I DIDN’T see the pools. I didn’t see anything but exactly what Ian said: I saw the room, the guy who brought up room service, the shower, the bed, and a great view of the mountains. That was all.
I listened as Ian talked to Calhoun, and after I ate and cleaned up, I pulled on sleep shorts and passed out in Ian’s arms. His breath on the back of my neck, his strong arms wrapped tight around me, and his thighs pressed to the backs of mine was all I needed. I slept hard, but when Ian woke me in the night, rolled me to my back, slathered my cock with lube, and rode me, I came alive for that.
Holding his thighs tight, I watched him above me, bathed in moonlight, head back, eyes closed, lips parted as his breath started and stopped, and I knew that whatever I had to do to keep him for the rest of my life, I would.
“You’re so fuckin’ stuck with me,” I told him.
“Yes,” he agreed, spurting over my chest as he came. I followed seconds later, filling him up, much to his happiness. He loved it—it grounded him somehow, showed ownership, and he craved that. For my part, I was simply happy. I almost had everything I ever wanted; now all we had to do was hope they found Hartley soon. After close to a month, I was so ready to go home.
Ian was in the shower when I woke up to the sound of knocking. I ducked into the bathroom, told him someone was at the door, and shut it before answering. Standing outside in the hall was our contact, DEA Agent Orton Taggart, posing as Brock Huber, high-profile drug dealer from Dallas.
He came in and I closed the door behind him, taking in his surfer-cut blond hair, the navy blue Hugo Boss suit, and his black wingtips.
“No tie?” I asked.
“I’m keeping it casual,” he said, patting my abdomen as he moved in closer to me. “Hey, man, I’m counting on you and Morse to keep me alive on this op, right?”
Hey, man? Christ. “No worries,” I assured him, hopefully keeping the annoyance out of my voice. “So where are we going this morning?”
“The guy we’re meeting is Luis Cano, and he’s sending guys to pick us up in the bar in twenty minutes. Are you and your partner ready to go?”
“Always,” I assured him.
He squinted at me. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“No,” I said irritably, since I was in my sleep shorts and a T-shirt. “Obviously not.”
“Well, let’s go, man.”
It was way too much familiarity and trying to sound street.
In the bar lounge twenty minutes later, I was having coffee and scarfing down a croissant along with Ian, and Taggart was smiling.
“What?” Ian asked.
“You two clean up nice.”
Ian did look stunning in his brown Gucci suit with a brown pinstripe dress shirt underneath. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did in anything but fatigues or jeans, but he wore it well and that was all that mattered. According to him, the best accessories he had on were the two gun holsters—one under his jacket, the other around his ankle.
“You look better than he does,” Taggart said, smiling at me, leaning forward into my space. “What is this, Armani?”
I was wearing my gray three-piece suit with a white dress shirt underneath and, unlike Ian, I had on a tie. It was yellow, as was the pocket square, and I knew I looked good because my boyfriend had made that noise in the back of his throat when I came out of the bedroom to head down to the bar with him and Taggart.
As we were leaving the room, Ian let Taggart out and then closed the door before I could follow him. I turned and he’d stepped in close, bumping his nose along my jaw, inhaling me.
“Yes?”
“I should take you places where you wear suits more often.”
“Why’s that?” I fished.
“You know why,” he said, his voice husky, coaxing.
“You like what you see.”
“I do.” He took a step back, his gaze running down my body. “Very much.”
“I’ll leave it on ’til you take it off.”
“Yeah, that’d be good,” he said, coughing, opening the door right before Taggart knocked.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he huffed at Ian.
“Following you,” Ian growled back, and because of the ice in his tone and the chill in his gaze, Taggart shut up, pivoted, and walked away. It was the smart choice.
“Smith?”
I came back sharply to the present. “Sorry. What?”
“Is this Armani?” Taggart questioned again.
“Yeah.”
“So, Smith, you—”
“Oh, here we go,” Ian interrupted as two men stepped up to the table.
Eventually we would meet with Wilson Roan, but before that his second-in-command, Cano, had to vet us to make sure we were who we said we were.
We were greeted by the men who were clearly bodyguards, like Ian and I were pretending to be, and then escorted outside and put into a Maserati Kubang SUV that was roomier inside than I thought it would be for one made by a sports car company.
They drove us to Paradise Valley, a stunning area full of million-dollar homes, finally turning onto E. Caballo Drive and rolling through the enormous wrought iron gates of a house I could never hope to afford unless I won a lottery.
“Holy crap,” I said under my breath as we all got out of the car.
“This is how the other half lives, M,” Ian teased, bumping me with his shoulder as we trailed behind the others.
“This is incredible,” I went on, glancing around. “Are you seeing this?”
He huffed out a breath. “I’d rather have the townhouse with you.”
“Ian, come on.” I prodded him, since we were walking well behind the others. “Are you looking at this? I bet they have like twelve thousand square feet or something.”
He shrugged. “I don’t care. I don’t need a house like this. I have what I need, what I want. Don’t you?”
I did. “Well, yeah, but it’s still nice to dream.”
“I did dream, now I live in it.”
Fucking Ian. “Why you gotta say shit like that when you know we’re here and I can’t do nothin’ about it?”
He shrugged. “’Cause it’s true.”
God.
“Man, could you go for some pizza or what?” he grumbled, breaking the spell.
“One month and you’re already going through withdrawal?”
“One month?” he repeated like I was nuts. “I’ve been dying for pizza since we fuckin’ got here.”
I chuckled and we followed the others inside.
It looked like a resort.
Hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, a formal dining room, a living room that opened out onto a palatial patio that descended into an enormous sand entrance pool with two fountains and a waterfall that looked like it belonged in some Roman temple. A bar/lounge and a wine room, all of it open, with misters and ceiling fans. It was simply the most beautiful home I’d ever been in.
Ian was squinting in the way he had that let you know he was not impressed, was a little bored, and mostly was ready to go. What was funny was that it fit the stereotypical bodyguard image he was supposed to be presenting.
“You’re really in character,” I baited him.
“Shut up.”
“So where is he?” Taggart asked the two men who brought us to the house. “Where’s Cano?”
“Here,” a man answered as he rose out of the pool.
Luis Cano was a very handsome man. He was tall with a swimmer’s build and lean muscles, and his skin was tanned a gorgeous golden brown. Dark eyes and hair made an impression as he smiled at Taggart.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Huber. May I offer you and your men some refreshment?”
“Whatever you’re having,” Taggart answered solicitously. “And just for me, nothing for my men.”
Cano nodded and then gave both his guys and Ian and me a dismissive wave. “Please, gentlemen, take a walk around the pool. There are things to see. I keep my house stocked with all manner of delights.”
I didn’t want to know, so I took up a position between the sitting area where Taggart was standing and the patio, and Ian went to the opposite side.
“Really, gentlemen,” Cano directed with deliberate sternness, “go for a stroll.”
I couldn’t argue, and since Taggart seemed reasonably safe, I walked around the pool toward the cabanas, and Ian went in the opposite direction toward the women sunbathing on padded lounge chairs. I watched them all check him out as he walked by, and I would have called him over to me—because I really had not yet learned to not be jealous when others openly leered at him—but a blast of laughter caught my attention.
Moving around the side of one of the cabanas, I found a woman in a bikini being held down and groped by a man as five others stood around and watched. She was struggling and the men were laughing and the guy on top of her was trying to take off her bottoms.
“Get off her,” I commanded, moving quickly over to them.
“Oh, no, man, it’s okay,” one of the others told me. “She’s for us, like the others. That’s how it is here.”
“The hell it is,” I barked, reaching out and grabbing the guy on top of the girl by the hair and wrenching him sideways so I could drag her off the futon with my other hand.
“What the fuck?” Another of the men yelled as I shoved the girl behind me, shielding her.
“Ian!” I called, less concerned with the number of them than with my ability to keep the girl safe. “Step back,” I cautioned them.
“It’s just fun, asshole,” another guy said. “She likes it, they all do.”
“Fuck that,” I said flatly as Ian appeared at my side, gun drawn—the new one, compensator already attached.
They all put their hands up at the same time the curtain shielding them from the patio was pulled. Cano and Taggart and the men who had brought us to the house all stood there.
“What’s going on here?” Cano asked me icily.
“No, Luis,” the girl said as she walked out from behind me, reaching for the man who had been groping her.
He took her hand, kissed it, and drew her into his arms, where he hugged her tight. They both then turned to Cano.
I was at a loss.
“What the fuck is going on?” Ian asked as he holstered his gun.
Cano turned to the woman. “Tell me.”
She pointed at me. “He came right in, didn’t wait, didn’t let anyone explain, just got Emilio off me and put himself between me and the others.”
“And the other?”
“He came when his partner called, no question, ready to shoot, to help him and save me.”
Cano exhaled quickly and then gave Ian and me his attention. “I apologize, gentlemen, but I’ve had nine men come to my home like your boss here, Mr. Huber, to try and help me move my product in the US. The issue is, the men who come with those who would do business with me are not honorable.”
He was testing us, but I was confused as to why.
“I have had my sister, Marisol, and her fiancé, Emilio, play out this scene many times, and sadly most men who have come to my house have wanted to join in on the rape, have wanted to have her when Emilio was done, or have suggested much worse.” He put up his hands, gave us a smile. “I have no issue with any act people agree to willingly, but I cannot have men in my employ or do business with men who would lower themselves to the mindset of a pack of dogs.”
It made sense to me.
“So,” he announced, turning to Taggart, offering his hand. “Your men have passed my test, you have cleared my background check, and guys I trust vouched for you. So tonight I’ll take you to see Wilson so you two can talk business.”
“Excellent,” Taggart agreed. “What time would you like us here?”
Cano squinted at him. “You’re already here. We’ll spend the day together and then go for dinner at his place out in Cave Creek.”
So he trusted us… just not enough to let us out of his sight.
“That sounds fantastic,” Taggart said gamely, rubbing his hands together. “I didn’t get breakfast. Can we have some brunch?”
Cano seemed very pleased with “Huber” being so agreeable.
IT WAS easy for Ian and me to cover our lack of eating and drinking and flirting with the fact that we were on duty.
“My men are also here to protect me,” Cano said suggestively. “You need to loosen up and partake.” He was offering food, alcohol, pot, and blow. “Only you two are sitting here ready to shoot.”
“Begging your pardon,” Ian explained, “you live here, sir. Our boss does not.”
Cano nodded, the logic was sound. “You look like ex-military to me.”
Ian scoffed. “Do I?”
“Yes, and I know the breed well. I have many of them working for me at home.”
Ian had an opening, but to ask any more questions, to say oh, so where do you call home would not have been received well. There was no such thing as an informal chat with a drug dealer.
We spent the day watching people swim, drinking bottled water, and refusing lines of blow, highball glasses of whisky, and frosty mugs of beer. Cano passed out joints, and to not get busted, Taggart had to smoke one. He also had to imbibe a few drinks to keep his cover in place. The good news was, he had taken the pills to help keep him sober and focused, but it was up to Ian and me to watch his back. Neither of us took our eyes off him.
We caravanned out to Cave Creek about six; turned off on 26th Place, twisted and turned down other roads I couldn’t see the street signs for, and finally hit a private paved road before arriving at open gates guarded by men armed with AK-47s. A guy in a suit with an iPad looked like he was checking names on a guest list. I really hoped that the tracer Taggart had somewhere on his body was working.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Cano announced as the car stopped and the driver rolled down the window so words could be exchanged.
It seemed so serene and quiet at the gate, but once we reached the house, it was lit pools and an enormous bar outside, and strobe lights and a dance floor inside. A bar stood at each end of the ballroom we walked through.
“It’s like a Roman orgy in here,” Taggart commented loudly, laughing and clapping, Cano’s arm slung over his shoulder as they moved through the crowd together.
Then we filed out one of the doors to another pool and a quieter area, then through an underground grotto that emptied out into a private area.
Ian and I kept pace with them, and when we were finally at the end of our quest, I was not surprised that the man himself, Wilson Roan, was sitting with a small group of men watching three very beautiful women have sex. Now I understood what Sodom and Gomorrah had probably looked like. It was definitely as close as I would ever get.
As we neared, Taggart was obnoxious—as he was supposed to be, it was the part he was playing—and catcalled and clapped. It changed the ambience from sultry and sensual, more art than fucking, to flat-out porn. The women themselves were clearly not amused.
Roan was older, handsome, with lines on his weathered face and sun-bleached hair shot through with strands of silver. He was clean-shaven and wore a gorgeous black bespoke suit with a black dress shirt underneath. He was sitting between two younger men, and as we approached, he glanced up, saw Taggart, saw me, saw Ian, and then returned to Taggart, the guy he was supposedly ready to do business with.
They made small talk as Ian and I took up flanking positions on either side of Taggart, and as soon as Roan clarified that the drugs were on the property and ready to go if the money was, in fact, also in play, Ian turned the dial on the dive watch he was wearing, triggering the signal for the breach.
We had been wanded and searched when we entered the compound, our weapons had been confiscated, and we had been patted down just on the off chance someone missed something—which they had. Everyone watched a lot of TV and actually thought the bad guys were as well equipped as the good guys. It was really not the case. Government to government, that was problematic. Had Ian and I been sneaking onto some base in Moscow or in Beijing, they would have caught us. But this operation was not high-tech. It looked like an episode of Miami Vice—not that any of us were cool enough to be Don Johnson from back in the day.
So Ian twisted the bezel on the Rolex Submariner he’d been given as a prop, and in so doing, made it rain DEA agents, FBI, state police, Phoenix PD, and SWAT personnel twenty minutes later, just as Taggart and Roan had begun toasting.
We did our parts, got down on our knees, fingers laced behind our heads, and accused Roan and Cano and everyone else of setting us up. As we were cuffed and led away, Taggart blasted both Roan and Cano, swearing that neither one of them would last a day in prison once his father found out what had happened. He then started screaming that he himself would not serve a day behind bars.
It was impressive; he never once fell out of character, even when the state police officers were rough with him. The only people who knew we weren’t criminals were the FBI and DEA agents, and they were too busy taking Roan and Cano into custody to care what was done with us on the way from the house to the cars.
As Ian was being dragged away in cuffs after Taggart, I realized I was going in an opposite direction.
“Hey, what the fuck?” I snarled at the officers walking me toward a van. “I’m supposed to go with them.”
Ian heard me, strained to turn around, but only succeeded in getting a club to the abdomen as he and Taggart were thrown into the back of a government-issue black-tinted–window SUV. Once he was in there, I couldn’t see him anymore, and so, figuring my night had just gotten really long, I stopped fighting and let them take me to the scary stalker van, the one every woman in every police drama was kidnapped in.
As the door rolled open, I was surprised to see Agent Wojno.
“What the hell?” I asked before I was shoved hard and fell face-first onto the floor of the van. Rolling over quickly, sprawled at his feet, I glared up at him for a moment until I realized how horrible he looked. “Cillian?”
I had not used his first name since we’d gone to bed so very long ago, but it snapped him out of whatever was wrong with him.
“What’s the matter and what’re you doing here?”
He squinted. “I’m so sorry.”
“About what?” I asked as the van door rolled shut behind me.
“Me.”
Jolting, I twisted around, and there hovering over me was Dr. Craig Hartley. I didn’t even see anyone else and definitely missed whoever shoved a needle into my thigh.
“He’s sorry about me,” Hartley said, tipping his head and smiling. “Because, my dear Miro, he’s the leak.”
I tried to process that, tried to yell, tried moving at all, but everything sort of ran like raindrops streaming down glass windows. Everything dripped and was simply lost in a smear of color before I saw nothing at all.