Page 7

Lincoln

I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that we’re going undercover in a place called Club Greed, or that I somehow let Isabel convince me to go shopping for an outfit with her. A dress for her, a suit for me. The plan seemed straightforward enough when she first suggested it—get in, grab something off the rack, get out. But I neglected to factor in how damn good she’d look in everything she tries on.

We pull into a ritzy shopping plaza on the outskirts of Saint Pierce. It’s got the kind of boutiques that practically reek of money—big windows, crystal chandeliers, mannequins wearing dresses that cost more than my SUV. I’d prefer a simple, off-the-rack approach, but Isabel insisted we do this right. After all, Club Greed is exclusive. No sense drawing suspicion by looking out of place.

She strides ahead of me, her hips swaying in a pair of fitted jeans. I have to remind myself to stay sharp, not to let my gaze wander too obviously. We step inside a boutique where a saleswoman with a slicked-back bun greets us politely, then promptly ushers Isabel to a row of dresses.

I drift toward the suits. It’s not like I’m unaccustomed to wearing one—Dean’s roped me into enough formal events for Maddox Security—but I rarely go high-end. Still, I need something that screams “wealthy and dangerous,” something that fits the vibe we’re going for. My eyes skim the racks, half-distracted by the sound of Isabel’s voice on the other side of the store.

Eventually, I settle on a dark suit made from some ridiculously soft fabric. The saleswoman says it’s “top-of-the-line Italian wool,” and I just nod, not exactly sure what that implies beyond a steep price tag. She bustles off to help another customer. I slide the jacket on, adjusting the collar, and catch a glimpse of Isabel behind me. She’s looking at me with parted lips, like she’s trying to decide whether to compliment or tease me.

“How’s the fit?” she asks, her tone carefully casual.

I turn around. “Fits fine,” I say, though my eyes can’t help but stray to the dress she’s holding. It’s black, slinky, with thin straps that’ll probably expose way too much of her shoulders and back. “What about you?”

She holds the garment against her front, arching a brow. “I’m going to try it on now.”

I swallow. “Good idea.”

She disappears into the dressing room area, leaving me feeling like an awkward teenager. This mission is complicated enough without adding in the fact that every time Isabel so much as looks at me, my pulse ratchets up a notch. I run a hand over my freshly-trimmed hair, wondering how the hell I’m going to pull off tonight—pretending she’s mine in a seedy club, while my own body practically hums whenever she’s near.

After a few minutes, I see her peek out from behind a curtain, a crease between her brows. “Lincoln?” she calls softly.

I cross the store, ignoring the saleswoman’s curious glance, and step into the dressing area. “Yeah?”

She ducks her head, cheeks flushed. “I, um… can you help me with the zipper? It’s stuck.”

My mouth goes dry. “Sure,” I manage, voice rougher than I intend.

She disappears behind the curtain, leaving it half-open. I step inside and pull it shut. Instantly, the space seems smaller, warmer. She’s standing there in that black dress, the thin straps resting on her shoulders, and I catch a glimpse of her bare back where the zipper’s halfway up. Her hair is piled on top of her head, exposing the graceful line of her neck.

She glances over her shoulder at me, nerves dancing in her gray eyes. “It just won’t budge.”

I swallow, stepping forward. The scent of her shampoo fills my senses—something fresh and a little sweet. My fingers find the tiny zipper tab. It’s wedged in the fabric. Carefully, I tug it free, my knuckles skimming the soft skin of her back. She inhales sharply, and it’s like lightning strikes me, every nerve suddenly on alert.

“Sorry,” I murmur, focusing on the zipper. But part of me can’t help noticing how silky her skin feels beneath my fingertips. “Almost got it.”

My other hand braces against her hip, steadying us both, and I feel the warmth of her body through the thin fabric. She shifts, and I catch her eyes in the mirror—dilated, with a heat that’s unmistakable. Finally, the zipper moves, sliding smoothly all the way up to the top.

“There,” I say, voice husky.

She exhales, turning around slowly, the dress hugging every curve. My pulse thuds. Good God, she’s gorgeous. The type of gorgeous that makes it impossible to think of anything else.

“How does it look?” she asks, hands smoothing down the sides. There’s uncertainty hidden in her eyes, like she genuinely wants my approval—like she needs me to say she’s perfect.

I clear my throat. “You look… incredible.”

Her lips curve in a small, almost shy smile. “Thanks.”

A heartbeat passes. We’re close, too close. The dressing room feels hot, suffocating. She licks her lips, and I’m abruptly aware of the tension humming between us—awareness that if I leaned in just a little, we’d be kissing. For a split second, I’m tempted. But then I remember the mission, the fact that her brother is trusting me, the danger we’re facing.

I step back, forcing a neutral expression. “We should, uh, see how it moves,” I say, gesturing stiffly.

She drops her gaze. “Right. Gotta make sure I can walk, dance…that sort of thing.” Her attempt at a casual tone doesn’t quite mask the breathlessness.

She slips past me, out of the dressing room to twirl in front of the full-length mirror, and the moment is broken. I lean against the wall, blowing out a slow breath, trying to steady my heart. If it’s this hard not to touch her now, what’s it going to be like tonight, when we’re pretending to be a couple at some adult club?

By the time we pay for the dress, suit, and shoes (company card, thanks Dean) we head outside, the autumn sun has begun its slow descent. I toss the shopping bags in the back of my SUV and open the passenger door for Isabel. She slides in, crossing her legs in a way that has me picturing them wrapped around my shoulders. I grit my teeth and go around to the driver’s side. This is going to be a long night.

We get back to the safe house just as the sky purples with twilight. Isabel fills me in on the latest news: apparently her contact at the police station knows Chloe Huxley, the wife of the owner of Club Greed, Devereaux. Chloe pulled some strings to add our names to tonight’s guest list.

“That’s good,” I say, lugging our purchases inside. “Means we won’t have to find another way in. We can blend right in with the rest of the club crowd.”

She flicks on the lights, setting her dress bag carefully over a chair. “Devereaux is… a client of Maddox Security. I’ve never met him, but he might recognize my last name,” she says. “We might have to improvise.”

“Dean’s really close with Devereaux. I’ve never met him.” I shake my head. “It also sounds like the type of place a guy like Rolfe would frequent—underground deals, big payoffs.”

She sighs, glancing around the cozy living room. “I’ll make a quick call to confirm we’re on the list, then we can start getting ready.”

“Right,” I say, half-dreading the moment I’ll have to see her in that dress again. And also half-anticipating it like some lovesick fool.

We split up, heading to our respective rooms to change. A part of me can’t help wishing we were anywhere else—some normal date, maybe—because the tension between us is something I’m not sure either of us can handle for very long. But that’s not our reality. We’re here on a mission, and I need to keep my head clear.

I step into the tiny bedroom I claimed as mine and dig the new suit out of its bag. As I strip off my casual clothes, I catch sight of myself in the small mirror above the dresser. My jaw’s set, my eyes sharper than usual. This job has me on edge, no question. But there’s more to it—there’s Isabel, the way she looked at me in that dressing room, the way my stomach flips whenever she’s near.

Focus, I remind myself. This is about keeping her safe. I slip on the dark suit pants and button the shirt—black, crisp. Then I ease on the jacket, glancing at the reflection. Not bad. The fit is perfect, hugging my shoulders and chest in a way that suggests I actually belong in some high-end club.

When I step out into the living area, she’s not back yet. My heart kicks up, knowing the next time I see her will be… well, potentially the last moment of calm before we dive into the unknown. I cross to the window, looking out at the tall pines that stand like silent guards around the property. I hope this lead isn’t a bust, because if Morris Rolfe is connected to the threats against Isabel, we need to put a stop to it—fast.

Finally, I hear her footsteps. I turn around, and all the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Isabel’s wearing the black dress, her hair swept up, a few loose strands framing her face. She looks every bit the seductive, high-rolling VIP she needs to be tonight… and I’m having trouble remembering my own name.

Her gaze rakes over me, lips parting. “You clean up well,” she says softly.

I clear my throat. “So do you.”

For a moment, we just stand there, staring at each other in the warm light of the safe house. The tension is practically palpable, but neither of us moves to cross that line. We can’t. Not now, not with everything at stake.

She breaks the spell, grabbing a small clutch from the table. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding grimly. “Let’s go find this bastard.”

We gather our essentials, double-check the plan, then head for the SUV. My heart pounds with a mixture of anticipation and dread, but one thing is crystal clear: I’ll do anything—absolutely anything—to protect Isabel tonight. Even if it means pretending we’re intimately entangled, even if it means pushing down every urge that stirs when I see her in that damn dress.

She slides into the passenger seat, and I slam the door behind her. When I climb in, our eyes meet, and some unspoken understanding passes between us. This isn’t just another job. For both of us, it’s personal.

I fire up the engine, and we pull onto the dark road leading away from the safe house. Next stop: Club Greed—and the next step in a game that might be far more dangerous than either of us is willing to admit.