Midnight Games: A Killer Instincts Novel (20 page)

Isabel burst out laughing. “Okay, I have to know more.”

He stroked her hair, threading his fingers through the red strands. “I planned this whole romantic evening. My parents were out of town, and I bribed Krista to spend the night at a friend’s so I could have the house to myself. Then I went all out—cooked a gourmet dinner, stole a bottle of wine from our cellar, sprinkled a bunch of rose petals down the hall and all over my bed.”

“Mr. Romantic over here.”

“Sixteen-year-old me thought so too. Sara, not so much. She sat through dinner pretending it was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted, without bothering to tell me that I put waaaaay too much hot sauce in everything—”

“Hot sauce?” she interjected. “What the hell did you make?”

He snorted. “Spaghetti. Yeah, I know. I thought I was creating a cool new sauce that would blow her mind. So poor Sara’s sitting there, her face fire-engine red and her nose running because that spaghetti sauce is the spiciest thing on the planet, and she’s washing it down with wine. Neither of us were big drinkers, and instead of getting drunk, Sara just got sick. I had no clue though, because she didn’t want to upset me, so she ducked into the bathroom to ‘get ready’ when really she was puking her guts out.”

Isabel snickered. “Oh, shit, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just . . .” She giggled again. “That poor girl.”

“Eventually she came out wearing nothing but my baseball uniform shirt, which was damn hot. We didn’t get to the sex part right away. Sara was nervous, so I held her hand like the gentleman I was and we put a movie on. About halfway through, she decided she was ready, and we followed the trail of rose petals to my bedroom, and . . .” He broke out laughing. “I lasted forty-five seconds.”

Isabel propped herself up on her elbow. “Aw, that’s sad.”

“Sad? I thought that was
good
. My buddy Pete said if you went longer than thirty seconds, that was crazy-awesome.”

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes as another wave of laughter overtook her.

“Needless to say, Sara Malkovitz’s first time was thoroughly underwhelming.” He flashed a cocky smile. “Her second time, on the other hand, was mind-blowing. She didn’t even have to fake an orgasm.”

“Did she fake it the first time?”

“Yep. She really had me going, too. Lots of moaning and shuddering and squealing, a real porn-star performance. If a woman did that to me now, I’d know in a heartbeat that she was faking.”

“Oh really? What about me? Was I faking it tonight?”

Isabel regretted the words the second they slipped out of her mouth. Crap. Why had she inserted herself into the discussion? Her past sexual interludes were way too humiliating to share with Trevor.

His whiskey brown eyes took on a smug light. “No fucking way.” Then those eyes narrowed, as if he was suddenly second-guessing himself. “Were you?”

“No. I wasn’t.”

His expression became even more suspicious. “Why do you say it like that? Like you’re surprised?”

“I’m not surprised. I was just joking around.”

She’d tried to sound casual, but Trevor wasn’t buying it. He went quiet for a second, and then his voice took on a contemplative note. “You didn’t have an orgasm last night.”

She bristled. “I told you, I was exhausted.”

He didn’t acknowledge her response. “You didn’t seem surprised by it, though. It was almost like you expected not to. But tonight . . . you came and it caught you by total surprise, didn’t it?”

She supposed she could have lied, but she got the feeling Trevor would see right through her. “Yes. It caught me off guard,” she admitted.

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “Because the last person to bring me to orgasm was Michael.”

The boy whose hands her father had shattered with a baseball bat . . .

She banished the agonizing memory and focused on Trevor, whose jaw had fallen open. “You mean up until tonight, you hadn’t had an orgasm since you were a teenager?”

“No, I’ve had orgasms.” She blushed. “The ones I’ve given myself.”

“But you’d been with other men, right?”

She nodded.

“You faked it with them?”

“Yes.”

The admission was accompanied by a pang of shame. She hated thinking about her past lovers, as few and far between as they’d been.

“It’s a shitty thing to do, I know,” she said wearily. “But honestly, after a while, faking it was the only option. I would try to explain that the sex was still enjoyable—just because I didn’t come didn’t mean I was having a crappy time or anything. But men are black and white creatures.” She rolled her eyes. “If you’re not giving a Sara Malkovitz performance, then they start to wonder if there’s something wrong with them, but since no one wants to believe they might have any sexual inadequacies, they immediately deflect the blame. Which means that there
must
be something wrong with me.”

She sat up with a sigh, pulling the sheet up to cover her breasts. “They were right, though. There
was
something wrong with me. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t let myself relax. Every time things got too . . . intimate, I guess, I would shut down.”

Her confession hung in the hotel room, bringing a rush of discomfort to her stomach. She suddenly felt queasy. God, why had she told him all that? What kind of woman talked about her sexual deficiencies and intimacy issues while lying in bed with a sexy, naked man? No wonder she was still single at thirty-two.

She bit her lip. “I don’t know why it was different with you. I didn’t expect this.”

“It’s different because
you’re
different,” he said quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re not playing a part when you’re with me. You’re opening yourself up to me, and that makes a difference when it comes to sex. You can’t experience true intimacy unless you let down your guard.”

“I guess.” Feeling uncomfortable, she eased out of bed, still holding the sheet against her like a shield. This entire conversation was unsettling, nearing a line she wasn’t ready to cross.

Naked as the day he was born, Trevor hopped off the mattress and caught her by the waist before she could pick up her dress.

“No,” he said roughly. “Don’t do it, Isabel.”

She avoided his gaze. “Do what?”

“Shut down. You did it with the other men in your life, but I’ll be damned if you shut
me
out.”

Too late. Her guard was back up and higher than ever.

Continuing to avert her eyes, she gently removed his hand from her hip. “I have to go. We’re in the middle of an undercover op here.”

She felt his frustrated gaze on her as she got dressed, but he didn’t say a word, not until she’d slipped on her high heels and was taking a step toward the door.

“This isn’t over, Iz. You know that, right?”

“All I know is that I have a job to do. Anything beyond that, I’ll figure out later.”

“Why do I get the feeling that when this job ends, you’ll be giving me a speech along the lines of ‘what happens in Monte Carlo stays in Monte Carlo’?”

Her lack of response inspired a muttered curse from Trevor.

“I won’t let you walk away from me again,” he said.

A weight of exhaustion settled over her. “What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?”

“Everything.”

“Christ, who
asks
for that, Trevor?”

He approached her again, and her eyes devoured every glorious inch of him. His sculpted chest and washboard abs. His powerful legs and firm thighs. His thick cock, semihard even now.

“I don’t do half-ass relationships, Isabel. Once I’m in, I’m in one hundred percent.” He gripped her chin and forced eye contact, holding her prisoner with his intense gaze. “Give me a hundred percent in return, sweetheart.”

Little drops of fear trickled down her spine. She felt utterly hypnotized as she stared into Trevor’s gorgeous eyes. The man was casting a spell on her. He was somehow breaching each and every one of her defenses, getting closer and closer to the heart she’d locked up tight a long time ago.

He wanted everything.

Damn it, how could he even make such a demand?

Pressing her lips together, she shrugged out of his grip and marched to the door with false bravado. “Like I said, we’ll talk when the job is over. Good night, Trev.”

She left the room quickly, before he could call her bluff.

When Tomas Meiro showed up at Isabel’s hotel suite the next afternoon, Valerie Parker-Smith didn’t waste any time putting the man in his place.

“You’re married.” Her flat tone and unhappy pout conveyed her precise feelings on the matter.

As expected, Meiro’s expression darkened. “You’ve been asking about me.”

“Of course I have. I’m not an imbecile, luv. When a handsome man showers me with attention and invites me to lunch in the private dining room of his luxurious hotel, I ask questions.”

She crossed her arms over the front of her red Dior silk blouse, which she’d paired with a black Dolce & Gabbana pencil skirt and three-inch Manolo Blahniks. The peep-toe heels clicked on the parquet as she turned away from Meiro and strode into the suite’s living room.

He followed her inside. “I’m sorry, Valerie. I should have told you the truth.”

His remorseful tone caught her off guard. Meiro didn’t strike her as the type of man who apologized often.

“Well, at least you’re not denying it.” With a haughty lift of her chin, she walked over to the bar area, picked up the crystal water jug, and poured herself a glass. “Nevertheless, I’m afraid I won’t be accompanying you to lunch.”

“Ma chérie—”

“I’m not your darling,” she interrupted. “I’m also not a home wrecker, so I’m sure you can understand why I choose not to spend time with you.”

She sipped her water and eyed him coolly over the rim of her glass.

Meiro looked visibly unhappy. And again, quite handsome. Today he wore a pair of perfectly starched gray chinos and a black V-neck sweater that outlined his broad chest. His thick, wavy hair was slicked away from his forehead, emphasizing his angular features and pronounced cheekbones.

“Will you at least give me a chance to explain?”

She feigned boredom. “What is there to explain, Tomas?”

His jaw tensed, the only crack in his polished armor. He was far more annoyed than he was letting on—that was for sure.

“My marriage is nothing more than a business arrangement.”

“How naive do I look?” She rolled her eyes. “You think I haven’t heard that before?”

With purposeful strides, he joined her at the bar and splashed a small amount of bourbon into a tumbler before focusing his caramel eyes on her face. “I married Renee for her money.”

“That’s a very frank thing to say.”

“It’s the truth. There is no love between my wife and me. Her father was my employer, a very powerful man, but also quite old-fashioned—he didn’t think a woman could run an empire, so he was trying to marry his daughter off to a man who could eventually take over the business. I was looking to elevate my social position, so I asked for her hand in marriage and he gave us his blessing.”

“And your wife was perfectly willing to marry a man she didn’t love?”

“We were friends. That was enough for her. And she recognized that I was a far better candidate than any man her father might have chosen for her.”

Isabel watched him carefully, pursing her lips. “I do believe you’re telling the truth.”

“I am.” He drank the contents of his glass, set it down on the counter, and reached for her hand.

She let him take it, but maintained a wary expression.

“Renee and I lead separate lives. We appear in public together when the situation necessitates it, but for the most part, my wife and I are friends and nothing more.”

He rubbed the center of her palm with his thumb, slowly, sensually, while those deep brown eyes locked with hers. The man oozed charm and confidence, and damned if he didn’t sound sincere. He was smooth—she had to give him that.

“So you see, I am married in name only. In my heart, and in my soul, I am a free man.”

Ugh. Gag. All right, so he was as slimy as he was smooth, Isabel amended.

She allowed him to stroke her hand for a few more seconds before withdrawing it from his grasp and taking a step back.

“That is all well and good, luv, but the details surrounding your marriage are inconsequential to me. I’m the kind of woman who cares about one thing—the bottom line. And bottom line? You’re a married man. I don’t shag married men, and I certainly don’t allow them to offer me false promises only to make a fool of me in the end. I had a lovely time with you last night, Tomas, but I’m afraid our acquaintance has come to an end.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Oh yes, you don’t like that, do you, Meiro?

“If that’s what you wish,” he said tersely.

She injected some regret into her voice. “It’s not what I wish, but it must be done.”

Meiro’s evident dissatisfaction made her want to laugh, but she forced herself to keep her composure as she walked him to the door.

“Enjoy the rest of your stay, sweet Valerie.” Mr. Smooth returned in the blink of an eye, clasping her hand and lifting it to his lips.

“Thank you, Tomas.”

After he was gone, she allowed the grin to surface. Gosh, she loved the game. It was such a thrill at times, setting the trap and then sitting back and waiting for her prey to walk right into it.

She didn’t miss the irony of that. In her real life, she
hated
games, which was why she was generally upfront about her intentions, honest about her feelings.

Except with Trevor.

For some screwed-up reason, she found it so difficult to reveal what she felt for him—but maybe that was because she didn’t know
how
she felt.

All she knew was that whenever Trevor got anywhere near her, she turned into a puddle of confusion, and the lighthearted front she’d worked so hard to construct over the years flew right out the window.

In the bedroom, she unzipped the small compartment at the bottom of her carry-on suitcase and dug out a cell phone. It was the secure one she was using to stay connected to the others, but if anyone ever discovered it, she would simply claim that she traveled with a backup in case her phone got lost or stolen.

She’d witnessed plenty of wealthy folks employing that same system, and the idea of legitimately traveling with backup electronics never failed to make her roll her eyes. People these days were so enslaved to technology, and the sad thing was, they often didn’t even realize it.

Again, ironic thoughts, seeing as she was holding an untraceable cell phone at this very moment.

She quickly checked in with Noelle and described the encounter with Meiro, knowing that her boss would relay the update to the others. But she hadn’t expected it to happen so fast; less than five minutes later, the phone buzzed in her hand and Trevor was on the line.

“What game are you playing, Iz?”

She furrowed her brow, genuinely stumped. “What are you talking about?”

“Cockteasing Meiro?” he prompted.

“Oh, that.”

“‘Oh, that’?” He grumbled something she couldn’t make out. “You rejected him. Why? We need to hook him, remember?”

An incredulous laugh popped out. “
I
need to hook him, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“By sending him away?”

Annoyance surfaced in her voice. “Are you seriously questioning my abilities right now? After you apologized for doing the same thing last night?”

A breath sounded in her ear. “No. No, I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling impatient. I’ve been watching the West Egg mansion all frickin’ night and I’m bored as fuck. I keep thinking how every second we waste is a second Morgan might not have. His life could very well be on the line here.”

Isabel relaxed when she realized his harsh words had stemmed from concern rather than criticism of her methods.

“I know you’re worried about Morgan,” she said softly. “And I’m well aware of the urgency of the situation. But trust me, by the end of tonight? I’ll have Meiro eating out of the palm of my hand.”

•   •   •

Just as Isabel had anticipated, Meiro was nowhere near done with Valerie. She’d just been seated at a secluded corner booth in the hotel’s award-winning restaurant when a shadow fell over her.

She lifted her head from the menu in her hands, hiding a smile.

“Tomas,” she said slowly. “What can I do for you?”

Solemn-faced, he gestured to the other side of the booth. “May I join you?”

Isabel pretended to hesitate.

“It won’t take but a minute.”

Continuing to look torn, she finally nodded. “All right.”

As he slid into the booth, she noticed that several pairs of eyes were fixed on them. Well, mostly on Meiro. Seemed like everyone in the room knew who he was, and many of the female guests were gazing at him as if he was a million times more scrumptious than the gourmet dishes before them.

It was to be expected, though. Tomas Meiro was young, rich, and easy on the eyes, married or not. That made him a prize catch for females looking to fill his mistress slot.

The restaurant was busy that evening; the small, square tables on the main floor were all occupied, as were most of the more intimate VIP booths lining the back wall. The bar area to Isabel’s right was also bustling, guests taking up residence on the tall stools or leaning against the stainless-steel counter.

Liam Macgregor was among them, looking as dashing as any movie star in his tailored black suit. His blue eyes gleamed with mischief as he flirted with a curvy brunette in a short dress, but Isabel knew Macgregor was sharply aware of his surroundings. Every table, every person, every last detail. She didn’t have much knowledge about his background, except that he was from Boston and had been DEA at one point and a soldier at another. But if Morgan had hired the guy, that meant he was damn good.

“I have something for you.” Meiro reached into his inside pocket. When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his free hand and said, “Please, don’t object. It’s simply a small token of my appreciation, my way of apologizing for not being completely upfront about my . . . situation.”

He placed a rectangular-shaped jewelry box on the tabletop.

“Open it,” he said softly.

After a beat of reluctance, she reached for the box and opened the lid. Sucked in a breath when she laid eyes on the beautiful emerald bracelet twinkling on the black velvet bed.

“You were wearing the most enchanting emerald pendant last night,” Meiro said smoothly. “I thought you might enjoy a companion for it.”

Well played, sir
.

She gazed at the bracelet again, let her mouth fall open in astonishment. “Tomas . . . this is breathtaking . . .” Now she blinked a few times, trying to give the impression that she was too stunned to think clearly. “But . . . I told you, I won’t go to bed with a married man.”

“I didn’t come here tonight to convince you to sleep with me,
ma chérie
.”

Yeah, fucking right
.

“I was merely hoping to express my sincerest apologies for misleading you, and to see if for the duration of your visit you might enjoy spending time with me—as a friend.”

“A friend.” She repeated the word, slowly, carefully, as if she were trying it on for size.

His tone grew persuasive. “Your party abandoned you, and you mentioned that you don’t know anyone here in the city. Well, I would be honored to show you the sights, perhaps take you out on the
Splendid Lady
tomorrow afternoon?”

“The
Splendid Lady
?”

“My yacht.” Meiro gently lifted the bracelet out of the jewelry box. “Give me your hand, sweet Valerie.”

She made a big production of hesitating before daintily extending her hand.

Meiro’s voice lowered to a seductive pitch as he circled her wrist with the bracelet and flicked the clasp. The gems sparkled under the overhead lamp, making her smile.

“So, this is a symbol of our friendship?” she teased.

“I can be a very good friend when I want to be.”

“Evidently.”

They both laughed. Isabel raised her hand and admired her new bauble. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in—”

“Pardonnez-moi,”
a rough voice interrupted.

Isabel quickly masked her excitement. She instantly recognized Claude Roussel from the security tape footage that had captured Roussel’s meeting with Eddie Lassiter. He looked even more sinister in person, though. Rodentlike features, harsh scowl, thinning hair, and a linebacker’s body.

Annoyance flickered on Meiro’s face. “I believe I asked not to be interrupted.”

Both men were speaking French. Since Isabel happened to be fluent in it, she had no trouble following along.

Roussel looked more bored than repentant. “My apologies, Mr. Meiro. I have some news that bears your attention. May I have a moment alone?”

With a regretful smile, Meiro slid out of the booth. “Please excuse me, Ms. Parker-Smith. There’s some casino business that needs to be taken care of.”

“Take your time.” She pretended to be captivated by the expensive bracelet around her wrist.

Much to her delight, the two men didn’t go far. They simply walked a few feet away and stopped by one of the beautiful crystal fountains scattered throughout the room. The fountains were gorgeous, topped by lifelike statues of well-endowed women that were reminiscent of fertility idols of the past.

The fountains were also damn loud.

The water cascading out of the statue’s mouth and bubbling at the crystal base made it difficult to hear what was being said. Throw in the standard restaurant noises of voices murmuring and tableware clinking and chairs scraping the floor, and you needed a lip-reader to interpret what the men were saying.

Still, Isabel did manage to pick out a few key words. The word
package
was definitely used more than once.

She picked up her menu and pretended to study the appetizers list, all the while straining to hear Meiro and Roussel. Meiro’s goon spoke so quietly she’d given up on him—until a timely lull among the restaurant’s patrons allowed one sentence to meet her ears.

“He’s definitely still alive.”

She continued to peruse the menu, but her mind wasn’t on the fifty-dollar appetizers.

He was still alive.

Who
was still alive? Were they talking about Morgan?

“...time and money looking for him . . .”