One More Night with You (6 page)

“I want to talk to you about this more.”

In other words, he wanted control. But it was she who wore a target. Her life rested in her own hands. That hadn't changed just because he decided to swagger back into it.

“Come to the house tonight, about sevenish. I'm sure you already know exactly where it is. Bring beer. I like it light these days.” She wouldn't be home, but let him figure that out in time.

“Okay.” He turned to jog down the steps but hesitated. “Hey, Jo.”

“What?”

He might've tried for a smile, but it curved into a contemplative frown. God, she'd been a fool to love him once. A delightfully buoyant little fool. Not anymore, though, and that might be the saddest thing of all. “Nothing. See you tonight.”

“Tonight,” she confirmed, sending him off with a smile she didn't feel.

Pulling out her phone—not the junk one, which was safe to pitch into a receptacle now, but her smartphone—she found missed calls and unread texts waiting. She'd manage Charlotte's grilling later. She owed her friend an explanation after dropping a doozy of a bomb on her in the lobby gallery earlier, but she needed an urgent favor and knew who could get it done.

“Tem, hi,” she said cheerily when the woman picked up the call. Pleasantries out of the way, she asked, “About that car. Is the offer still on the table? 'Cause I'm going to do an overnight at the training facility and I could use a change of wheels. With the veterans reporting to camp tomorrow, I should get my bearings. Let's make that happen tonight, shall we?”

Tem agreed to make the necessary arrangements and, hanging up, Joey grappled for some sort of inner reassurance that using the Las Vegas Slayers gig to dodge Zaf was wise. He would worry about her until he found her again.

But she supposed if she could manage that burden for five years, then surely he could shoulder it for a single night.

Decision final, Joey slid into her Camaro and headed home to pack.

Chapter 4

S
o this was what it was like to be a Blue for a night.

As she was working a case and now obligated to view things through a professional lens, Joey made a dedicated effort to see the car as a mere tool that would enable her to complete an assignment with utmost efficiency.

And style. Sexy, sinful, magnificent style.

But the Ferrari that had been practically white-glove delivered in front of her property was not the transportation of mere middle-class mortals. It was black fire screaming for attention in a sedate suburban
Stepford Wives
neighborhood. A dark devil disturbing a congregation of luminous angels.

The sensible town car on the curb, where one of the Blues' drivers sat stoically at the wheel, was more suitable for someone in her tax bracket and who sampled the celebrity experience whenever her high-profile friendships drew her into that realm. As she moved aside to clear a path on the front walk for the man who'd handed her the envelope containing the Ferrari's keys and papers and was carrying out her travel bag to stow in the trunk, she wondered if she could negotiate a change.

But Tem would hear none of that. “Appreciate the car, Josephine. If it causes any physical discomfort, then let me know.”

Joey retreated to a trio of palm trees in her front yard and watched the men drive off in the other car. In all likelihood Tem had emergency-texted them to take off pronto. “The thing is this. Contrary to what Hollywood action movies depict, special agents don't drive six-figure luxury cars.”

“Seven.”

“What?”

“It was an auction find my husband impulse-bought in Europe. He paid seven figures, got bored and it's been under tarp for ages.”

Joey had to stare at her phone for a moment.
The behaviors of the rich and mighty never cease to blow my friggin' mind.
“Well, I feel slightly less unworthy knowing you didn't go to much expense on my account, but it's not practical for someone like me.”

Tem gave a long-suffering sigh. “Listen to you.
Unworthy
.
Someone like me
. What makes you any less deserving than anyone else? It's transportation, not a key to infinite power. It was made to be driven and since you're traveling to Mount Charleston on account of the Las Vegas Slayers, it's Marshall's and my responsibility to see to it that you're well equipped to handle your responsibilities. Besides, it's only a loaner. We fully expect it to be returned to us in the condition that it arrived.”

“So I should Hoover out the cookie crumbs and toss all the fast-food wrappers before giving you back the keys?”

Tem's gentle breathing filled the line for a stretched moment. “You've been eating in the car? Already? I'll send you the contact information for the company that details our vehicles.”

“For cripe's sake, I'm just joking.” Joey laughed at Tem's relieved gasp.

“My apologies, Josephine. Perhaps it's because you and I are from different generations, but I'm one for whom
jokes
are meant to be funny. I've never understood how you can wear sarcasm all the time.”

“I'd feel naked without it.”

“And there it is, once again.”

“Yes, I know. That one was specially for you.” Noting the time, she made tracks for the Ferrari. Casting a glance at the garage that housed her Camaro, she supposed it had earned time off. It wasn't as though she was trading it in for a ride that was laughably outside her means. “I'm driving over to the training facility now. I'll get in touch tomorrow with my impression.”

“Oh—speaking of impressions, please tell me you aren't planning to show up there in a variation of what you wore to dinner at CUT.”

She sank into the driver's seat and almost moaned. Recovering, she said, “Not quite. Jeans and tank. There are no practices tonight, so I imagine your men will be unwinding. I thought it'd be more strategic to keep things casual tonight while they're relaxing with their guards down, and reserve the business attire for a more professional impression at orientation tomorrow.”

“Well. That make sense. Startlingly so.”

That was no compliment. “I have a way of making sense sometimes. Your shock is disconcerting if not off-putting. Are you surprised that
Eliza Doolittle
might be competent, after all?”

“It wasn't the kindest comment I could've made, I'll agree,” Tem acknowledged, but she didn't seem all that contrite.

“Why did you choose me, then?”

“It's very practical, really. Since you're ex-DEA, you have an in that can benefit my company. That you're Charlotte's closest—and I'd venture to say most loyal—friend, makes you an excellent choice. You wouldn't see our team face the embarrassment of media outcry if it would negatively impact her. It's simply your way, and your way is of use to us.”

How would Tem react to learn that Joey's loyalty to the Blues came with dangerous consequences? Would she still consider Joey of use or rather an unnecessary liability? From what she'd observed when each of Marshall and Tem's daughters had slipped into a messy situation, the patriarch and matriarch tended to favor Slayers damage control over all else—so chances of seeing them defend her in any fashion were pathetically slim.

But, as Joey had insisted to Zaf, she didn't ask for protection. Nor would she. Joey had acted in the right, knocking over the first domino that brought down the unregulated gambling network and game-fixing Gian DiGorgio was running with Nate Franco's father, Alessandro. DiGorgio had a duty to operate his businesses within the confines of the law. Franco had a duty to protect the Las Vegas Slayers under his ownership. Their machinations were to blame for DiGorgio's crumbling empire and Franco's last resort to sell the franchise to the Blues. DiGorgio remained under federal scrutiny and Franco's current residence was a psychiatric hospital, but if either man had grievances against her, then she would manage them on her own.

Somehow.

DiGorgio had been arrested for putting a price on Franco's head, but then the guy had attempted suicide before the hit could be executed. And disturbingly enough, only a few weeks ago the would-be hit man had recanted his confession before taking his leave.

Joey glanced down the street in one direction then the next. Damn Zaf for eliminating the hope that she was safe, for opening the Pandora's box of debilitating fear that had her checking her home security system and taking her sidearm out of storage for cleaning.

“Drive safely, Josephine.”

“Fine, no
Die Hard
high-speed chases.” This time the other woman gave in to a chuckle. “Tem, I do intend to complete this job successfully. I'd advise you to rest assured, but I know you won't.”

Neither will I.

* * *

“At least there's a full-size bed.” Joey wasn't expecting an answer. She stood alone in her ten-by-twelve standard single room at the Slayers' training facility, Desert Luck Center. Considering very little expense appeared to have been spared in the design of the state-of-the-art buildings and striking outdoor space, she'd counted on a hotel vibe but found the sleeping quarters utilitarian and dormitory-esque. The rooms had been painted in neutral tones and decorated with a decidedly masculine scheme in mind. She was grateful that housekeeping had made an attempt to personalize the space before her last-minute arrival. The vibrant bouquet on the dresser was almost captivating enough to mask the woodsy scent of the plug-in air freshener, which she tugged out of the electrical outlet before stretching out across the silver-and-Slayers-red plaid-covered bed.

The mattress could benefit from a pillow top, but it would suffice for one night. She supposed working a desk job for four years had spoiled her. While in DC she'd kept a pillow and blanket on site to nap on the floor, and during field assignments she'd taken sleep wherever she could find it. On the nights she was with Zaf, the comfort of his body had been all she needed to sink into deep, undisturbed dreams.

The easy way her mind drifted to the man had her sitting up and shaking her head as if to reorganize her thoughts.

So carefully she had conditioned herself to shut down every beautiful memory of him and who she'd been when she had him in her life. He'd been her man, her love, the strength she felt elated to know was there should she need him.

That man didn't exist anymore. Had he ever?

It was a question she wasn't in the mood to contemplate. She was Quantico trained, had exceptional intellectual ability and wasn't weak-willed enough to allow him to distract her from the work she'd been hired to do at Desert Luck Center.

Joey unpacked quickly and devoted a few necessary minutes to reviewing the information she'd collected about NFL policies and the Las Vegas Slayers specifically. Since agreeing to help the Blues identify the recreational drug users on their squad, she had been digging into research from player files to social media profiles to training regimens.

Because the Slayers' random drug testing historically was quite predictable for any weed-smoker who didn't want to be found out—once a year, typically during training camp when the full roster was first gathered before the start of a season—she suspected all men would wait until midcamp to get high. It wasn't unheard of, certainly wasn't the only means to beat a drug test, and across the league there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that this was a common practice.

Though she'd remain watchful, she didn't expect to have names at the ready until after the Slayers' testing commenced in August. That allowed her time—not much, a few weeks—to
build a rapport
, as Temperance Blue had said.

If any players were to host a weed party to celebrate pissing clean, she needed to be on that guest list. In a manner of speaking her new employers had informed her of precisely this.

Joey touched up her makeup before locking her room and hazarding a sly tour of the building. She made it a priority to memorize who bunked with whom and tried to isolate the earthy smell marijuana left lingering in the air and on fabrics. Sniffing cologne and that damn sandalwood that must be wafting out from every room in the building, she eventually sought the source of noise on the main floor.

The floor plan she'd reviewed previously informed that there were separate recreation rooms designated to players and staff. The one that held over half a hundred males and a sprinkle of female staff members was the players' lounge.

This was the hot spot for the night. Noting the basic surroundings—luxurious leather seating, a spacious kitchen, computer stations and flat-screen TVs offering a range of showings from ESPN to a network-channel sitcom to pay-per-view porn—she joined the gathering in the kitchen.

The men who'd let her through closed the space behind her and she felt as if she was lost in the woods. Most of the players she matched to roster photos were tall with intimidating muscular bulk, but the same could be said for many of Slayers' coaching and training staff. Testosterone pinged off the walls and vibrated in the air.

Catching the eye of another female, this one wearing an employee ID tag, she gave a friendly wave and received an impersonal once-over in return. Okay, so much for girl-to-girl friendship. It wasn't a major loss, as Charlotte was the only friend she expected to encounter at camp, anyway. Charlotte had made an appearance here this morning and after reporting to the Clark County Library to be Joey's pillar of support, she'd said she was going home to her fiancé. That meant Joey was essentially on her own with strangers, which was a better scenario for what she hoped to accomplish.

She didn't need Charlotte lingering and questioning her motives.

To no one specifically, she mentioned, “I was torn between watching the threesome on TV and coming in here for whatever's baking. Guess I made the right choice.”

Grunts and laughter answered her, and someone said, “Coach's making cookies.”

That would be... Joey peered around wide backs and thick arms as the men jostled each other and turned up beverages. The chef had blond hair, a ruddy suntan and had hooked a pair of sunglasses onto his apron. Kip Claussen, the head coach. She knew the man had been brought on board when the Blues acquired the team and that he had a tendency to cuss and break sunglasses.

Looking again at the pair dangling from his apron, she noticed they were missing an arm and one of the lenses was cracked.

Giggling, she crossed her arms, poking the man in front of her. “Oh, sorry,” she said when he turned around. “Tight fit in here.”

“Nah, it's cool.
Hola, chica.
”

Joey kept her eyes in the forward position, though they begged to roll to convey how unimpressed she was when men attempted to use Spanish—and dreadfully pronounced Spanish, at that—to hit on her.

And “Hey, girl” in English or Spanish never got her hot.

“Damn,” the man said, openly appraising her and doing a double take when he found her cane. Then, upon ultimately deciding the accessory was a nonissue, he turned on what he must define as
charm
but she'd call
sleaze
. “Baby, what that mouth do?”

“For you,
nada
.”

The people whose attention had been on them hooted and catcalled, and she moved along until she'd wiggled her way to the massive counter where the head coach was setting out baking pans.

“Let them cool a few minutes. They're hot enough to burn,” he cautioned, but she saw a sea of hands reach out, anyway and promptly heard yelps and exclamations of “Ow, damn it!” and “That's hot!”

“Do you suppose next time they'll believe you, Coach Claussen?” Joey asked, amused.

“No, don't think they will,” he predicted with a grim look. The crowd began to separate as some moved into the next room to wait for the cookies to reach a temperature that wouldn't cause bodily harm. “You're Josephine, right?”