Private Lies

Every day he thought more about retiring. Every time he had to leave her. Every time he had to lie. If he could get through this case…

He shook aside the thought and swallowed another sip of liquor, the drink burning down his throat. He frankly hated the stuff, but the image required it. He had to focus on now. Today. This moment. For now, their engagement bound her to him. He’d find a way to explain things to her soon.

Finally, he spotted his target. And the ridiculous idiocy of criminals struck him anew. The kid—turning twenty-two next month—was a brilliant computer engineer. MIT graduate. Affluent upbringing. All-American good looks—though he really should get to know Calvin Klein and ditch the pocket protector.

Our young “hero” could have his pick of jobs, own a nice house in the suburbs, but instead Clark Mettles had decided to use his varied talents to counterfeit United States currency.

Ah, youth.

Gage shook his head in disgust, even as he raised his index finger to signal the kid.

Briefcase in hand, Mettles made a beeline for the bar stool next to Gage.

“M-Mr. Angelini?”

Sighing inwardly at the tremble in the kid’s voice, Gage tapped the bar. “Drink?”

“Uh—” his gaze darted to Gage’s glass “—whatever you’re having.”

Great. Now the kid would cough all through the meeting.

Gage gave the bartender the order, knowing his cover—Italian-mob-type Gage Angelini—would never talk a fellow criminal into a light beer.

With his dark coloring, it was easy to slip from his native French Creole, to Italian, Black Irish or Hispanic. Different clothes, accents, hairpieces, colored contacts, and presto, a spy is born.

“I brought samples,” Mettles said, reaching into his briefcase.

“Not here,” Gage said through his teeth.

The documents disappeared into the case.

Though Gage would have been thrilled to get the counterfeit plates and sample bills, hand over the payment and slap on the cuffs, he knew the kid was just a middleman. Mettles didn’t put a deal this slick together.

Gage wanted the kid’s boss—Joseph Stephano, if the undercover research was accurate. The Treasury Department had been after him for fifteen years, the FBI even longer.

The bartender delivered the drink, and Mettles threw back a healthy gulp, then gasped and coughed for a full minute before choking out, “Water.”

Gage ordered water and another drink for himself. It was going to be a long afternoon.

2

“IS MY WIG CROOKED?”

As she unlatched her seat belt, Roxanne eyed Toni’s sleek, shoulder-length white-blond hair. Her best friend looked like a cross between the part they planned to play—rich tourists on the make—and a jaded rock star.

Maybe it was the star-shaped crystal glued next to her right eye that sent the disguise over the top.

Roxanne tugged a lock on one side. “It looks great.”

Toni angled her head as she stared at herself in the mirror on the car’s visor. “I like the shade,” she said, fluffing her bangs. “Maybe I’ll go lighter with my color next time at the salon.”

“It flatters you.” Turning the rearview mirror, Roxanne examined her own disguise one last time. She should have known Toni would get carried away with this incognito business.

Her own father wouldn’t know her.

A nearly waist-length, ringlet-curled black wig covered her shoulder-length, dark red hair. She wore heavy pancake makeup; smoky eye shadow and black liner rimmed her eyes, which colored contacts had changed from golden-brown to green. Tanning cream and bronzing powder had turned her pale skin a dusky gold. Dark red lipstick gave her lips a sexy pout, and the body-hugging black pantsuit made her curves—enhanced with these weird, gel-like pads in her bra—obvious for anyone to see.

She felt ridiculous.

“I think we should have gone the other way and dressed as cleaning staff,” she told Toni.

“No way am I wearing those horrible orthopedic shoes.”

“We look obvious.”

Toni grinned as she applied bright pink lipstick. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“As long as we don’t get caught.”

Toni dropped the lipstick in her bag. “Chill. The hotels are crawling with tourists. We’ll blend right in.”

“I can’t believe he lied—again.” Roxanne glanced again at Gage’s Mercedes, parked just one row over.

After spending most of the afternoon on their disguises, they’d driven to the Sheraton and scoped the parking decks for Gage’s car. Without success. So, as her heart pounded and her headache worsened, they’d driven around the other hotels’ lots. On the third one, they’d found their quarry. At the Bayou Palace.

“Maybe the meeting’s at the Palace, and he’s staying at the Sheraton,” she said.

Toni rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s not reaching. And why would he move the car? The hotels are practically across the street from each other.”

“I’m just looking for a way I might have misunderstood.”

Toni laid her hand on her shoulder. Her eyes softened. “You’re in denial.”

Roxanne sighed. “Thanks for being here. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“We could just have my cousin tow the car and dump it in Lake Pontchartrain.”

Though the visual aspects of that plan appealed to her—as well as the idea of turning Gage into a Greta—she discovered she had some of the Lewis resolve after all. “No. I have to see this through.”

Toni smiled weakly. “Just think of the adventure we’ll have. We haven’t gone incognito since we snuck into fraternity parties in college.”

“And found your boyfriend snuggling up to a Chi O.”

Toni winced. “Right.”

The image of Gage and a svelte blonde—not unlike her friend’s current look—darted through her mind. She could picture him nuzzling her neck—God, he was a great nuzzler—and whispering naughty suggestions in her ear as she tossed back her head and laughed.

“Hey. Stop thinking about it,” Toni said as if she’d read her thoughts. “I’ve got two gallons of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia stashed in the freezer just in case.”

For a moment, Roxanne managed to forget her heartache. “Cherries? I’m gonna need chocolate.”

“You’re allergic.”

“A few coughs aren’t going to stop me tonight.”

“Fine.” Toni shimmied her shoulders. “Until then…let’s party.” She stepped from the car and tugged her trim pink suit into place, her gold bracelets jangling. “Okay, Foxy Roxy, lead on.”

Roxanne ground to a halt. “Damn. We need fake names.”

Toni clapped her hands. “Great. I get to be Brandy.”

“That sounds like a stripper.”

Toni sniffed. “I like it.”

“What about me?”

Toni eyed her up and down. “Something exotic, Mediterranean. Marina?”

“Fine.”

They wound through the parking garage before getting on an elevator. Roxanne’s heart hammered in her chest like a freight train. What would she do if she saw him? What if she found him sitting in the bar draped around another woman? Would she break into tears and run? Slap his face?

Maybe there was a logical explanation for deceiving her. Maybe he’d just gotten the hotels confused. Possible, but depressingly unlikely. Gage was way too careful.

The walk from the parking deck to the lobby seemed to take an eternity, but finally they pushed through the revolving glass door. They walked out, Toni swinging her hips so hard a bellhop tripped into his luggage cart.

Roxanne poked her in the side. “Will you stop? We’re supposed to be incognito.”

“We’re hiding in plain sight.”

“This is a mistake,” Roxanne said, her stomach suddenly bottoming out.

Toni grabbed her arm and tugged her toward a table of house phones. “You’ll hate me tomorrow if I let you back down.” She picked up the receiver and handed it to Roxanne. “Besides, it’s kind of exciting.”

“What do I do with this?”

“Ask the operator to ring Gage’s room, of course.”

“May I help you?” a voice said through the phone.

“Gage Dabon’s room, please.”

“I’m sorry. There’s no listing under that name.”

“What about First National Bank?”

“No, ma’am.”

Great. She could feel anger and dread stir deep inside. His car was here, but no room in his name? Maybe the room was registered in his roommate’s name. Damn. She should have questioned Gage further.

“I don’t suppose you have a John Smith?” Roxanne asked dryly.

“Seventy-two of them.”

“Of course. Thanks anyway.” Roxanne hung up. “Strike one.”

Toni smiled and looked around the opulent, bustling lobby. “Good.”

“Good?”

She pulled Roxanne by the wrist. “Now we can troll the bars.”

“The next time you get an idea this stupid, remind me to talk you out of it.”

Toni laughed, dragging her into the bustling lobby bar. Happy hour was in full swing, without a vacant seat in sight. As they craned their necks and wound through the tables, a pair of young businessmen gallantly gave up their stools at the bar. The men bought them drinks—a Long Island iced tea for Toni and a glass of white wine for Roxanne—and while Toni carried the small talk, Roxanne looked for Gage.

She flinched as each dark-haired man turned around. She strained for the sound of his voice. And frantic explanations scrolled through her mind. The parking deck at the Sheraton was full, so Gage had parked here. The meeting location had changed at the last minute. Gage was meeting a client here, then going to the Sheraton later.

But as much as she wanted to believe these excuses, her sense of practicality doubted it, and her imagination kicked into high gear. Hadn’t Gage been distant lately? Distracted? When he’d visited New York two weeks ago, had he really been here? And this week, had he gone to Chicago and come back early? Had he gone at all?

Could he really be cheating on her?

Though she’d never once considered him dishonest, she’d always sensed a dangerous, dark side in Gage. Ironically—given her vow to steer clear of cops—she wondered if that quality had attracted her.

After thirty minutes with no sign of Gage, and with nervous panic fluttering in her belly, she nudged Toni. “Let’s go.”

Toni batted her lashes in Jr. Executive #1’s direction. “In a minute.”

She stood and nudged Toni hard enough that her drink sloshed to the rim.

“Oh, right.” Toni downed one last slug of tea. How the girl drank that stuff and still walked—especially on high-heeled slingbacks—Roxanne had no idea. “Gotta cruise, guys,” she said to the suits as she slid off her stool. “Maybe we’ll catch you later in the Quarter.”

Roxanne nudged her friend. “Let’s go, Brandy.”

Toni’s eyes narrowed briefly, then she led the way out of the bar and across the lobby. From a bellhop, they learned there was a quiet piano bar on the twenty-sixth floor, so they headed up.

“I could get into this undercover work,” Toni said, inspecting her face in a compact.

Roxanne watched the elevator numbers light in sequence. “We’ll sign you up for P.I. school ASAP.”

The doors opened, and Toni strode out, Roxanne hot on her heels. The maître d’ stand was positioned at the bar’s entrance.

How did one go about these things? Following someone, tracking them down, confronting them? She swallowed hard. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to her siblings and father when they’d yammered on about their cases?

Tamping down her nerves and regrets, she watched Toni smoothly tell the tuxedo-clad maître d’ that she and her companion would prefer to sit in the back. He escorted them across the room to a small table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, affording them an incredible view of the Mississippi River. Nauseous, Roxanne couldn’t appreciate the sight.

A waiter in black pants, white tuxedo shirt and black vest took their orders—Diet Coke for Roxanne and another Long Island iced tea for Toni—and Roxanne decided she would definitely drive home. She fiddled with the drink-special menu, then the gold-rimmed, crystal ashtray, while taking surreptitious glances around the room. It wasn’t until the smiling young waiter set her Coke in front of her, then met her gaze directly, frank male appreciation reflected in his eyes, that she remembered her disguise. She was Marina—exotic Mediterranean beauty. The description was so far from the usual her—quiet, ordinary Roxanne—she nearly giggled.

Good grief, she was getting hysterical.

The waiter left, and Roxanne concentrated on scanning the room—the dark, elegant attire of the customers, the quiet conversations, the muted lighting, the quiet strains of the piano.

“He’d like this.”

“A bit stuffy for me,” Toni said, wrinkling her nose.

Roxanne cast a sideways glance at her friend, wondering, incredulously, when this had become a girls’ night out.

“Uh, right.” Toni cleared her throat. “Gage.”

“He’s the reason we’re here.”

“Of course.” Craning her neck, Toni deduced, “He’s not here.”

“I’m beginning to agree.”

Roxanne studied each customer in turn. Though the bar boasted several dark-haired men in conservative suits, none of them were Gage. None had his stark masculinity, his controlled coolness, his sexy—

Whoa. What’s this?

A man at one end of the bar had turned. He lifted a dark amber drink to his lips. Sparkles of gold and diamonds winked at his wrist. Broad shoulders filled a black suit jacket. His manner was smooth, confident. Unsmiling, he nodded at his young male companion.

Gage.

Her heart hammered; her mouth went dry. Her gaze locked on his sculpted cheekbones and strong jaw. “He’s there,” Roxanne said to Toni, even more certain as she said the words aloud.

Toni’s head bobbed. “Where?”

“The left side of the bar.”

“He’s too young.”

“The one next to him.”

“He’s got a—”

“Ponytail, I know.”

“He’s smoking.”

Roxanne had noticed that, too. Her whole body grew numb. Her heart sank. “I was kind of expecting a svelte blond lover,” Toni said.

“Let’s hope it’s not the kid sitting next to him.”

Toni pursed her lips. “No way.”

“That was a joke.” Roxanne watched Gage drum his fingers on the bar. He scowled and shook his head, his ponytail sliding against the collar of his jacket. The sophisticated surface she saw every day had been wiped away, replaced by a dark seediness she’d never before associated with Gage. As if the charming man she knew, the man she lived with, was an act, and this dangerous stranger had risen to take his place.

No woman, but a disguise? Tangled emotions assaulted her—relief, confusion, worry, anger. What the hell was going on?

She’d heard of people having a nervous breakdown. She’d heard from her family many times about crimes of passion, people snapped and hurt the ones closest to them. She’d heard on talk shows about defining moments in a person’s life.

So in that moment of watching Gage frown at the man next to him, of watching her fiancé act like someone else, appear as someone else…something inside her shifted. Changed.

Snapped.

GAGE GLARED at his young, would-be counterfeiter.

“So where is he, Mettles?”

Mettles swallowed, his protruding Adam’s apple shaking. “He said he’d be here.” He glanced around. “But he didn’t sound pleased.”

Gage bit back a nasty remark about waiting for this kid to find his balls. It wouldn’t help to lose his cool. He needed all his nerves to confront Stephano. They’d retired to this more private bar on top of the hotel after a cell phone request by Mettles’s boss, and though the view of the river and city lights was beautiful, the hairs at Gage’s nape twitched.

He turned, expecting to finally come face-to-face with Mettles’s boss, but he only saw other patrons, sipping drinks and talking quietly.

Then he saw her.

At a corner table sat a busty, exotic-looking woman with long, curly dark hair. Gage’s first impulse was hooker. But as he watched her lift her drink to her deep red lips, he saw a gracefulness and sense of style usually not found in ladies of the night.

A rich tourist trolling for excitement, he amended, though something about the woman and her companion struck him as familiar. Had he seen them before? Maybe they’d been in the lobby bar earlier.

Her blond-haired friend noticed his appraisal and gestured at him. The dark beauty glanced at him, then averted her face, for which Gage was glad. He couldn’t afford to attract too much attention. Especially from the type of woman who found the danger emanating from Gage Angelini irresistible.

As nothing seemed to be going right all night, he wasn’t surprised to see, out of the corner of his eye, the two women rising. They laid money on the table, then, after a brief discussion, they parted, the blonde heading out of the bar and the exotic beauty heading straight for him.

“Hell.” He sipped his drink and waited for her approach. Six months working this stupid case, and it was about to be spoiled by some lonely heart.

Her perfume reached him first. Spicy and mysterious, it stirred him more than he’d anticipated.

“Gage?” she said in a smoky voice.

Startled, Gage’s hand jerked. Ice clanged against the crystal.

He turned and met her gaze squarely. Her eyes were a bright emerald green, her skin dark gold, her black jumpsuit filled out with generous curves. He didn’t know her, yet something about her was familiar. Was it the shape of her face? Her expression?

Her mouth pursed in irritation. “What are you doing here?”

The itch on the back of his neck intensified, but he somehow remembered his role. He smiled. “Havin’ a drink, bella. Join me.”

Mettles shifted on his stool.

Gage knew what was going through his mind. My boss isn’t going to like this.

“Move down for the lady, Mettles.”

Mettles moved, and Gage took the beauty’s hand and assisted her onto the stool. The view of her well-endowed cleavage was impressive, but Gage’s brain was too busy spinning a way out of the situation to fully appreciate her body.

“Drink?” he asked her.

She nodded at his glass. “What are you having?”

“Black Jack.”

Her gaze flew to his. “You don’t—” She stopped and smiled seductively. “That’s good for me.”

What was with people tonight? This stuff ate away your stomach lining.

He made the order, but continued to stare at the woman. Something doesn’t click. Something’s off here.

For the first time he wondered if he was being set up. Certainly not by Mettles, but maybe Stephano was testing Gage, looking for a trap himself.

Gage pulled his cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered a smoke to the lady.

Her lip curled disdainfully. “No, thanks.”

He lit the cigarette and expertly pressed a concealed button on the side of the case as he returned it to his pocket. The case doubled as a camera, and he intended to run his lovely lady’s face through the federal criminal database.

He took a drag of the cigarette, fighting the urge to cough. He leaned toward her, speaking so only she could hear. “So, are you going to tell me where I know you from?”

Her full red lips flattened. She practically snarled at him, then she whispered in his ear, “Well, the other night the sex was pretty interesting, even if it was a bit rushed.”

Her voice was different this time, less husky. And he knew it. He knew it very well.

Oh, hell.

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