, we’ll just have to fix that.”

When his expression turned sensual again and his fingers slid deeper into her core, she stilled his hand and smiled. “Trust me, it won’t happen tonight. I’m way too exhausted.” Noting his visible unhappiness, she hurried on. “I promise you, I enjoyed this as much as you did. It was . . . gosh, it felt incredible, Trevor.”

“Really?” he said hoarsely.

She gave him one last stroke, then released his cock and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. “I’ve never been more turned on in my life, Trev. I don’t need an orgasm to verify that I just had my world rocked. And believe me, my world was totally rocked.”

She wasn’t lying, the way she was usually forced to do, and Trevor must have picked up on her sincerity, because he shot her a crooked grin.

“Fine, but next time we see each other, you’d better be well rested, sweetheart, because I plan on keeping you up all night.”

Her smile faltered, but she didn’t think he noticed. Just in case, she broke the eye contact between them and slid up to a sitting position. Her hand was wet and sticky, prompting her to reach for the tissues on the bedside table. As she cleaned up, she noticed Trevor watching her.

“What?” she said awkwardly.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

A tentative smile curved her lips. “Me too.”

He sat up to brush his lips over hers. When he drew back, he looked slightly troubled.

“What is it now?” she teased.

“Just wondering whether you’re going to pull away from me again, or if this time you’ll actually stay the course.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t,” he murmured. “Don’t say anything. Just kiss me good night, Iz.”

Trevor captured her mouth and kissed her, and Isabel’s heart did the impossible—it leapt and sank at the same damn time. The mention of the future dampened her spirits, but the kiss . . .

The kiss was pure passion. Pure liberation.

“You should go.” He gave her one last kiss before helping her to her feet. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

They walked to the door, Isabel hesitating before turning the knob. “Trevor . . .” She trailed off, uncertain.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said gruffly. “Okay?”

After a long beat, she nodded. “Okay.”

But ten minutes later, when she was lying in her own bed and staring up at the ceiling, overthinking was exactly what she did. Overthinking, analyzing, agonizing . . . and wondering if letting Trevor in tonight had been the biggest mistake she could’ve made.

Or the best decision of her life.

The next morning, Isabel found a ninety-eight-page dossier on Tomas Meiro in her e-mail inbox. Paige had outdone herself this time—she’d gathered so much intelligence that Isabel’s head spun as she sifted through it all. Photographs of the man were conspicuously absent save for one, which was perplexing. With all the charity events and galas Meiro supposedly attended, one would think his picture would have been snapped a lot more than once.

She studied the photograph on the screen, acknowledging Meiro’s undeniable good looks. Tanned skin, dark hair, caramel-colored eyes. According to Paige’s notes, he wasn’t an exceptionally tall man, but his body filled out a suit rather nicely.

His wife, Renee, was also in the picture, a plain woman with a long, thin nose, too-close-together brown eyes, and acne scars that she attempted to cover with makeup. Isabel didn’t consider herself a cynic, but there was only one reason a man like Meiro married a woman who looked like that—and it started with
m
and ended with
oney
.

“Reading the Meiro file?”

Trevor entered the suite’s living room wearing faded jeans, a black T-shirt, and black boots. His hair was damp from the shower, and a few water droplets glistened on his forehead.

Isabel’s cheeks heated slightly as she remembered what they’d done last night, but she maintained a friendly expression. Juliet was across the room drinking her morning coffee, which meant they couldn’t exactly discuss yesterday’s encounter.

She resisted the urge to bite her lip in dismay, still confounded by the all-consuming desire Trevor had evoked in her. For the first time in a long time, release had been within her grasp. But why? Why
this
man? Past lovers couldn’t even get her halfway to orgasm, let alone to the brink of it.

Isabel banished the troubling thoughts and focused on Trevor’s question. “Yeah, I’m reading it for the second time. I asked Paige to forward it to you and the guys.” She spoke in her British accent, as she’d been doing all morning. She was immersed in the role of Valerie now, and would be until this job ended.

Trevor didn’t comment on the accent, but she noticed his eyes twinkle in amusement. “We got it. I’ve been skimming it for the past hour actually.”

He headed for the table where Juliet was sitting and grabbed a mug.

Room service had brought up coffee and breakfast pastries, but Isabel hadn’t had a chance to eat yet. Her head wasn’t on food; it was on the mission. In a couple of hours, she’d be checking in at the Crystal Palace and attempting to make contact with Tomas Meiro. She couldn’t afford any distractions at the moment.

“I’m not done with it yet,” Trevor said as he poured himself some coffee. “Fill me in on what you know?”

“Sure. Pour me some of that?” She gestured to the coffee carafe in his hands.

A moment later, he handed her a cup and sat down at the other end of the couch. “So what’s Meiro’s deal?”

“Pretty much exactly what Noelle and Jules uncovered,” Isabel answered. “Originally from Portugal, moved to Paris when he was a teenager, but it’s unclear what he did for the next decade or so. He met Renee Beaumont about a year ago, married her,
and won over her father.”

“Michel Beaumont.”

“Yes. Multimillionaire, owns a dozen casinos all over Europe. The Crystal Palace is the crown jewel of the business, though. It’s where Beaumont spent most of his time before he died last year, and Meiro is following in his father-in-law’s footsteps.”

Across the room, Juliet left her seat and perched on the arm of the couch. “Not just the legitimate footsteps,” she added, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. “He owns dozens of upscale brothels, one in nearly every major European city, including one here in Monte Carlo.”

Trevor took a quick sip of coffee. “The dossier said something about human trafficking? Tourists getting abducted?”

Both women nodded, and Juliet’s dark eyes flashed with disgust. “Meiro’s goons target female tourists. They scour the clubs, bars, raves, pretty much anywhere you find cute girls. Usually blond, usually American. The men slip them a roofie, get them in a car, and the girls are never heard from again.”

Trevor’s jaw tightened. “Shipped to whorehouses or private buyers, I assume.”

“Most likely, yes.”

Like Juliet, Isabel shook her head in anger. It never failed to amaze her how many sadistic men and women resided in this world. What was the
matter
with people?

“Anyway,” Juliet went on, “Paige wasn’t sure how involved Meiro is with his little side enterprises. He definitely calls the shots, but he seems to delegate a lot of the responsibility to his henchmen.”

Isabel drained her coffee, then stood up to grab another cup. She was feeling too damn sluggish this morning. Probably because she’d barely slept a wink last night. Sleepless nights seemed to be the norm when Trevor was in her life, and the realization brought a pang of irritation. A woman in her line of work couldn’t afford an Achilles’ heel, but she suspected she had one in Trevor Callaghan, which was a damn unwelcome notion.

“He can usually be found at the casino,” she said, joining the discussion. “He stays in the hotel penthouse most of the time.”

“What about the wife?” Trevor asked.

“She lives in the family mansion. It’s a huge estate in one of those nouveau riche areas of the city.”

Juliet grinned. “The West Egg.”

Trevor wrinkled his forehead before nodding. “Right. Gatsby.”

“I told you, Meiro is very Great Gatsby,” Juliet insisted. “Came out of nowhere, self-made rich, handsome and mysterious.”

“Anyway,” Isabel said, “the Meiros inherited the mansion from Beaumont after he died. Renee was Beaumont’s only child and sole heir. It’s got to be a loveless marriage, though. Doesn’t seem like Mr. and Mrs. Meiro spend any time together at all.”

Juliet snorted. “Hey, you saw the picture of his wife. Do you blame the man for getting his jollies elsewhere?”

Something buzzed, causing Juliet to stand up abruptly. She pulled a phone out of her back pocket, glanced at the screen, and then disappeared into the bedroom.

Isabel didn’t comment on her colleague’s hasty departure; Juliet wasn’t the kind of woman who offered explanations. She did what she wanted, when she wanted, without consulting a soul.

On the couch, Trevor had a thoughtful look. “So how do you plan on getting close to him?”

“That’s the beauty of it—I won’t even have to go to him. He’ll find
me
.”

“How are you so sure?”

“If you’re a high roller, Meiro personally seeks you out. At least according to Paige’s intel. All I have to do is flash some cash and Meiro’s staff will notify him. If Paige’s sources are right, then Meiro will come down from his castle and introduce himself to me.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Trevor countered.

“Then it’s time for Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?”

“I’ll let you know when I come up with it.”

Trevor looked torn between laughing and voicing his disapproval. He didn’t get a chance to do either because the phone next to the couch rang.

Isabel picked up the phone and dropped the English accent. “Yes?”

“Is this Ms. Jensen? I’m calling from the front desk,” a brisk female voice said.

“No, Kelly is out on the terrace. This is Brittany,” Isabel replied in a bubbly tone.

They were all traveling under fake American passports, Isabel’s bearing the name Brittany Matthews, a blond advertising executive from New York. It was her least favorite alias, but hey, Brittany got the job done.

Didn’t matter anyway—in a few short hours, she’d be Valerie Parker-Smith. It was funny, but she could already feel her confidence level rising as she adopted Valerie’s mannerisms and personality.

Why was it so easy for her to become another person?

And why did she feel truly whole only when she wore another woman’s skin?

Banishing the disturbing thoughts, she listened to the desk clerk, then hung up and turned to Trevor with a dry smile. “The rest of our party is here.”

“Sully and Liam?”

“I believe they called themselves Kirk and Brody. Our bros from the Big Apple.”

Trevor snickered.

Two minutes later, a distinctly male knock sounded on the door, followed by an overly high voice calling, “Room service!”

Rolling his eyes, Trevor went to let his men in.

Sullivan Port and Liam Macgregor entered the suite with a level of enthusiasm that didn’t surprise Isabel—those two possessed a scary amount of energy. What did startle her was their appearance.

The two men looked like a pair of spoiled preppy kids who’d spent the summer sailing around St. Barts on their daddy’s yacht. Tanned skin, scruffy facial hair, muscular bodies clad in T-shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops. The oversize duffel bags they dropped on the carpeted floor didn’t mesh with the carefree nomad vibes the men were emitting. Isabel didn’t even want to know what deadly secrets those bags contained.

“Took you long enough.” Trevor greeted the two men with back slaps and handshakes.

“Stubborn Susan over here insisted we dock in Nice and catch a flight from there.” Liam’s vivid blue eyes twinkled playfully when he glanced at Isabel. “Is that you, Blondie, or am I still drunk from all that Jamaican rum?”

She’d forgotten she was wearing a blond wig, which was ironic considering she’d taken such pains to go from a blonde to a redhead yesterday. But since she’d checked in as the blond Brittany, she needed to keep up appearances whenever she was in this suite. Not just for the staff’s sake, but for anyone who might be peering through a high-zoom lens from some balcony across the street. They’d all been avoiding the terrace, save for D and Noelle, who went out there to smoke.

“It’s me,” she told Liam. “Good to see you again.”

He gave her a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, then flashed a dimpled grin that would have made her heart flutter if she was the kind of woman who went for the male-model type. Because Liam Macgregor? Drop-dead gorgeous. Those Black Irish good looks belonged on a movie screen.

Sullivan wasn’t hard on the eyes either. The six-foot-three, dirty blond–haired Australian hugged her next, his gray eyes gleaming with appreciation as his gaze skimmed over her face, down the length of her body, and then back up. The way he was checking her out, you’d think she was wearing skimpy lingerie rather than faded jeans and a white T-shirt.

“You look good, Isabel,” Sullivan told her, casting that rogue grin of his.

“So do you.” She grinned back. “You left
Evangeline
in France, huh? What, you didn’t want to introduce her to me?”

At the mention of his yacht, Sullivan’s expression went serious. And oddly defensive.

“I didn’t want to moor her in the marina here. What if things get tumultuous?”

Liam hooted. “Tumultuous? Is that your vocabulary word of the day?”

“Zip it, Boston. I’m friggin’ serious. If this op turns into another clusterfuck and shit gets blown up? I don’t want Evie anywhere near us.”

Isabel could honestly say she’d never met a man who loved his boat more than Sullivan Port did.

At the word
clusterfuck
, the mood in the room grew sober.

Liam ran a frustrated hand through his spectacular hair, which was thick and dark and more lustrous than a shampoo model’s. “We tried to reach Holden on the radio when we were making our way here, but we couldn’t get him.”

Trevor sighed. “He’s not feeling very social at the moment. He needs time to grieve.”

Anger etched into Sullivan’s features. “What the fuck happened, Trev? How did those fuckers manage to launch an assault that you didn’t see coming?”

“It was a blitz attack. Dead of night, bird overhead. The ground troops took out the gate while we were being hit with a wave of RPGs. We weren’t expecting it.” Trevor released a harsh curse. “Lloyd, Beth, and Hank lost their lives, Sully. Trust me, we’re all kicking ourselves for letting that happen.”

Sullivan had the decency to look shamefaced. Good thing, too, because Isabel had been about to come to Trevor’s defense. The only people to blame for the strike on the compound were the mercenaries who’d attacked it, and she’d be damned if anyone tried to lay the burden of blame on Trevor’s shoulders.

“Sorry, mate. I’m not assigning fault here. Just trying to make sense of it, y’know?”

“I know,” Trevor said quietly.

“Any word from the boss man?” The inquiry came from Liam.

“Not a peep.”

The newcomers glanced around the empty suite. “Where are the others?” Sullivan asked.

“D and Ethan are across the hall. Noelle and Juliet are around here somewhere,” Trevor said.

“Juliet?” The tall Australian looked intrigued. “She sounds hot.”

Isabel laughed. “You can tell just by her name?”

“Hell, yeah.”

Liam concurred. “A name tells you a helluva lot, Blondie.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She left her empty cup on the table. “I should get going.”

Trevor was at her side in a heartbeat. “Can we have a moment alone first?”

When she nodded, he turned to the new arrivals and said, “Give me a sec.” Then he followed Isabel into the bedroom she’d shared with Juliet last night.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I want you to be careful,” he said sternly.

She couldn’t help an indulgent smile. “I’m always careful, Trevor.”

“I know but just . . . be extra careful, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you have everything you need to back up your cover?” His tone was brisk, professional, but it didn’t quite mask his concern.

“Valerie’s documents arrived this morning, and her bags are already in the limo I’m taking from the airport.”

She stifled a sigh, knowing the next few hours would be tedious as hell. To give credence to her backstory, they’d chartered a private plane and paid the pilot to file a bogus flight plan to give the appearance that Valerie Parker-Smith had left London this morning. She was due to “land” any moment now; Isabel would make her way to the private airfield and then come right back to the strip, which was annoying but necessary.