Decadent (The Devil's Due Book 4) Page 6

  “How did it go?” I ask, although I already know how it went. Jessica called me as soon as she left the apartment. Delilah was pleasant and polite, but preoccupied with how much things cost. So much so that she only purchased a small fraction of the clothing she needs for the trip. I instructed Jessica to send over everything that she liked but didn’t purchase. I’ll deal with the fallout when it happens.

  “I hope that allowance is mighty big, because the clothing I bought today was mighty expensive. Are we going to visit the royal family as part of the mission?”

  Yes. But not the harmless crew you’re thinking about. “Something like that.”

  “When exactly will I be learning what’s expected of me?”

  “Today.” I drop my keys and wallet on the console table in the foyer. “I’m going to change. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  Delilah jumps off the sofa and follows me down the hall into my bedroom. She’s not going to give me a moment’s peace.

  “Are you expecting me to live here?”

  “What part of I’m going to change and I’ll be out in a few minutes did you not understand?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re shy all of a sudden. I’ve already seen your droopy white ass. Answer my question.”

  I unbuckle my belt and drop my pants in front of her. Despite her bluster, Delilah takes great pains not to look anywhere below my chest. “What question is that?” I hang my trousers, and go into the bathroom to wash my hands and splash some water on my face, mostly ignoring her.

  “Are. You. Expecting. Me. To. Live. Here?”

  “Temporarily. And it’s not an expectation. It’s a requirement. You need to be mission ready in two weeks. That’s not a lot of time for training.” Even if you’re completely sold on the op, and we won’t know that for a few hours.

  When I come out of the bathroom, she’s chewing on the edge of her bottom lip, looking completely fuckable, but there’s no time for that right now. And it isn’t part of the plan—not yet.

  “What kind of training are we talking about?”

  “Well, you know how to use a weapon, and you seem to have no trouble killing a man with your bare hands, so that leaves training your sassy mouth.” I pretend not to see the exaggerated eye roll. “We need to learn to live together comfortably, so that it appears natural even under close scrutiny. You also need to learn all the moving pieces. That part is complicated.” Hopefully not too complicated.

  “Complicated how?”

  “It’s a chess board. My expectation is that you’ll rise as the queen, not wither as one of the pawns.”

  She’s perched on the arm of a chair, listening intently.

  “Things never end well for the pawns. This operation won’t be an exception.” And I’ll be damned if you become a casualty. I simply won’t allow it to happen.

  “You seem to keep forgetting that I worked for the CIA as a covert agent.”

  “Watch your tone with me,” I warn with a pointed look. “I haven’t forgotten. That’s why you’re here. There are a lot of pretty faces with nice asses in the world. Most of them are more charming, too, might I add.”

  Delilah gives me another eye roll that I’m not prepared to let go this time. She’s begging for a good tug of the leash and I won’t deny her.

  I stride over to where she’s sitting and grab her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look at me. “From the way you’re acting, it seems you got your training in the playground of a trailer park or a middle school. Are you up for this, or are you more interested in a schoolyard fight? Because I can arrange that right after I wash my hands of you and find a real agent with some heart and balls. This is too important for bullshit.”

  “I am a real agent,” she replies softly, with just a trace of indignation. The woman doesn’t back down easily, but she responds some to my pushback.

  “Then start acting like one.” As soon as I move away, her hand flies to her chin, rubbing, as if trying to banish the sensation of my fingers from her skin. “You’re highly skilled in some areas, and you’ve been trained in deceptive tactics, but you never had a chance to test those skills—not in the way that this op expects of you. You need to be immersed, so that when we get the go signal—you’re ready. My job is to get you ready, so you don’t endanger the mission, the team, or yourself.” Especially yourself. Fuck that. It’s all important. It’s also my job to see that it’s a success and that everyone comes through safely on the other side. Not just her. This is another weak spot in the weave.

  Delilah swallows hard, digesting every word. She knows it’s all true. “If I’m going to live here, I need to get some things from my house.”

  “You need nothing from your house, or from your life as Delilah Mae Porter. Not a single thing.”

  “I need—”

  “Did you get to take all your mementos and personal belongings along when you were training with the CIA?”

  Her chest rises and falls erratically, but she doesn’t respond because the answer is no. When an agent goes undercover, they leave the clothes on their back and their wallet in a locker, and walk away from their old life. That’s how it is. You shed your identity completely to make it easier to take on a new one. That’s not exactly what’s happening here, but it’s the best way to get her to accommodate to her new role quickly.

  I grab a long-sleeve T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the closet, and glance across the room at her. She’s wearing a pair of black pants that are molded around her gorgeous ass and closed-toe shoes. Not perfect for a bike trip, but it’ll do. “Did Jessica leave a jacket for you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You’ll need it for where we’re going.”

  She cocks her head. “Where are we going?”

  “To the beach. We’ll spend a couple days there getting you up to speed on the mission. You’ll gain an understanding of the players, the operation, and your role in it. When we come back, you’ll be immersed in training. We don’t have a lot of time, but we can make it work if you don’t fight me every step of the way.” Not that there’s a prayer in hell of that happening.

  “What about a bathing suit and a toothbrush?”

  “Everything we need is there.” She’s watching me finish dressing, but her mind is somewhere else. Nowhere good, I’m sure.

  “You’re taking a good long look for someone who thinks my cock isn’t magical and my ass is droopy.”

  Delilah blinks several times. She squares her shoulders, but she’s worried—her face betrays her. Her facial expressions, as much as I love them, are something we need to work on. They could unknowingly give her away.

  “Gray—is this some kind of huge mindfuck? You pretend there’s a mission to reel me in, but it’s all about you humiliating me because you’re still angry that I was undercover at Wildflower?”

  There’s uncertainty in her voice, and it doesn’t matter what I say—she doesn’t trust me. And she’s right not to, because I haven’t earned it. “I knew who you were the moment you stepped through the door.”

  She opens her mouth, and closes it. The realization has to be a bitter pill to swallow. “You didn’t answer my question. Is there a mission, or are you planning to humiliate me and use me for sex?”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  I don’t know why I ask. Except the woman is wedged so deep under my skin it’s impossible for me to be around her for long without my mind drifting back to Christmas. There was no humiliation, but I used her well, and in truth, she used me well, too. The sex was—epic. Yeah. That’s the right word.

  Her eyes are narrowed, the irises the color of a washed-out sky rather than the crystal-clear blue I’m used to. “I need to know,” she says firmly.

  “While I’m all for an angry fuck, I don’t use sex for revenge. Not my style.” Unlike your asshole dead husband. “There’s a mission. You’ll be an important member of the team. Maybe the most important.”

  “The most important? I don’t believe—”

&nb
sp; I nod, and hold a finger to her lips to silence her. “I realize it’s a lot to ask, but I need you to trust me. I might not answer all your questions the moment you want the answers, but I won’t lie to you.”

  She pulls away and steps back. “But you have.”

  “As have you.”

  She winces at the words, perhaps from the realization that we’re not all that different. Our paths started out differently—mine paved in gold and hers in base gravel—but somewhere along the line, they converged.

  “We can’t change the past, Delilah, only the future.”

  “I want you to understand something.” She moves closer, until she’s almost near enough to touch. “I’m choosing to work with you as part of the team, but I reserve the right to back out if when we get to the beach, I learn it’s some harebrained scheme that’s not sanctioned through the proper channels.”

  I’m not at all worried about her backing out once she learns more. Infiltrating a foreign power is a once-in-a-lifetime gig for most operatives. She’s not going to love every aspect of the preparation, but she’s going to relish the mission itself. “You’ll find—”

  She holds up her hand to stop me. “Let me finish.”

  I pause to give her my full attention, and to admire her pluck. She stands tall, head high and proud, like a fucking queen who isn’t going to bow to me under any circumstances. This is not an attitude I normally enjoy or tolerate, but right now, I’m enjoying the hell out of her.

  “If, after hearing the details,” she explains, “I still choose to work with you, it won’t be because of those photos you took. I know you won’t really send them to the authorities. It will be because—”

  “Because you miss the work,” I say quietly. “Because it was your dream.” I step closer. “Because you never had a real chance to experience it, before it was stolen away.”

  She nods. It’s barely a perceptible movement, and I wonder if she’s even aware she’s doing it. It’s the truth, her truth, laid bare, without the usual masks and disguises she uses to protect herself. It’s far more intimate than any sexual act could ever aspire to be.

  We’re both taking heavy, shallow breaths—her, grappling with the intimacy, and me, waiting for her retreat.

  After several seconds, she blinks away the fog. “I thought we were going to the beach. What are we waiting for?” she asks in a sassy tone.

  I’m not surprised she reached for that mask. It’s her favorite.

  “Well?” she asks again, this time with her chin tipped up.

  Her resilience is something to see. I both respect and loathe it at the same time. It’s the protective shell of a survivor, a retreat buttressed with pride. It appears strong and tough, and it is, but it’s built on a foundation of neglect and abandonment, the sides erected from bits of shoe leather left after she was kicked and stepped on.

  It enrages me to think about all the ways she’s been hurt. Her scars gnaw at my soul, and have for some time. I could have made life easier for her—not all of it, of course, but some of it.

  But I didn’t.

  I gaze into her eyes. They’ve lost the gray clouds from earlier, but the sparkle that touches my soul is gone. I motion for her to lead. “After you, baby girl.”

  She glares at me over her shoulder, with fire in her eyes. “You better find something else, boy, because mission or no mission, I’ll whoop your butt good if you even think about calling me that again.”

  I smile and follow her out of the room, my eyes locked on her tight little ass. The next two days shouldn’t be too bad. The real challenge begins when we get back.

  12

  Delilah

  “Have you ever been on the back of a bike?” Gray asks, as the elevator doors close.

  “A motorcycle?”

  “No, a Schwinn Sting-Ray with a banana seat.” He peers at me, his eyes as sharp as his tongue, burrowing deeply, searching for answers that have nothing to do with bikes.

  There’s nothing worse than someone trying to get inside your head—especially someone who’s good at it.

  The elevator seems too small right now. We’re standing too close. Even as I fill my lungs with the stale air, I’m suffocating. I start to look away, but one edge of his mouth twitches, and I feel the nervous tug of my lips too. Nobody on this earth wears a playful smirk better than Gray. Nobody.

  “Yes, a motorcycle,” he adds, when I take too long to respond.

  “Many times. I’ve driven one, too. When Kyle and I were first married, it was our only mode of transportation.” I don’t know why I mention my marriage. I rarely bring it up. There’s something about being a widow—a young widow—that makes people uncomfortable. It always results in long, awkward pauses, so I’ve learned to avoid the subject. But today I needed something substantial to wedge between me and the man with the scruffy chiseled jaw and the panty-melting smirk.

  Awkward did the trick, because after I mention Kyle, Gray says nothing more, even when the elevator pings and the doors open.

  I follow him to the corner of the pristine garage, to where a Ducati and a Harley are parked. Who has a Harley and a Ducati? Not to mention three cars and a truck, that I know of. People with too much money on their hands, that’s who. This is just another reminder that Gray and I come from different worlds.

  “Nice bikes,” I say, admiring the sleeker one. I’ve never seen a Ducati up close. “How about if you take the Harley and I’ll take this baby for a ride.” I’m only half-joking. I’d love to get it on the open road and see what it can do.

  His mouth curls gently, and for a few seconds I forget I’m here to work, not to play.

  “How about if you put on that jacket and try these gloves on for size.” He hands me a couple pairs of vented gloves from a drawer tucked under what looks to be a fiberglass shelf where several helmets are lined up in a neat row. Everything about Gray is clean and orderly—except for the way he fucks. Nothing clean about that.

  “The helmets are equipped with Bluetooth,” he explains, “but occasionally it fails. If you talk to me and I don’t respond right away, it’s because I can’t hear you. If that happens and you need me to pull over, tap my left shoulder, twice. If it’s an emergency, grab my right shoulder. Understand?”

  I nod as he lowers a helmet onto my head, adjusting the chin strap snugly. He’s careful with my hair, but focused on getting the fit right. Once he’s tugged at the rear of the helmet, and is satisfied with the fit, he puts on his own helmet.

  The care he takes to make sure that I have protective gear and a secure helmet is touching—and seductive. I’ll admit it. This kind of behavior is difficult to reconcile with the man who pinned me against the car door and threatened to send me to prison for the rest of my life.

  While I worked at the club, I occasionally caught a glimpse of callous ruthlessness, and when I left, it was ugly. But otherwise, I never saw the cruel side of him, and I’m struggling to understand it.

  After stowing a small backpack in the side compartment, he climbs onto the Harley and I climb on behind him. The backseat is elevated and I can see over his shoulder. “Ready?” he asks, as the garage door opens.

  “Yes.” I say it with confidence, but I’m not sure I am ready. Not about the ride—that’s the easy part—but about spending a night alone with him. A night with unspoken expectations, in a place far removed from real-world ramifications. Like Christmas at Wildflower. How did that work out for you, Delilah? You want another chance to wreck your life? It’s not too late to back out. Not yet.

  I was born with the common sense and practicality of a Depression-era mamaw. And I listen to my gut all the time. Always have. But that Spidey sense is different from the little nagging voice. The one that whispers you shouldn’t have that fourth margarita, or you shouldn’t kick the asshole harassing you in the nuts. I’ve always found that voice to be a whiny little bitch and I rarely pay it any mind. Today is no different.

  When we’re out of traffic, Gray lets the bike go. I h
old on tighter, my fingertips acutely aware of his skin, even though there are layers of fabric between us.

  It’s been almost six years since I’ve been on the back of a bike. Right before Kyle died. It’s as exhilarating and as thrilling as I remember. But I don’t recall it ever being as freeing and calming as it is today. I cling to Gray’s waist, enjoying the ride while the powerful machine hums between my legs.

  The temperature has dropped a few degrees by the time we pull into the driveway of a two-story shingled house, with sprays of bright-pink beach roses climbing a wooden fence. The house sits all alone at the end of the point, practically on the sand. There’s a widow’s watch with an enclosed cupola were a copper rooster sits at the highest point, basking in the afternoon sun. The house seems like an integral part of the natural habitat. Everything about it exudes peace and serenity.

  “Is this your place?” I ask, removing the helmet, and running my fingers through my hair.

  “You ask like you’re surprised.”

  Shocked would be more apt. “I thought your tastes were more hoity-toity—like the club and your apartment. Never figured you for a white picket fence kind of guy.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you really think.” Gray chuckles, fixing his gaze on the rose-covered fence. “I’m not. The fence was here when I bought the place, and when the house was renovated, the architect insisted we keep it. It’s grown on me.” He takes my helmet. “Let’s go inside.”

  After unlocking the door, he steps aside so I can go in first.

  “Wow. Gray.” I walk straight to the back of the house, barely noticing the professional kitchen on my way to the wall of glass, where I gaze out over the ocean. It’s breathtaking. “The view is incredible. I’d never leave this place. Do you get out here often?”

  “Not often enough,” he says, from another room.

  While I’m still gawking, I feel him approach. He hands me a water bottle, but I’m too mesmerized by the waves breaking against the shore to take a drink.