Chapter Eighteen

Marigold was late. Typical! She hadn’t changed a bit. Punctuality hadn’t been her thing when they were teenagers and still wasn’t important to her. Phone in hand, Angie paced back and forth on the carpet in front of the sofa in her concierge-level suite. She paused to stare at the app-filled screen on her phone, hoping to see a text message, but there was nothing. Marigold had always been the cool one.

Angie’s fingers poised over the keys. She could send her own message but didn’t want to betray her excitement or anxiety. What if Marigold didn’t come? Or refused to listen? So many things could go wrong.

In the small kitchenette, she opened the fridge under the counter beside the sink. The ice-cold craft beer was tempting, but she had the feeling that she needed all her wits to deal with her old friend. She grabbed a carton of cranberry juice, climbed onto a stool at the black granite counter that divided the kitchenette from the living room and helped herself to the white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies that were provided free, compliments of room service.

Probably not a good idea to cram a cookie into her mouth, but she took two anyway. The amenities at Nick’s were outstanding, and she might not have this level of service for a very long time. Her next undercover assignment might not be luxurious, but that wasn’t the reason she wanted to stay here. In spite of the danger, deception and horseback riding lessons, Nick’s felt like home. She’d met people here who were already like family...and Julian, her undercover lover. How could she leave before she had a chance to find out if their budding relationship might bloom.

She checked the time on her phone. Marigold was officially twenty-three minutes late. Swell! She polished off the cookie and brushed the crumbs off her crimson, high-collared blouse with the low V-neck to show off her necklaces of crystals and silver. When it was half an hour, Angie would call.

There was a tap at the door, and she flew to answer. The blonde woman who pushed her way inside without being invited smelled like expensive perfume. Her makeup was perfect. Her short, faux fur, leopard-print jacket over super-skinny jeans would have been tacky on a less confident woman, but Marigold made them look fashionable. She glanced around the room as if she owned the place.

“You decorated this suite,” Angie said.

“I’m good at my work.”

“Are you an interior decorator by trade?”

“I’ve had some training, and I have good taste, which is as much of a shock to me as anybody else.”

“I always knew you were tasteful. You used to read all the fashion mags.” Their conversation seemed as stilted as two people who had never met before. Angie wanted to dash across the room and give her oldest pal—perhaps her only true friend—a hug. “I missed you.”

“Same here.”

“I never thought I’d see you again.”

“When I look back at who we were when we were teenagers, I wouldn’t have given good odds for our survival.”

“We did okay. With no cash and no skills, we got by for six months on the road.”

“Don’t make it sound like we were on a grand adventure. I was there. I remember the days when we had nothing to eat but the crap we scrounged from dumpsters. My back still aches from the nights when we slept under streetlights on concrete.”

Angie tended to gloss over the horror of that time when they’d meandered from Utah to Denver. They’d taken turns saving each other’s life. The predators were many and fierce. Running from a massive brown bear in the forest was less terrifying than facing street gangs in the city. “I never would have made it without you.”

“Me? What about you? You were ferocious, especially after you bought your first switchblade at that weird little pawnshop.”

“I’ve upgraded since then.”

“Smart move. That first blade was clumsy and ridiculous. The only thing it was good for was scaring off somebody who got too close.”

“Not our best weapon,” she conceded. “You were better at disarming men.”

“Like this.” Marigold opened her leopard jacket. Underneath the faux fur, she wore a snug, cream-colored top that revealed her shapely, well-toned body. “A blessing and a curse.”

She did a little shimmy, and Angie laughed. “You’ve always been gorgeous.”

“And you were the smarty-pants.”

Angie felt herself beginning to relax. At the Glass Palace when she’d first seen the woman who called herself Marion Grant, she’d been too shocked and confused to do anything more than dissolve into a helpless puddle of tears. The last couple of days had given her perspective. “You said you were willing to leave Nick.”

“I say a lot of things.” She stalked across the room and came to a stop only a few feet away. “You’re calling yourself Angie, right?”

“I’ve used a dozen aliases since I was fifteen. I’m sure you’ve done the same because I’ve continued to look for you online over the years, and ‘Marion Grant’ doesn’t exist. I followed a number of false trails that all led to dead ends. You’re the most secret of mistresses with no identification whatsoever.”

“Aren’t you clever?” Standing too close, she flicked the collar of Angie’s red shirt. “Tell me, Angie, are you wearing a wire?”

“Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“You’ve been looking for me, and this afternoon I did some research of my own. The usual computer stuff was all about your alias, and there was nothing on the name I once knew you by. Do you even remember being Maxine Dubrowski?”

Maxie and Marigold. Before they teamed up, she’d been a sullen brat who kept to herself and lashed out at the well-meaning adults who tried to take care of her. Living with her drug-addict parents would have been worse, but she could never forgive them for abandoning her. She didn’t thrive in foster care, didn’t have a sense of herself at all until she hooked up with Marigold. “What did you find out?”

“I called a couple of the homes where we lived. One of the foster moms—a tall woman with a faint mustache—told me that you were a success story and had turned your life around.”

“And Mrs. Mustache probably claimed credit, told you that I had seen the error of my ways and become a good girl.”

“It wasn’t really like that.”

Angie had no particular aspiration to be a good girl. Instead, her motivation for doing well in school and developing a power base was simple. She wanted revenge against Lorenzo for taking Marigold away from her. “What else did she tell you?”

“She said you’d gone to college, graduated and then went into law enforcement. Is that accurate? Are you a cop?”

Marigold locked her gaze on Angie’s face. This was it: the moment of truth.

Though they had been apart for eleven years, Marigold was closer to her than anyone else. They were sisters. Lying to her was an unthinkable betrayal. Angie knew she could pull off a deception. Based on her psychological profile and her FBI training in undercover work, she was a certified, world-class liar.

And she had a solid basis for concealing the truth. Like it or not, Marigold had been Lorenzo’s mistress for over eleven years. If Angie gave up the details of the FBI raid on Tuesday night, his mistress might feel obliged to tell him, and the plan to halt human trafficking would fail. Three years of undercover work by Julian would be wasted, not to mention her own elaborate subterfuge and research.

Angie stuck out her chin. “I’m not wearing a wire. Are you?”

“What?”

“If you really think I’m a cop, you might have wanted to record our conversation for Lorenzo. And before you say anything else, I want you to know that all the recording devices—audio and cameras—have been disabled in my suite.”

“Does your boyfriend know about that?”

“I convinced Julian that I needed my privacy.”

Marigold took a step back. “I heard that you hooked up with him. I totally approve. I worked with Julian when I was decorating, and I like the guy. He’s smart, practical and has the prettiest blue eyes of all time. Don’t let him get away.”

Relationship advice from a woman who hooked up with a crime boss? “I might not stay on the OTB job too long.”

“Why would you leave?”

“I don’t like horses. Once I get the initial computer system up and running, there won’t be much more for me to do.” So far, she’d been honest. “I’m not crazy about Valentino, and Zapata scares me.”

“Where would you go?”

“I have options.” She clasped Marigold’s hands in both of hers. “And so do you. You said you were tired of Lorenzo, and I can help you get away from him and start a new life. You’re beautiful and talented. You deserve good friends and a family who loves you as much as I do. Come with me, Marigold, you always said you wanted kids.”

Her gaze flickered, and Angie knew she’d hit a sore point. Was this about children? Was Marigold desperate to have kids? She stalked across the room to the door and paused with her hand on the knob. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I can’t stay. I need to get home.”

“Promise you’ll call me or come over tomorrow,” Angie pleaded. “Promise.”

“I’ll try.”

She whipped open the door and exited.

IN JULIAN’S PENTHOUSE suite, Angie prowled the room like a hungry mountain lion searching for prey. Her meeting with Marigold hadn’t been satisfying. The big question about whether she’d leave Lorenzo remained unanswered, and Angie sensed that her friend was troubled in many other ways.

“Anything to drink?” Julian asked. “I have wine, beer, juice, lemonade and tea.”

“Why do you keep booze in the house if you don’t drink?”

“It’s for guests. And the craft beer is nonalcoholic.”

“I’ll try that.” She climbed onto a high stool and rested her elbows on the granite counter that separated his kitchenette. Though the rest of his suite was much bigger than hers, his cooking area was only slightly larger and contained a full-size fridge. “I’ve never been much of a drinker,” she said. “I hate being drunk and out of control.”

“Did your parents drink?”

“I didn’t know them well enough to talk about their habits. They were both addicts, so I guess they drank, snorted and shot up. I’m lucky I didn’t inherit those traits.”

As he took two bottles of beer from the fridge and poured the contents into pilsner glasses, she appreciated his efficiency and economy of motion. He wasn’t one of those guys who fumbled in the kitchen and couldn’t take care of himself. When he pushed up the sleeves on his black cashmere sweater, she admired his muscular wrists. This was a man, a real man, who knew how to build a house, program a computer and make dinner.

“I bet you like to cook,” she said.

“Sometimes. How about you?”

“Never,” she said.

He brought the beer to the counter and leaned across to place her drink directly in front of her. Behind his glasses, his magical blue eyes ignited fireworks inside her. “Tell me about Marigold.”

“It’s hard to explain.” She took a moment to compose herself and sip the craft beer, which had a smooth, wheaty flavor and tickled the back of her throat. “I couldn’t bring myself to lie to Marigold, but I wasn’t honest. She’d done background checking on me and asked if I was wearing a wire. She thought I’d become a cop.”

“Which you didn’t. You’re an agent.”

“I knew you’d say that.” She noticed that he’d shaved while she’d been downstairs talking to her old friend. His dark blond hair was still damp from his shower. “You and I are very much alike when it comes to undercover work and deception. We’re professional liars.”

“Somehow, we managed to spend several days together without revealing our identities. Was anything you told me the truth?”

“Some of it.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Maxine Dubrowski,” she said without hesitation. “I prefer Angie.”

“Good to know,” he said. “On the day after tomorrow, this assignment will be over and we’ll go our separate ways and find new undercover identities.”

She was well aware that the end was near. Their relationship would be over before it started. “We may never see each other again.”

He glanced toward the fridge. “Hungry?”

“You did a good job of pretending to be dangerous. When you first drove me into the mountains, I halfway expected to be disappeared and dumped in a shallow grave. And when you loaded three dead guys in the back of the SUV, I was justifiably terrified.”

“I didn’t have a clue that you were FBI.” He took a drink and licked the foam from his lips. “When I first met you, I almost broke my cover. You seemed like a decent person and—”

“Decent person? That’s what you thought of me?”

“It’s a compliment. I wanted to get you away from here and didn’t want you to be hurt. Is that so terrible?”

“Not terrible but irritating.” She wasn’t ready to let him off the hook. “I go to a lot of trouble to look like this. Most men are fascinated and intrigued.”

“If I fell apart every time I caught a glimpse of cleavage and a smear of red lipstick, there’s no way I could work at the Burlesque.” He scooped up their beer glasses and crossed the room. “Let’s sit over here and get comfortable.”

She followed him to the love seat in front of the fireplace. He set their drinks on the coffee table, dimmed the lights and lit the fire with the touch of a button. The flames scampered across the logs in a random dance that captivated her attention, but she noticed when he added background music—classical guitar. Comfy? Yes! Relaxed? Most definitely not. Her senses were on high alert. Her pulse raced.

The love seat was just the right size for cuddling. When he sat beside her, it would have been natural to slide into an embrace. She resisted, perching on the edge of the love seat and tasting her beer. “Are you sure this stuff isn’t alcoholic? I’m feeling light-headed.”

“That was my plan.”

“This seduction scene isn’t necessary,” she said. “I wouldn’t have come to your suite if I hadn’t intended to take our friendship to the next level.”

“Friendship?” It was his turn to be insulted. “After we kissed? Last night, we slept together.”

“And nothing happened. We didn’t make love.”

An echo of the L-word hung in the air between them. She set her glass on the table and reclined on the small sofa with his arm draped around her. She didn’t usually think of sex as “making love.” Why had she used that phrase with him? Loving him would be crazy.

Her thoughts returned to her conversation with Marigold. “When you said you wanted to protect me and make sure I wasn’t hurt, that’s exactly how I feel about my friend. I want to tell her that I’m FBI and can get her into witness protection.”

“But you can’t compromise the assignment,” he said. “The stakes are high. If we fail to break up this trafficking operation, hundreds of lives will be destroyed. I know we’re not saving the world, and someone else will fill in the gap left by Lorenzo, but I believe we can make a difference.”

“That’s why I didn’t break cover.”

He smoothed the hair off her forehead and stroked her long, smooth ponytail. “Last night when you collapsed in the bed, you unfastened your hair. Can I do that now?”

“Me, first.”

She stroked his granite jawline. With both hands, she removed his glasses and put them on the coffee table. Making direct eye contact, she leaned closer and closer until she could smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave. Her mouth joined with his. Of course, their kiss was a perfect fit. They were mirror images of each other—alike in so many ways and yet different.

He spun her around so her back was to him, and he unfastened her ponytail. His fingers combed through her long hair and pulled the sleek, platinum blond strands into a coil. He rotated her head so she was facing him. His kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. He was demanding, which was exactly what she wanted from him.

She had rough desires of her own. Gathering handfuls of black cashmere, she yanked his sweater and T-shirt over his head. His bared chest pressed hard against her, and he unfastened her red shirt with more finesse than she’d used.

The love seat was too small to contain their passion. He lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the bedroom. They didn’t make it that far.

She didn’t want to be handled like a child. If she could have thrown him over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry, she would have. Angie swung her legs down and staggered back, bumping against the dining table.

Her plan had not included lying back on the table like an entrée, but she didn’t object when he slowly, carefully devoured her. He kissed and caressed his way down from her throat to her breasts and lower. Heat blasted through her and torched her inhibitions. She wanted more of him—all of him. She wanted him inside her. And that was no lie.

In the bedroom, they tore off the rest of their clothes. Classical guitar thrummed in the background. Dim light from a bedside lamp outlined his lean, muscular body. She jumped onto the bed and pointed at him. “Stay right there.”

“Why?”

“It’s been a long time,” she admitted. “I want to look at you.”

Though she’d intended to slowly memorize his widespread shoulders, the pattern of his chest hair and his flat belly, her gaze hopped from one feature to another like a sex-starved jackrabbit.

He flexed like a bodybuilder. “How’s that?”

“Get over here, stud.”

She reveled in their kisses and touches. This was sex—wild, raw and wonderful. But she couldn’t help feeling that they were making love.