Game On (The Bod Squad Series Book 1) (8 page)

“Actually, Pierre,” he said, thinking quickly, “it’s not what you think.”

“Really?” Pierre queried. “I thought you loved fucking beautiful women.”

“Oh, I do,” Chas responded quickly. “But this is about something more. I didn’t want to involve you, that’s all.”

Pierre looked intrigued and somewhat amused. “Whatever do you mean, Monsieur Palmer?”

Chas paused. He realized at that moment that he had very few choices and that he had been stupid. That he had lost control. He ought to have known Pierre would have him followed; after all, Pierre was possessive and believed that Chas belonged to him. He believed Chas was his secret weapon, no more, no less. That was how Chas had gotten so close to the inner workings of his organization. So now what could Chas do? If he let them track or investigate Tyka, her ability to hunt the Italian was compromised, and his ability to take down Pierre and his henchmen was also compromised. Could he let it lie, pretend that she was just some chick he hooked up with to take the edge off? Maybe, but that left too much to chance. His only hope of throwing them off was to convince Pierre he was with someone else entirely. But who?

His mind flashed to Susannah. She and Tyka were about the same height, and from a distance they could be confused. Was it possible to give Pierre her name but not put her in danger? The truth of the matter was that he wanted Susannah as far away from these men as possible. She was an undercover operative who specialized in white-collar crime; from what he could dig up, every one of FTP’s cases was about a lot of money and high-end thievery, and none of them involved death, murder, or terrorist activity. Pierre and Bruni were the opposite: for them rape, murder, and dallying with the sleazy underbelly of society were their lingua franca. If he blew Susannah’s cover, Chas reasoned, he could get her back to the States, and fast. He could get her out of this racket before she’d really gotten into it. He could spare the woman who had somehow crept inside him the indignity of living a life on the run.

If he only blew her cover.

Chas swallowed and then took a breath. He realized this was a coward’s choice. And that he was about to ruin the life of the only woman who had come close to breaking down the walls that guarded his heart. But he also realized that it was the only answer: Pierre was a bloodhound, and the only way to throw him off the scent of fresh meat was to throw fresher meat in his path.

“She was wearing a wig,” Chas said in a rush. “She’s a redhead, actually. An American. She’s been tracking me, but I blew her cover a couple of days ago. Now I’d like to blow it further, so she has no hopes of undermining our operation. And you’re right, I’m only keeping her around for one reason. . . .” He swallowed the acid rising in his throat. “She’s an extraordinary fuck.”

Pierre laughed. It was a sound that could peel wallpaper, a sound sure to pierce the keen ears of a dog. And he loved stories of sexual conquest: likely to live vicariously. Pierre was a rat who attracted only the most vile gutter trash to share his cold and death-like bed.

“What is her name, Monsieur Palmer? We will be happy to take care of whatever you may need.”

“First of all,” Chas said, barely able to get the words out, “I’ll take care of it. You are not to lay a hand on her, Pierre. She’s mine. Got it?”

“But of course, monsieur,” Pierre said with a sneer. “I know how you like to be in control of your . . . work.”

Chas paused for a beat, his throat dry. At least they wouldn’t lay a finger on her—that was some comfort. And if they blew her cover, well—she’d be out of this game, and it would be better for her in the long run. She could figure something out, right? Hell, maybe she’d even decide to take a job in the art world, like she’d said she would have liked to do at one time. “Her name is Susannah Carter. She goes under the alias Susie Quinn. And she’s small potatoes. All she needs,” he choked, “is to be outed, and humiliated. She’s a whore, that’s all. Someone who’ll fuck anyone and anything for a piece of intel. Which would be fine if she ever actually got anything. But in truth she’s just a total joke with a great pair of legs. And . . .”

“Yes?”

“And if you wait a couple of hours, I can fuck her senseless before she loses her job.”

Pierre laughed again. “Well, if she’s such a good fuck, Monsieur Palmer, perhaps I should also give her a try.” Chas cringed inwardly and tried to laugh as well. Then he lost his self-control and closed in on Pierre, grabbing him by the collar of his cheap button-down.

“I meant what I said, Pierre. She’s mine. Don’t fuck with her.”

“Oooh, I do like it when you mark your territory,” Pierre said, licking his lips. “All right, have it your way. Just make sure she’s out of the picture in twenty-four hours—or I will.”

“Got it, Pierre. I’ll make sure she’s out of a job and out of town ASAP.” Her job? That was the least of it.
Hell
. She was about to lose her identity. And he’d actually called her a whore to boot. And a
joke
? He could make her the laughingstock of the international undercover community if he wanted to. Her livelihood, her reputation, and her work were now squarely in his hands.

He picked up a bottle of whiskey off the table and took a long, needy draft, gulping it down like it was water. It was going to be a long night with the woman he was falling for. And unfortunately, it was going to be their last.

7

SUSANNAH ARRIVED AT
the Hotel George V and was welcomed by Jackson, dressed in a concierge outfit replete with cap, name tag, and an extraordinary moustache. He greeted her in flawless French, and when she gave him a frustrated look, pissed that his French was better than hers, he leaned in and said, sotto voce, “We’re trying to make this look authentic, Legs. Look nice. Stop being an asshole.”

Susannah choked down a plethora of curses and tried to “look nice.” This was not easy for her, but she promised herself she’d kick Jackson later, right where it counted. Lord knew it was a big enough target.

“I’m a guest of Monsieur Charles Palmer,” she said in French. “He’s expecting me.”

Jackson leaned in again. “Your French isn’t bad, Legs, but you could use some help with
les formules de politesse
.”

“Seriously, Jackson? I mean, really? French lessons—
now
? Why don’t you just show me to my room and shove the
politesse
where it counts?”

“Technically, it’s not
your
room. . . .”

“Are you asking me to rip your nuts off?”

“Well, Legs, that’s a pretty hard offer to refuse. Especially with you in that
fine
dress. Is it a dress, by the way? Or a cocktail napkin? I can’t quite tell.” When she made a move toward him, he laughed and said, in a perfect French accent, “Pardon, madame. Please follow me,
s’il vous pla
î
t
. I will escort you to ze elevators, and you may find your way to Monsieur Palmer’s suite. By the way,” he said, lowering his voice, “do you need condoms? I have a shit ton of ’em.”

“You know what, Jackson? I don’t want to know why you have a shit ton of them, or when you may find time to use them, but, no, I don’t intend on sleeping with him, so there’s no need.”

“Humph.” Jackson frowned.

“What?”

“Well, I never picked you for an idiot, but okay.”

“What the
fuck
?”

“You’re gonna sleep with him, sweetheart, you know you are. But that’s okay. He’s fucking half the free world. Surely he has condoms of his own. ’Ere we are, madame,” he exclaimed, lapsing, once again, into accented English. “You will be ’appy to know zat Monsieur Palmer is staying in ze penthouse suite. Sure to be one of ze most extraordinary experiences on your trip to Paris.”

“Right,” she said, “that, and seeing your cock mounted on my wall.”

Jackson smiled broadly, waiting until the elevator doors were almost closed to say, in perfect French, “Oh, Legs. You and I both know your apartment’s way too small for that.”

‡‡‡

CHAS FOUND THAT HE
was having a hard time breathing, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Part of it was the fact that he had just thrown Susannah under the bus, and there was no way he could make that right, even if it was partly to protect her from getting any further in. And the other part was that he was nervous—excited—
jacked
to see her again. She did something to him, this one did. Around her he lost his senses, his control, his equilibrium. Around her he became a fucking puppy dog.

The hotel concierge rang up to say that his guest was on her way. He waited eagerly, playing with his cuff links and running an errant finger through his hair. When the elevator doors opened, he felt he was fully prepared. Until he saw her.

She was wearing a minidress that hung off one shoulder and clung to every curve of her body. Was it made of leather? Spandex?
Spray paint?
He couldn’t tell. Frankly, he couldn’t think. All he could see was her, every sweet inch of her, seemingly laid out for his pure enjoyment. He drew in a deep breath as he realized that he could even see the razor-hard edges of her nipples through the glimmery burgundy fabric.

“L-L-Legs—” he stuttered. “Holy shit.”

She laughed and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. Between her curled, teased hair and her heavily mascaraed eyes, she looked like she’d just walked out of a Bon Jovi video. He thought it was the hottest thing on earth that she could pull off rocker chick as easily as she had upper-crust socialite, the belle of the ball as well as the girl on the Jeep in a power ballad video. Her nails were painted fire-engine red and a glimmering choker with chains and a ruby in the center emphasized the long line of her neck. Add to that the thigh-high suede leather boots with the—what?—eight-inch heel? He could feel every piece of himself stiffen, harden, and tighten with desire and pent-up need.

“Well, Tex, what a greeting,” she murmured through glossy pink lips. “If I had known, I would have done my best Beyoncé quite a bit earlier.”

“No, it’s not quite Beyoncé—more Whitesnake with a twist of supermodel and a side of Wonder Woman.”

She laughed again, and he shook his head, trying to figure out if this were a dream. Honestly, he had to pinch himself to make sure he was awake. Was this woman really here? For him? After a substantial pause, he gulped and said, “Well, mademoiselle, please come in. I am hoping to treat you to the night of your dreams. And judging by your entrance—well—you’re already treating me to mine.”

‡‡‡

SUSANNAH ENTERED THE SUITE
and felt like she was walking on air. First of all, she kind of
was
walking in the clouds in these high-heeled boots. Second, Chas was so taken with her that she felt, for the first time in her life, truly wanted. And last, this was the most elegant, extraordinary, and romantic place she had ever seen. Then of course, she immediately came down to earth. After all, this was all a game, right? This was the man who had screwed someone else at lunch, presumably. It was hard to figure out what was what with her heart jumping so high, then plummeting so low. And she was ashamed of herself as well. Why was she falling for his charms again? Maybe it was because this suite was as close as she’d come to fairyland.

The penthouse had been designed to look like an exquisite and extravagant pied-à-terre: a private apartment in the very center of Paris. It had gold walls and travertine floors, exquisite artwork and furnishings, multiple terraces, and 360-degree views that overlooked the entire city. There was an inner garden, a marble bathtub and spa, a lavish bedroom, and an outer balcony with a daybed. This smaller, tucked away, more intimate balcony was where Chas took Susannah.

“To get started,” he said. “I thought you might like some champagne. And that if I could get you just a bit tipsy—”

“You’d have your way with me?” She smiled, thinking that she’d have to play this just right. Like she was buying it hook, line, and sinker.

“Not exactly. I thought perhaps you’d let me take care of you. In every way imaginable. With Paris laid out in front of you. And me at your feet.”

“Well, my goodness, Tex,” she breathed. “You do drive a hard bargain.”

“ ‘Hard’ is the appropriate word, Legs. You’ve really done it this time.”

“Well, let’s hope I have,” she said, furious with herself for getting so turned on by him again. “I do think you owe me one for running out on me.”

“Indeed, I do,” he said. “Let me start with this.” He lifted her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs about his waist. He was far stronger than she realized; his muscles weren’t just built for show. Damn him for that. He lifted her over to the daybed and set her down, gently, earnestly, and with just a hint of the devil in his eyes. And then, sitting next to her, he kissed her.

This was a different level of kiss entirely, and it blew Susannah apart at the seams. Here she was, ready to keep her boundaries and hold her own against this con man and then—
this
? Now she was struggling just to remember her own name. His lips were soft on hers, his arms surrounding her, his tongue searching within her. She fought to remember the intel, the information, to keep him from getting to her core. But with each moment that passed she felt as if he were delving deeper inside her, to her heart, her soul, her being. She was so unsettled that she stopped him and pulled back. And that’s when she saw the look of confusion and sadness in his eyes. “Chas . . .” she asked, searchingly, thrown off for real now, “is everything all right?”

He swallowed, and his eyes seemed to cloud over. “I want to give you something. Something that’s important to me. May I?”

“Of course.”

He reached beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled out a leather cord that held a silver charm on it, a Celtic design of interlocking strands. Was it a sword? Perhaps a symbol from a coat of arms? And then she remembered his unusual candelabra in his bedroom. “Is it a tree?”

“It is, indeed. A tree of life. It was my mother’s, actually. And it has been in my family for generations.”

“My god, Chas,” Susannah gasped. She was truly surprised by his actions. Was this just another game to him? But she couldn’t figure out the angle he was playing. “Why would you want to give it to
me
?”

“Honestly, Susannah,” he said awkwardly, “you mean more to me than any woman I’ve ever met. You mean the very world to me. And each moment I spend with you, well—I only want to spend more. Will you accept this?”

There was a long pause. Susannah was truly confused now, and deeply pissed because of it. She was going to have to ask him for the truth, the real truth, or she was never going to make it through the night. She reached next to her, grabbed the glass of pink champagne, and chugged it. Wiping off her mouth with the back of her hand, she hiccuped, letting off steam, and spoke sharply. “Before I do, would you mind telling me about the tall blonde you’re fucking? And does she get a family tree too?” Then she hiccuped again, louder this time, and waited for his response.

‡‡‡

LISA BEE SAT
in Le Bar, the lounge of the Hotel George V, sipping her fourth pastis. Of Scottish stock, she could drink the world under the table, with the exception of her own family. The Goudreaus regularly held drinking tournaments in which she and her brothers downed shots of Crown Royal for nothing more than a tattered plaid flask bearing the family crest. But it was more than that. She loved proving to her brothers that she could hold her own. As the youngest of five, and the only girl, she learned from an early age how to clean her plate quickly, how to throw a great sucker punch, and how to drink like a Scotsman.

She, Jackson, and the Boss were all connected by headset, and in addition, she was working steadily on her laptop, which had surveillance of the penthouse from every angle. Jackson had done a fine job outfitting the place: he had eyes and ears all over the joint, and her screen was filled with images. Just after Chas gave Susannah “the family tree,” Lisa Bee snorted and said aloud (in a heightened version of her N’awlins twang), “
Laissez le bon temps rouler
, baby.” Then she took a deep drink and said, “Fuck this
.
I’m gonna need some bourbon.”

“As you wish, madame,” said a sultry voice, and she turned to find Jackson holding two shot glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, his favorite. He always traveled with a private stash.

“Aw, hell.” Lisa Bee chortled, secretly thrilled to have Jackson by her side. “What the heck are you doin’ off shift?” This was Lisa Bee’s first time in such a dangerous situation; she normally preferred to stay behind a computer screen. But she recognized that this was a big part of her training, that which would enable her to go further in her field. She had come a long way from being a dorky little sister who only had hopes of entering the family fish business to a savvy computer operative who was the organizer behind a private investigation firm. All the same, she felt great relief at having Jackson’s company. She always felt safe when he was around, and he always made her laugh.

“Well, Material Girl,” Jackson said conspiratorially, “the Boss was discovered in the falafel truck and had to alert the Paris police force. That’s why he’s been off headset. So you might say the eyes of the city are upon us. I figured I’d drink a little Jackie D and operate from here.”

“Shit,” she exclaimed. “Bossman must be pissed. We still a go on all fronts?”

“We’re still a go. I’m keeping ‘the bun’ warm and ready.”

Lisa Bee smiled and poured them both a shot. “Why am I not surprised?”

They both drank the shots, and Lisa Bee refilled their glasses, at which point her eyes caught Jackson’s name tag. “Oh, Jackie!
Hugh Jebals?
Really?”

His eyes sparkled as he sidled closer to her. “Well,” he said, “it’s very inoffensive when pronounced in a French accent. You don’t pronounce the ‘h’ or the ‘s’ and the ‘j’ is soft, like Zsa Zsa Gabor.”

“And what about if you happen to be doing shots with an American?”

“Oh,” he said, doing his second shot, “then it’s simply accurate.” And with that, he winked and poured them both another drink.

Lisa Bee laughed. “You and your jokes,” she said, hitting him on the arm. “You know sometimes you could just be real.”

His eyes caught hers, and for a brief instant she was alarmed at the vulnerability she saw there. “For you, Bee? All you have to do is ask.”

‡‡‡

THERE WAS A LONG
awkward silence after Susannah dropped the bomb on Chas, and she used it to hiccup several more times. Fuck being a lady,
fuck it.
Here was the man of her dreams and they were on opposite sides
and
he was fucking someone else. She had nothing to hide, and no reason to pretend. She reached down and unzipped her boots, stretching her toes as her feet touched the cool floor. She yanked her dress up a bit—what little bit it could go—and hoisted herself around to a comfortable position. She poured herself another glass of champagne, letting it bubble up and out of the glass and all over the floor. And she waited. She waited for anything that would make this awful turn of events better.

Chas cleared his throat. He, too, poured a glass of champagne, and gulped it down. Then he looked at Susannah, with both admiration and apology in his eyes. “I’m happy you like the champagne. I chose it especially for you.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the champagne, asswipe, and I’m drinking it too fast to taste it,” she replied acidly, still waiting for his response. “Want to tell me what the fuck is going on, or do you want me to get up and walk the fuck outta here?”