Page 1 of Lethal Deceit (Hightower Security #2)

Four Seasons Hotel, South Beach, Miami, Florida.

Samantha

I smooth my hands down my too-tight dress and shimmy into the dining room. Pendant lights cast a soft glow on polished marble, and the low murmur of conversation hums beneath the clink of crystal.

A sea breeze drifts through the terrace doors, brushing past linen-draped tables and waiters in black.

All of it is lost on me. I might as well be walking into a glass-walled interrogation room—sleek, silent, and impossible to escape.

In a way, I am.

I spot her sitting at the bar. Looking immaculate in her white pantsuit and heels. Her green eyes find me almost immediately, and I catch the mildest flickering of her lips before it disappears in a flash.

I extend my hand, tilting my head to one side, pitching my voice as though uncertain.

“Gretchen Green?”

Mona accepts my hand, and this time she does smile, but it’s not for me. It’s for the benefit of the bartender and the businessmen currently checking us out. At forty-seven, Mona is still stunning. High cheekbones, full lips, emphasized by expert application of makeup that takes a decade off.

She’s also lithe and lean. A dancer’s body. Graceful and elegant.

Her eyes shift to the right. A subtle sign she can’t stay long.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aurora. Your Insta is most impressive. Can I get you a drink before we get down to business?”

She gestures to the bartender, who practically skips to her. I place my order and try not to let my nerves show.

For a few minutes we carry on the ruse. That I’m a fame-hungry actress looking for representation. Then the businessmen depart, and the bartender is busy fixing the overly complicated order I placed.

“I had the dream again,”

I say quietly.

Her face hardens a fraction.

“You shouldn’t have come back to Florida so soon.”

I take a breath and slowly release it. I know she’s watching me like a hawk. Every micro expression, every pacifying movement of my hands. Waiting to see how I perform under stress.

“I had to. I needed to switch out passports.”

When the groove between her eyebrows deepens, I swallow.

“He’s haunting me.”

She scoffs.

“So melodramatic, darling. You’re starting to sound like Anne Shirley.”

The conversation pauses as the bartender slides my daiquiri in front of me. His eyes linger too long to be polite.

I flick my brunette wig’s hair behind my shoulder and watch him closely for his cues.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

His eyes move away from my face, and his lips press together then turn down slightly.

Rats. He doesn’t want a bimbo. There goes my free drink.

I can almost hear Mona’s voice even though she’s not saying a word. Never pay for anything if there’s a man who’ll foot the bill.

I try again, watching him carefully, unwilling to be beaten.

“Do you know where the closest Walmart is?”

He nods and quickly gives me directions, politely, but his feet and body are angling away from me.

“Thanks. I promised to pick up a few things for my mom, but I don’t have transport.”

Better. His attention is back on me, and he’s nodding in empathy.

“It’s not far. Long as you have better footwear, you should be fine.”

Perfect. His smile is genuine, and he’s right on the cusp of offering to drive me.

“Oh, well, no, I don’t. I’m such a ditz. I had this appointment with…”

I pause to gesture to Mona and pull a face.

“But I was so worried when Mom called, I left my sneakers at the motel.”

His eyes shift briefly to Mona then back to me.

“I’m heading that way in a little bit. I could…”

I inhale sharply and reach over the bar to place my hand on his, blinking rapidly as though dispelling tears. I can cry on demand when required—I learned that skill when I was twelve years old—but I’m wearing too much mascara to risk it.

“Could you? You have no idea what that would mean to me. Mom is… She’s not doing so well, and the bills… well.”

I glance at Mona, duck my chin, and feign embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m being rude. She’s… she’s all that I have left.”

I sniff, and Mona gives me the motherly smile I’ve only ever seen when we’re working together.

“Oh, of course! I understand completely. You’re obviously the kind of person we’re looking for. I can’t tell you how many vapid models I’ve interviewed. It’s all me, me, me. This level of warmth and selflessness is refreshing.”

I shake my head, batting my eyes at the bartender.

“Oh, no. My mother is so wonderful… Well… I know you’re busy.”

As though I snapped my fingers, the bartender draws away, but it’s with enough hesitancy that I know he’s right where I want him.

The moment he’s out of earshot, Mona tuts.

“You’re distracted. You should have been able to read him in your sleep.”

I let out a sigh and pretend to sip my drink. I never drink alcohol. Order it, yes; find creative ways to tip it out, certainly. Alcohol makes people pliable. And stupid. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve managed to lift someone’s wallet from right under their nose because they’ve been too drunk to notice.

“Yeah, well, this much heat would throw anyone off their game.”

Mona’s jaw tightens, letting me know how disappointed she is in me.

“With this much heat on you, darling, one slip and you’ll be dead.”

A lump forms in my throat, but I don’t dare swallow. I blink. Once. Twice. Keeping my blink rate normal, not too fast, not too slow. A sure giveaway that I’m not handling the pressure.

“I told you to stay in Hawaii,” she says.

I straighten and wish I’d chosen a dress that wasn’t so tight. She’ll notice if I start to shallow breathe or if my breathing rate increases. Good posture and loose clothing conceal a lot.

“Something didn’t feel right… How would you have handled it?”

Her lips pinch. She takes a sip of her own drink. Not a single indication that she’s concerned. Either she isn’t, or she’s hiding it so well, even I can’t tell.

Mona doesn’t answer my question. She asks one of her own, deflecting.

“I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be set up.”

I lift my chin in defiance. Does she really think I’m that stupid.

“He was a businessman from Saudi. It was supposed to be a prank.”

Mona blinks slowly, calming herself down before speaking as though I’m a naughty child.

“How much did he pay you?”

I know better than to try to lie to her, so I answer immediately.

“Fifty thousand.”

Fifty thousand dollars to don a flight attendant’s uniform, entice a Coast Guardsman back to an apartment, slip something into his drink, then leave. Easy money.

Except it wasn’t.

Her eyelids flutter, the closest I’ve seen her to flustered.

“Can you identify him?”

I shake my head.

“The money was wired to me. Half up front, half after. I never met him. They used a cutout to pass on information and left the uniform in a locker.”

“Who was the cutout?”

I shrug.

“Just a random. No one I have ties to.”

Her eyes close, and my heart rate jumps in response. I’d hoped meeting her would reassure me that this would all blow over, but her behavior is having the opposite effect.

Her cadence slows, and for the first time since I’ve met her, I pick up on a pacifying movement of her hands as she twists one of the rings on her fingers. I hold my breath, waiting for her to speak. But when she does, her words are like knives slicing into my chest.

“You ran headlong into this mess. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Indignation makes my voice pitchy.

“Do you still have the contact or not?”

Mona gives me a half eye roll.

“He’ll get you to Cuba, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be pleasant.”

I swallow to try to keep my voice even. I hate boats, and the open water. Traveling to Cuba with a greasy drug smuggler is about as appealing as using them.

“I can take care of myself.”

Which we both know is true. From the time I was cast aside, I have been. Mona may have provided shelter and taught me how to provide for myself, but she is not my mother, nor has she ever tried to be.

She reaches into her purse and slides a burner phone across the bar.

“Bring ten thousand.”

As I grab hold of the phone and deposit it into my own purse, she pushes back from the bar and slides off the stool. It takes all my control not to launch to my feet and beg her not to go.

“What do I do if Juan doesn’t show up?”

Her chest moves once. Twice. Three times. In rapid succession. She’s breathing too fast. Her pupils are wide, and in horror I recognize she’s as scared as I am.

Mona never shows fear. Is she finally concerned about my welfare? For two brief seconds, my hope soars—only to be obliterated when a cold smile replaces any genuine emotion on her face.

True to form, she walks away with three little words I’ve heard too many times to count.

“Not my problem.”