Chapter 6

TRISTAN STIFLED A YAWN as he checked his phone, feeling the fatigue of boredom slowly taking over. It was nearing midnight, and he had already spent six long hours in the cramped van with eight more to go until his relief arrived in the morning.

Axyl heaved a sigh while rubbing his eyes. “Seriously, can this Manolo guy move any slower?”

Tristan was anything but calm and collected after weeks of this shit, but he tried not to let it show. He kept his eyes on the monitors displaying the client’s lavish Beverly Hills residence, waiting for the target to appear. A con man who had systematically fleeced the sixty-nine-year-old widowed grandmother out of a small fortune for the past three months.

“Patience is key.” With a gut feeling something was about to go down, Keiran Finnegan, the director at the LA Rossi office, aka Finn, had joined them on the stakeout tonight. “We need to wait for the right moment so we have evidence to make this bust stick.”

Tristan’s top priority had always been catching the slimeball who took advantage of the lonely widow and drained her bank accounts. A close second was escaping the cramped, stuffy van. After four nights of this monotony, which was about as exciting as watching grass grow, Tristan was ready to climb the walls. Despite this, he kept his professional mask firmly in place and focused his attention on the monitors, each screen showcasing a different angle of Nicolette Barker’s residence.

“Yeah, I just wish he’d get on with it before I go out of my mind with boredom.” Axyl’s chair groaned beneath him as he shifted for the tenth time in as many minutes. “And before I permanently become a human pretzel.”

Tristan didn’t blame him for being uncomfortable, his towering height of 6’8” and almost 300 pounds took up practically all of the equipment-packed, already cramped van.

“Stakeouts can be long and tedious,” Keiran, aka Finn to his friends, acknowledged. “But at least we have each other to keep us alert. Why don’t you update us on what’s happening in San Antonio?”

“There hasn’t been much activity recently, mostly just skips and personal protection cases.” The younger man, who had just transferred to LA permanently, shifted yet again, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms behind his head as he contemplated the question. “We haven’t had a good black ops mission in what seems like forever.”

“I think he meant the club,” Tristan drawled. “Hearing about San Antonio’s cases is just more work. Am I right, Finn?”

“Absolutely. Working evenings and overnights puts a damper on a social life for me and Esme, so I must live vicariously through others.”

Finn was the only married man among them, but they were all in the same boat. Stuck in a surveillance van night after night, no one saw any action. But Axyl told an interesting story about a fucking machine demonstration his last night before leaving town. Master Dex, Eric’s counterpart in San Antonio, arranged for a dozen eager volunteers to ride and critique each model. The top-rated machines would secure spots in two new stations on the main floor and in one of the theme rooms upstairs. The demo was open to all members and was very well attended.

He and Finn, also part owner of the LA club, exchanged a meaningful look. “Eric is slacking off,” Tristan remarked.

“No kidding,” his fellow dominant said with a widening grin. “Everything might be bigger in Texas, but this is LA where trend-setting and edgy are expected. He needs to get us up to speed on this right away.”

“I have the rep’s business card somewhere.” Axyl almost rolled over Finn’s foot and nearly clocked Tristan with his elbow as he reached for his wallet in the crowded space. “You should see the #1 pick in action—”

“Hold up!” Tristan interrupted, quickly tapping a few buttons on the monitor. The camera angle changed and zoomed in, revealing their target walking along the Southern-style veranda carrying a suitcase in each hand. “There he is,” Tristan announced, his eyes fixed on the screen as the target finally made his move.

“He’s heading for the garage. We need to go now,” Axyl declared, reaching for the sliding door handle.

Tristan followed closely behind, staying in the shadows to avoid alerting their target. The van’s engine purred to life behind them as they scaled the perimeter fence. The plan was for Keiran to block the front driveway, the only exit from the property since the back gate was out of order, thanks to Tristan’s earlier work. Meanwhile, he and Axyl would corner the thief, red-handed with the goods, in the garage.

Communicating through hand signals, they coordinated their actions to intercept the target before he could reach his vehicle. Positioning themselves by the side door of the garage, weapons at the ready, Tristan took a low position while Axyl went high as they entered.

The cars were all there—a Mercedes, an Aston Martin, and the Jaguar convertible the swindler typically drove—but the garage was otherwise empty.

“Fuck,” Axyl muttered. “Where did he go?”

“He just jumped the fence onto Sierra, where a vehicle was waiting,” Keiran said through their earpiece.

“Who’s driving?” Tristan asked. “He was working alone.”

“Not anymore, apparently. I’m tracking him. Meet me at the north corner of the residence.”

They sprinted in that direction, scaling the stone wall yet again and dropping onto the grass on the other side just as Keiran braked, tires squealing, to a stop. In a flash, they were in the van, and the chase was on.

They turned west onto Santa Monica Blvd and quickly caught up with a white Toyota Highlander.

In the back, Axyl was on the phone with the control room. “Run these tags, Jack.”

He read him the plate number, and, a few minutes later, as they turned onto Wilshire, Axyl cursed as he banged into the side wall. Bumps and bruises weren’t the cause, however.

“It’s not an accomplice. The asshole called a damn Uber.”

“Damn,” Keiran muttered, relinquishing a little of his cool. “He’s probably got a gun to the guy’s head as we speak.”

“Track, but don’t engage. We can’t let the driver become collateral damage,” Tristan insisted. He was innocent and probably had a family, his only crime trying to make a living.

“Copy that,” his two partners agreed.

The driver was clearly an amateur with high-speed pursuits. He had some close calls, fishtailing and almost spinning out while taking corners too fast or cutting them too sharp, and nearly flipping the SUV driving over curbs.

Tristan’s jaw clenched as he watched the car weave through traffic. It was sparse this late, but people were still out and about.

When he took the on-ramp to the 405S and sped up to ninety then exited onto W. Washington Blvd, it was clear where he was going—to the docks, where his wealthy mark kept her boat.

“He’s headed for the marina,” Tristan told the others. “If he gets to clear water, we’ll lose him.”

“We need back up,” Keiran declared.

“Jack is on it,” Axyl announced, his thumbs flying over his phone. “Two of our guys are in the area and are heading this way. He’s also alerting the police of our intent to apprehend.”

All Rossi investigators had dual roles as FAAs, licensed fugitive apprehension agents. This was deliberate because under California law, an FAA had the authority to track down, apprehend, and transport wanted fugitives. Michael Arnetta, who in this case went by the alias Romeo Manolo—a fake name if Tristan had ever heard it—faced grand larceny charges in Louisiana but had skipped bond. If Rossi hadn’t picked up the bounty, as investigators only, they would have had to turn the arrest over to the police under California law. That would have resulted in more delays with too many hands in the pot, by his way of thinking. In this situation, they only had to alert the locals.

While they closed in on the target, Tristan couldn’t forget the victims who had fallen for the con artist’s charm and lies. Through their investigation, they uncovered four other victims who Arnetta had duped out of their life savings. He’d upped his game with millionaire Nicolette Barker, but, in his greed, he’d gotten sloppy, which was how they’d reeled him in.

But they needed the evidence in his suitcases—the contents of her safe—to make sure the case in California stuck and to see that he was put away for a long, long time.

With the marina ahead, the second Rossi vehicle joined the chase, intensifying the situation. Keiran, known for his exceptional driving skills, executed a series of sharp turns and stayed on the Highlander’s rear bumper. He also slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding slamming into it, when it ran out of road at the last series of docks.

Arnetta exited the car, ill-gotten gains in hand, with four men immediately after him. Tristan noted that Eric, the second man in the other Rossi car, hung back to check on the Uber driver, who was undoubtedly terrified.

He and the others pushed forward, surrounding Arnetta at the edge of the dock, leaving him a choice of going into the water or giving up. The smooth-operator con he used on his victims faltered, and his eyes filled with fear as he realized he was trapped.

“Your scams end here,” Axyl declared, his voice echoing over the water.

“And your new life as a convict begins once we transport you back to Louisiana,” Tristan advised with contempt and a good deal of satisfaction.

He didn’t mention the ten to twenty years he’d have tacked on to his sentence once he stood trial in LA County because he didn’t have to. The man knew his fate and decided he’d rather go down fighting. Leaving the suitcases, he dove into the dark, always-cold water with a loud splash.

“He just had to do it.” Keiran sighed then his gaze swept his men. “Who’s up next for scut duty?”

They all took turns doing the crappy jobs, including the boss. It was only fair.

Eric walked up just then, hands raised. “Don’t look at me or Axyl. We were the unlucky ones tagged for Teena Marie’s security detail at the Grammy’s after-party last week. She puked the entire way home, including twice all over us.”

“I’m just glad we were in her limo, not our SUV, and didn’t have to clean it up,” Axyl said, grimacing.

“Count me out.” Keiran raised his arm to reveal a jagged cut. “The stitches from scaling that 8-foot chain-link fence to escape a rabid Doberman aren’t due to come out for another three days. Since I had to get a tetanus shot, too, I’m covered for another round, at least.”

When they all looked his way, Tristan grumbled, “Fuck me. That water is freezing.” But he didn’t argue further and took off his brand-new boots—so new he was still breaking them in—and dropped his phone into one of them. He pointed at Eric. “See to these, will ya?”

“Sure thing,” he agreed, fighting back a grin. “Have a nice swim.”

TWO HOURS LATER, REEKING of the marina water and fish, Tristan dragged his tired ass out of his truck and headed for the stairs. All he could think about was a hot shower and clean sheets when he finally hit the bed.

“You’re out late,” a soft feminine voice observed as he reached the steps. Glancing upward, he spotted Piper perched at the top, wearing short shorts and a fitted ribbed tank—stunning, as always.

“It’s 2 a.m. What are you doing out here?”

“Trying to keep cool.”

It had to be in the mid-80s, the near 100 percent humidity making it worse. “Excuse me?”

“The power is out. It’s hot and sticky out here, but stuffy and sweltering inside.”

He looked up at the dark building. “That’s not good. I need a shower.”

“You and me both.” She sat up suddenly, put her nose in the air, and sniffed. Leaning toward him, she sniffed again then grimaced and pulled away. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you need it worse than me. Man, you are ripe.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he drawled, knowing he stank.

“I’m serious.” She waved a hand in front of her nose, still making a face. “What is that smell?”

“Fish, probably. Seaweed and stagnant water, most likely.”

“Ew! You went swimming in that? Why?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s say we got the bad guy and leave it at that.” He considered her as she fanned herself, skin glistening in the moonlight from perspiration, as miserable as he was. “Go grab some clothes.”

She blinked up at him in surprise and repeated, “Why?”

“I’m going to Rossi headquarters to shower. If you want one, you can come along.” He glanced at his phone. “You’ve got five minutes. That’s as long as I can stand to smell myself without doing something about it.”

With a grin, she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. “Be right back.”

With seconds to spare, which surprised him, he opened the door for her to climb into the cab of his truck. She paused with her foot on the running board, glanced at his bare feet then up at him.

“What happened to your shoes?”

“My boots are in the back. I couldn’t stand the thought of putting my smelly feet into them.”

“And your socks?”

“They took a swim, too.”

Her lips curved upward, and he tried hard not to notice how beautiful she was. He failed.

“You’ve got an interesting job.”

“Tonight, yes. But the last three were as interesting as watching paint dry.”

“Ah...” Still grinning, she pulled herself up and planted her shapely ass on his leather seat. Something he didn’t even bother trying not to watch.

“Buckle up,” he ordered before he slammed the door.

He paused to adjust himself as he walked behind rather than in front of the truck to get to his side. Even in soggy, clinging, foul-smelling jeans, tired to the point of exhaustion, and doing his best not to think of her as anything but the girl next door, his cock refused to cooperate.

This was a bad idea. No way would it turn out well, but he slid into the cab of his truck next to her anyway.

INSTEAD OF HIS USUAL five-minute shower, he soaped everything twice to get rid of the stink and was out in ten. Then he stretched out on a couch in the downtime room with his eyes closed until he heard the soft thuds of feet on the tile floor.

He cracked one eyelid. The other popped open upon seeing her scrubbed clean, with no makeup, in a white V-neck tee and baggy gym shorts, which shouldn’t have looked sexy but did on her. A voluminous muumuu, a burlap sack, or a shroud would, too; everything looked good on Piper.

“That felt glorious,” she said, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Ready to go?” He stood up and approached her, reminding himself that he was a grown-ass man capable of taking her home without touching her or kissing her like he wanted.

Then he smelled her body wash—vanilla with a hint of roses—and wasn’t so sure.

Looking up at him with big blue eyes, she laid her hand on his arm. “I can’t thank you enough for this, Tristan.”

That was all it took for his good intentions to evaporate. His arm wound around her waist, pulling her close as his hand slid under her damp hair and curled around the back of her neck. He dipped his head, hesitating with his lips just inches away from hers, allowing her an out. She didn’t take it, however, rising on her tiptoes, meeting him halfway.

Although he knew he shouldn’t, he had to have a taste of her. His mouth covered hers, and her sweetness—just as he knew she would be—exploded on his tongue as it swept inside.

He wanted more and deepened the kiss, searching and claiming, as he walked her backward, trapping her soft body between him and the wall. Her hands glided up his back, one moving up to cup his head as she kissed him back, pressing her tits and her hips against him.

“Tristan,” she breathed.

The seductive quality of her voice broke the spell. He pulled his mouth away but couldn’t bring himself to release her. Not yet. She felt too damn good.

“You don’t want to get mixed up with me, Piper.”

“What if I do?” she asked, breathing hard from their kiss.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then perhaps you could explain.”

“You’re sweet, and I’m...not.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover. I’m not as sweet as I look. Just as I believe that under your gruff exterior is a nice guy.”

She did not know the man he was inside. If let out and given free rein, she’d learn all the filthy things he wanted to do to her and run screaming for the hills.

His eyes dipped to her lips, plump and glistening from their kiss. She didn’t look sweet as much as sexy as fuck at the moment. Before he acted on his impulses and took her against the wall, he released her and stepped back.

“I’ll take you home.”

“But... What if the power is still off? Won’t we get hot and sticky all over again?”

His mind leaped to several ways they could get hot and sticky together, none of which had anything to do with the heat wave. Instead of acting on his desires, he cleared his throat and explained. “I checked the live feed on my security camera. It wasn’t on backup battery power.”

“Which means the power is on,” she concluded, looking disappointed, which was like a kick in the balls for him. He wanted viscerally to satisfy, not disappoint. But she turned and walked out the door. “I can still get a few hours of sleep before my first appointment in the morning. I suppose we should go.”

He followed her down the hall, deliberately keeping his gaze on the back of her head rather than the seductive sway of her hips. Damn. Why couldn’t he be the nice guy she needed and deserved?