by Elle Kennedy
When she noticed him watching her with an intense expression, her heart jumped again. “What is it?” she murmured.
“I don’t like the idea of you risking your life.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t like the idea of you risking your life, but I didn’t try and stop you from checking out Lassiter’s place in Baja.”
“It’s my job.” Her pointed stare brought a sheepish flicker to his eyes. “I get it—this is your job.”
“Yep,” she said lightly.
“Still, doesn’t mean I can’t worry.”
He gripped her hand tighter.
And didn’t let go until the jet landed in Monaco four hours later.
• • •
It was early evening by the time the team got settled at the White Sands Hotel, which was located across the street from Meiro’s establishment, the Crystal Palace. Posing as three couples excited to gamble their life savings away in Monte Carlo, the six of them checked into a block of suites on the fifth floor. Isabel wouldn’t be staying long, though. She’d be moving to the Palace tomorrow, and as much as Trevor hated the thought, he knew he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
He also felt incredibly uneasy about using a hotel as their base. He would’ve preferred a more secure location, but Noelle had insisted they needed to stay close to the Palace.
Needless to say, he was acutely aware of the security cameras in the wide, elegantly carpeted hallway. Years of training had him ducking his head so the cameras didn’t get a clear view of his face.
“You and D bunk in the other room,” Trevor told Ethan, dropping his duffel in one of the bedrooms of the adjoining suite. “I’ll crash here. Sully and Liam can battle over the other bed when they show up.” He paused in afterthought. “Though knowing Sully, he’ll be in Juliet’s bed ten minutes after he meets her.”
Ethan’s hazel eyes narrowed. “You think so?”
“You gotta admit, she’s exactly Sullivan’s type.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
Trevor snorted. “Hot.”
The younger man didn’t look thrilled at the prospect of their teammate taking their new ally to bed, but whether his displeasure stemmed from jealousy or concern for Sully, Trevor couldn’t be sure.
He drifted to the window and studied the scene below. Monte Carlo came alive at night, the streets teeming with luxury vehicles and the well-dressed elite, the casinos lit up and the air thick with excitement. The city had a classy ambience, attracting the rich and richer, moguls and politicians and socialites looking to spend daddy’s money.
Trevor had visited Monaco several times while playing the role of Julian Martin, the billionaire playboy who traveled the world and spent money like there was no tomorrow. And each time he came here, he was floored by the sheer opulence of it all.
Foreboding climbed up his spine. Was Morgan somewhere in this city?
Or was the boss lying on a slab in the morgue, waiting to be identified?
Trevor moved away from the window and left the room. Noelle’s suite was across the hall, and he strode in without knocking. He found all three women in the suite’s enormous living area.
“Where does Meiro live?” he asked in lieu of greeting. “Does he own a property in the city? Does he live in the hotel?”
“Paige is looking into it,” Noelle said with a careless wave of her hand.
He gritted his teeth and looked at Isabel, who was on the couch with her laptop. “You’re not going in blind, Iz. We need to know everything we can about Meiro before you go near the man.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll have a dossier thicker than an encyclopedia by the time Paige is done. She’s the queen of background searches. And Sean is on it, too. We’ll have all the intel we need, or at least enough for me to wing it.”
Wing it? A knot of frustration twisted up his insides, but he forced himself to keep his cool. Isabel was a professional. Like she’d said, she’d done this many times before. Hell, she could probably pull off an undercover op more successfully than he could.
Yet he couldn’t seem to curb the protective instincts that shouted for him not to let her out of his sight. They didn’t know enough about this Meiro character, but if Meiro was the one who’d sent that shooter to Lassiter’s beach house, then clearly the man was no regular old casino owner. Any man capable of ordering another man’s death was probably capable of a whole lot of other crooked shit.
A knock on the door had everyone going on edge.
Trevor reached for his SIG, but his hand fell to his side when he heard a familiar voice on the other side of the door.
A moment later, he let Sean Reilly into the suite, all the while battling a feeling of overwhelming déjà vu. He’d known the Reilly brothers were identical twins, but usually there was some way to tell twins apart—a mole, a hairstyle, a variation in weight.
But not in this case. For all Trevor knew, he was sharing space with the same man he’d met in New York five months ago. Unruly blond hair, dark green eyes, scruffy facial hair—if he ever wound up in the same room as Sean and Oliver Reilly, he truly wouldn’t be able to tell the two men apart.
Wait. The smirk. Sean’s smirk totally gave him away; Trevor remembered Oliver’s grin as being more playful and less mocking.
“I come bearing gifts,” the Irishman announced. The man radiated pure energy as he strode into the room. “But first, give me some sugar.”
The flirty request was aimed at Isabel, who laughed as she rose from the couch to greet Sean with a warm hug.
Trevor had to resist the urge to yank her right out of the other man’s arms. Jeez. Where the hell was this behavior coming from? He knew he harbored a protective streak, but possessiveness? He scanned his brain, but couldn’t think of a single instance when he’d wanted to rearrange a man’s face for hugging Gina.
But Sean Reilly? Trevor’s hands were frickin’ tingling with the urge to do some rearranging.
Fortunately, Sean released Isabel before stupidity ensued. The embrace the man exchanged with Juliet was far more seductive and lasted a lot longer, which put Trevor at ease. Good. Let Reilly lust after Juliet. Isabel was off-limits to that scoundrel.
“Did you go to the morgue?” Noelle asked the new arrival.
“Sure did.”
“Was it Morgan?” Isabel’s expression creased with reluctance, as if she didn’t want to know the answer.
“You tell me,” Sean answered.
The Irishman reached into the inner pocket of a faded army surplus jacket that Trevor suspected was concealing a lot of nasty surprises. In fact, the very way Sean Reilly moved told him the man was as deadly as they came. Precise and predatory, whereas his brother’s gait had been far more relaxed.
Apparently there were ways to tell them apart.
Sean produced an iPhone and tossed it to Noelle, who took one look at the screen and scowled.
“Well, then,” she remarked.
A second later, the phone sailed through the air toward Trevor. He caught it easily and studied the picture.
The stiff’s face was blue and bloated. Bloodshot eyes, and a gaping hole in the right cheek, most likely the result of a slug from a high-caliber pistol at close range.
Relief swelled in Trevor’s gut as he noted the eye color—brown—and then the slight double chin and shaved head.
Morgan’s features were chiseled, his dark hair cropped but not shaved, and his eyes were a dark shade of blue that burned like liquid metal when he was furious.
The man in the picture was not Jim Morgan.
Isabel came up and peered at the screen, then let out a relieved breath. As she leaned forward, a few strands of silky blond hair fell over Trevor’s bare forearm.
His groin clenched with need, throbbing even harder when he remembered how they’d woken up this morning. Isabel’s firm round ass pressed up against his aching dick, her full breast filling his palm, her soft hair tickling his cheek.
Not the time, man.
“It’s not him,” he announced, before looking at Reilly. “Did you get anything more on Lassiter? Like where he keeps his documents?”
“No safe-deposit boxes in his name and I can’t find a lawyer on record, but the little bugger must have used someone to manage his money. I’ll keep looking.”
“What about Ollie?” Isabel asked. “Does he have any news from D.C.?”
Sean shook his head. “Just what we already know. Our man Jim got off the plane, told the pilot to stay put, got into a rented Escalade and dropped off the face of the bloody earth.”
“He must have gone somewhere,” Trevor said in frustration. “Bought a coffee, checked into a hotel, talked to a homeless dude on the street. He can’t have just disappeared.”
“Sorry, old boy, but I’ve got nothing else to give you at the moment.” Grinning, Sean flopped down on the couch like he owned the place. “So what’s our next move?”
Laughter danced in Juliet’s dark eyes. “Now you get the hell outta here and give us something we can use.”
“I want more on Meiro,” Noelle added. “Ollie can stay on Jim, but I want you here in the city gathering as much data as you can on Meiro, Lassiter, and Roussel.”
Sean gave a mock salute and got to his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Juliet told him, linking her arm through his.
Once the Irishman was out of earshot, Trevor shot Isabel a surreptitious look. “You sure we can trust these guys?”
“You asked me the same thing in New York. My answer hasn’t changed since then.”
She touched his arm, and damned if his cock didn’t twitch from that teeny bit of contact.
“Sean’s harmless,” she assured him before taking a step away.
“Where are you going?”
“To transform. Becoming Valerie will take a while.”
He hid his disappointment. He’d been hoping to spend some time with her before their brains kicked into mission mode. “What’s ‘a while’?”
She let out a sigh. “Trust me. Don’t wait up. This could take all night.”
Chapter 12
It was midnight when the knock sounded on his door. Trevor had been asleep, but he’d long ago mastered the ability to snap out of slumber to immediately function at a high level of alertness. He reached for the gun on the bedside table just as he heard her voice.
“Trev, can I come in?”
He relaxed. “Yeah.”
The door opened and she appeared, the light from the living area silhouetting her in the doorway.
The woman that entered the room was not Isabel.
Instinctively, he grabbed for the nine millimeter again, then let out a laugh. “Valerie, I presume?”
“Pleasure to meet you, luv.” Isabel closed the door behind her and headed for the second twin bed in the room.
Trevor leaned over and flicked on the lamp between the two beds. As he got an even better look at her, he was overcome with awe and a touch of arousal.
Christ, she looked sexy as hell. Gone was the blue-eyed blonde he’d spent the last few days with. This woman had flaming copper-colored hair in a chin-length bob. Straight bangs slashed across her forehead, drawing his attention to her bright green eyes and liquid ivory skin that displayed a hint of freckles. Her face was rounder, too, and when he peered closer, he could swear her nose looked more upturned than usual.
“Jesus, did you get a nose job?” he blurted out.
Isabel’s laughter filled the bedroom. “I saw you five hours ago. Do you really think I underwent rhinoplasty and healed from it in that short a time?”
“I don’t know—you work for Noelle. Maybe it’s possible.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not. Remember I told you that makeup can modify a person’s features depending on how it’s applied?”
He remembered, but he still couldn’t imagine how a few dabs of bronzer and concealer and powder could produce such a drastic transformation.
His gaze swept over her face once more. “Your cheeks look fuller too. Also thanks to the makeup?”
“Partially. And these.”
He saw her tongue moving behind her cheek and then she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue to reveal a cylindrical piece of plastic, similar to the rolls of cotton that dentists stuff in their patients’ mouths.
“Cheek pads,” she explained. She used her finger to pry both pads out, swiped a tissue from the box on the table, and placed the plastic pieces on it.
Trevor shook his head, still amazed. He had no fucking clue how she did it. It wasn’t just the face and the hair—it was the whole damn package. The entire persona, Juliet had called it.
The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she interacted with others. If Isabel had moved to Hollywood all those years ago instead of going to work for Noelle, she’d have a dozen Oscars on her mantel by now.
“What about the clothes?” he couldn’t help but tease. “I figured Valerie would be more sophisticated than that.”
Isabel gestured to her leggings and oversize T-shirt. “Oh, Valerie wouldn’t be caught dead in this outfit. She only wears haute couture. And jewels. She loves her jewels.”
She spoke those last few words in an upper-crust British accent, making Trevor laugh.
“Anyway, I’m exhausted.” Isabel reverted back to her normal voice. “It took hours to make myself look this way.”
“I can imagine.”
With a little sigh, she stretched out on the bedspread, curling up on her side and crooking her arm so she could rest her head on it. She watched him, a rueful look entering her now green eyes. “I’m sorry if I woke you up. I’m tired, but I don’t think I can sleep yet. I thought we could talk.”
Trevor pushed the covers away so he could roll onto his side too. As they lay on their respective beds watching each other, he couldn’t fight the wave of pleasure that washed over him. She’d come to him. Willingly. And, yeah, maybe she’d chosen to get comfortable on the neighboring bed instead of jumping on top of him and ripping her clothes off, but this was definitely progress.
“You don’t mind, right?” She searched his face as if she was truly worried he didn’t want her here.
Silly woman.
“Of course not,” he said gruffly.
“Okay, good. So what’d you do all night?”
“Spoke to Kane, called a few old army contacts.”
“Army contacts?”
“Some Rangers, active duty and retired. My former CO, a couple of guys that went private. Pretty much anyone who might have a lead on Morgan.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I’m wondering if Morgan really did drop off the face of the fucking earth.”
Isabel spoke in the soothing tone he’d grown used to, the one that calmed his very soul. “So what exactly do we know? Morgan was supposed to meet his CIA man in D.C., what, four days ago? We know he made it to D.C. because his plane landed sometime in the morning. He then ordered the pilot to wait for him at the airfield.”
“Right. But he never made it to his meeting, which was scheduled for that evening.”
“Which means he would’ve had to kill time all morning and afternoon until his contact was available to meet with him. Something must have happened during that time. He must have met with someone else, or received a phone call, or . . .”
“Gotten abducted.”
“Do you honestly think Jim Morgan would let himself get abducted?”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice. Who knows what happened?” Trevor said grimly. “Hell, a sniper could’ve blown his head off, and his body might be in a Dumpster in D.C. for all we know.”
Isabel’s tone was firm. “I don’t think he’s dead.”
“I sure as hell hope not.” Releasing a breath, Trevor sat up and ran a hand through his messy hair. “I also spoke to Holden tonight.”
The sympathy that flooded Isabel’s eyes came as no surprise. She was the most compassionate person he’d ever met.
&
nbsp; It was funny—even though her eyes were now green rather than blue, when he gazed into them he still saw Isabel. Yes, she could fool him at first glance, trick his eyes into seeing the persona she projected, but if he looked hard enough, if he peered close enough, he glimpsed the woman behind the mask.
She couldn’t fool him anymore, Trevor realized.
“How’s he doing?” she asked softly.
“Beth’s funeral was this morning. They buried an empty coffin.”
“Oh, God. Poor Holden.”
“He said Beth’s entire family was there, but not his. When I asked, he told me Beth was the only family he had. He didn’t sound good, Iz. His voice was . . . empty. Do you know what I mean?”
“I imagine he sounded exactly the way you did when you and I first met.”
After a second, he nodded. “I was empty back then. Losing someone you love . . . it rips you apart, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
The pain in her voice triggered a memory. The image of him and Isabel sitting in a hotel room in Bogotá. The annoyance in Isabel’s voice as she snapped at him. It’s not like you’re the only one who’s ever lost someone, Trevor.
“You once told me that your mother committed suicide.”
When she shot up like a jack-in-the-box, Trevor jumped out of his own bed and plopped down on the edge of hers before she could flee.
Taking her hand, he forced her to stay put. “You don’t have to tell me the details if you don’t want to. Just know that if you want to talk about it, I’m here. Okay?”
Isabel looked sad as she met his eyes. “Sorry. You just caught me off guard. I guess . . . shit, I guess we can talk about it.”
She suddenly looked incredibly vulnerable. Biting her bottom lip, using her free hand to toy with the hem of her T-shirt.
“She killed herself when I was ten. I found her body.”
“I remember you telling me that.” He reached for her other hand, which she’d curled into a fist. He gently pried each finger out of that tight hold. “What was she like?”