Page 11 of Player

“Look,” he says, “it’s the sauce kicking in. The whiskey will turn the nicest one into a she-devil.”

“I never said I was nice.” I remove my hand from his abdomen and shift it lower to cup his crotch. He’s rock hard.

But now he’s resisting me. But why?

“Did you swear an oath?”

He frowns.

“For work. An ethical oath.”

“You think I swore an oath of chastity?”

I laugh at his incredulous tone. Pressing my palm against his rigid thickness, I murmur, “That would have been a damn shame.”

His expression softens, briefly.

“Secrecy,” I say. “A pledge to keep silent about the activities you’re involved in. Which is the reason you’re resisting me.”

All signs of humor, of softness, of this exhilarating exchange of banter between us disappears. A chill runs up my spine. I feel like I poked the tiger hard, and in the eye. And he doesn’t like it. Not. One. Bit.

I scramble to smooth things over between us. “I’ll keep my mouth shut—”

“Yeah, you will.”

“I won’t compromise your work or draw attention to your investigation in any way.”

“Ballsy minx,” he mutters.

“We can exchange information.” I draw in a breath. “For example, are you aware of the cargo ship arriving in Acapulco this week?”

He hesitates, then grunts, “What are you going on about?”

“I believe Señor Fahder sold the weapons to a buyer overseas. No names. No destination. But whoever bought the weapons paid the transportation fee in hard cash.”

He’s quiet, processing the information. I wait, allowing him to take the next step. Giving him room to decide whether to trust me.

“You’re a reporter?” he finally asks.

“Investigative journalist.”

“Investigative journalist,” he mulls over my words. “Of course.”

“The information you provide me won’t become public until long after you’ve arrested Señor Fahder. What I’m really hoping for is a heads-up before you make the bust.”

Something flashes across his face. It comes and goes in a blink.

“The bust?”

I nod.

“And how exactly did you figure I’m the right fella to approach about this?”

“We have a mutual friend.”

“Nah.” He pins me with hard eyes like he’s trying to intimidate me. “I don’t have friends.”

I pat his erection. “Sure you do.” I gift him with a smile, which he doesn’t return. Fine. In my line of work, you learn quickly what information to offer and what information to omit. I don’t mind offering up the gang leader’s name if it’ll help convince him to trust me.