Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. Finn

  2. Clarissa

  3. Finn

  4. Finn

  5. Clarissa

  6. Clarissa

  7. Clarissa

  8. Clarissa

  9. Finn

  10. Clarissa

  11. Finn

  12. Clarissa

  13. Clarissa

  14. Finn

  15. Clarissa

  16. Finn

  17. Clarissa

  18. Finn

  19. Clarissa

  20. Finn

  21. Clarissa

  22. Finn

  23. Clarissa

  24. Clarissa

  25. Finn

  26. Finn

  27. Clarissa

  28. Finn

  29. Clarissa

  30. Finn

  31. Finn

  32. Clarissa

  33. Finn

  34. Clarissa

  35. Finn

  36. Clarissa

  37. Finn

  38. Finn

  39. Clarissa

  40. Finn

  41. Clarissa

  42. Finn

  43. Clarissa

  44. Clarissa

  45. Clarissa

  Epilogue

  Liar

  Also by Michele Mannon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Player: A Deadliest Lies Novel”

  Copyright © 2020 by Michele Mannon

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at

  www.michelemannon.com

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser

  www.rbadesigns.com

  Editor: Eve Arroyo

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To my dad, who always made me laugh and was fond of a good joke. When it thunders, it’s a sign everyone in heaven must be laughing.

  1

  Finn

  I’m sitting inside my local watering hole, my home away from home, belly up to the bar and drinking away my troubles. Minding my own damn business while I kill time instead of what I’m itching to do—kill my target. A woman slips onto the barstool next to me. She smells like everything innocent in the world, roses and sunshine and baby powder, but the forced smile on her lips says anything but.

  She’s out of her element in this grungy dive bar, far off the beaten path in a downright lawless part of Mexico City. A pretty, foreign gringa, out late at night in a smoky bar full of red-blooded men. A recipe for disaster.

  I have to say I’m intrigued. And a wee bit perplexed to set eyes on her vaguely-familiar face. I place her in Acapulco. The young woman wearing an old-fashioned bathing suit, on the beach across from the warehouse I’d been assigned to watch.

  Now what could this pretty minx be doing so far away from the coast and inside my particular watering hole at this hour if she’s not here for me? Dead right this isn’t a coincidence. No feckin’ way. Her subtle glances over the past hour prove it, as does her rejection and subsequent pissing off of one local Don Juan after another. She’s stirred up enough tension inside this place you can slice it with a knife.

  As luck would have it, I’m carrying two on me: a small switchblade in my back pocket and a long, six-inch blade in the sheath fixed to my calf. Never leave home without them.

  I’d like to say I don’t have time for her brand of trouble. Yet with nothing but time on my hands, I find myself looking forward to her next move.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” she addresses me, her tone throaty and deep, her voice firm and without a hint of shyness.

  With slow, meandering purpose, I push my barstool away from the bar, pivot my big body her way, and stretch my long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. I rake my eyes over her casually, like I’m taking careful inventory of her person. And what an inventory it is.

  Her long hair hangs in loose waves around her shoulders. It’s a rich, rusty color, deep enough to be labeled auburn, though not the kind of color that comes in a bottle. Her eyebrows are the same shade and are arched high as she awaits my answer. Her skin is fair, milk white like fresh cream. Either she wears fifty plus sunblock or she’s careful when outside in the relentless Mexican sun. Not the sort to be found on any beach.

  I lift my eyes, quick as all hell, and meet her startled gaze. Just as quickly, she composes herself. But not before I spy the determined purpose in her lovely, pale blues.

  “I’m not thirsty,” I say.

  She sits up a bit straighter on her stool as her attention drifts to the empty beer bottles lined up like soldiers on the bar in front of me.

  I shrug my shoulders and offer her a lazy smile.

  She turns away to hide her scowl, then waves the bartender over. He, thankfully, speaks English.

  “One Dos Equis. One whiskey, neat. Black label, please.”

  That does the trick.

  “Make that two whiskeys, Pedro. Like the lady says, make ’em neat. And Irish.”

  “I like mine Scotch.”

  “Shame,” I reply. “I was beginning to like you.”

  “You say that to every stranger?”

  “Only the pretty ones.” I pause, then flatly lay things out, carefully studying her reaction as I do so. “And you’ve decided to remedy that, isn’t that right? This getting-to-know-you business?”

  To her credit, she doesn’t react as anticipated. No, instead of rearing backward like I rubbed coarse whiskers across her delicate flesh, she gifts me with widened, oh, so innocent eyes.

  I feckin’ love it, and the challenge she presents. The way a bloke who rates a one feels when the opportunity to snog a ten unexpectedly presents itself.

  It’d be an uphill battle wooing her over to my way of thinking. Kissing. Licking. Fucking. Lots of fucking. Hours spent fucking. Lazy, dirty fucking where I take time to explore. The works.

  Despite her buttoned up appearance, her conservative white blouse with its dainty, pearl-trimmed collar and matching cuffs, which makes a man want to pluck each tiny white orb off with his teeth, her ballsy actions imply a confidence that can only translate into trouble. And my life is dodgy enough without her mucking things up.’

  Yet I’ve got to give her credit. Kudos to her for blustering through my bullshite. Because, as appearances stand, I’m no Ryan feckin’ Gosling. Though, I’ve drunk enough tonight to feel like I’m in La La Land.

  A ride like her interested in a chancer like me? No way. I’m dressed like a vigilante vagrant, in scuffed, black leather cowboy boots, faded, ripped jeans, a bright, traditional Mexican poncho, and, hidden beneath it, a ratty old Van Halen T-shirt. My dark blond hair needs a good trim. With six months of untamed growth concealing the lower part of my face, grown intentionally to enhance the don’t-fuck-with-me vibe I’ve bloody perfected, I’ve come to the conclusion this woman must be bolloxed for approaching me.

  This is no simple case of girl-propositions-stud-in-pub scenario, where they drink, eye-fuck one another, then leave hand in hand. What does she want with me? And how
far is she willing to go to get it?

  She thrusts her hand out at me. “My name’s Samantha,” she lies.

  I take hold of it and squeeze. She immediately withdraws it from my grip. “Antonio,” I lie along with her.

  The bartender arrives and sets the whiskeys down on the bar top. Not-Samantha reaches for a glass and, to my astonished amusement, drinks deeply from it.

  Liquid courage? Or does she really have no sixth sense about who she’s been following? Instead of dulling her senses, she should have all of them on high alert. I’m not a good man. I’m not a man you feck with. I’m a killer. A hitman for hire. And if you’re a pretty lass with pouty, pink lips, a rack that begs me to bury my face between, and piss poor judgment, I’m the last man you should approach. She should run for the hills.

  Not. Seek. Me. Out.

  I pick up my drink and take a sip, then casually ask the question foremost on my mind. “What brings you into this neck of the woods?”

  She pauses, considering me, then places her hands in the air in a sign of defeat. “You.”

  I nearly choke on my drink, not expecting her honesty.

  “I’ve been watching you.” Her lips curl up invitingly, yet the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

  Well, I’ll be damned. The balls on her.

  “I knew you’d be here.”

  “Did you now?” I narrow my eyes on her and her grin thins out. I’d bet a pint of Guinness she’s dying on the inside as she attempts to engage me. And if I was curious about her before, I’m dead set toward getting better acquainted with her now. “Now why would a pretty woman like yourself risk her neck by venturing into a hell hole like this in search of someone like me?”

  “I’ve seen you a time or two, out and about.”

  A time . . . or two, she goes and says, as if seeing me once isn’t enough of a risk on her life. “And you like what you see?” I murmur, playing into her charade as I wonder what else in Christ’s fuck has she seen me do, aside from acting like a drunken vagrant on the beach across from the warehouse in Acapulco? I take great pride in playing a part, always flying below the radar, overlooked and underestimated. The fact she noticed me, followed me here, and has been watching me doesn’t sit well.

  Man, I mean look at me. In this get up, I’m Hannibal Lector dressed up in Pancho Villa garb. I’m the next character to bite it on The Walking Dead. And this lass sweeps in here, acting like I’m Nana’s homemade mince pie. I decide to give her a little taste of Hannibal. Test how far she’s willing to go to get whatever it is she wants from me.

  “Look around you, sweetheart. Anything can happen inside this place. No one would stop it,” I say, nonchalantly.

  “I can handle things without help, thank you very much.” She cocks her head and smiles. Her pretty white blouse pulls tightly across her breasts as she pats her skirt’s waistline, and the gun hidden there.

  Well, I’ll be damned. Hot bodied and packing heat. And I’m totally digging what she’s dishing out.

  My body reacts, my cock stiffening. I ignore it, polishing off my drink.

  “Where were we?” she asks with a sweet, balls-to-the-wall smile.

  “On our way out of this hole,” I answer. Her eyes follow my hand as I wave the bartender over. “Another bottle—to go. And we’ll take the glasses.”

  The bartender starts to protest.

  I slap a hundred-dollar American bill down onto the bar. End of discussion. Snatching the glass from her hand, I toss back what’s left of her drink. I stand and scoop up the fresh bottle and both our glasses. “Time we get better acquainted, storeen,” I tell her.

  She hesitates.

  I stalk away, only slowing my pace as I exit the bar. Listening for the footsteps that tell me she’s following me, testing out how desperate she is for whatever it is she wants from me. Wondering how naive she is to believe I’d reveal anything about my assignment to her. My closest friends, even my family back home, don’t know what I’m all about.

  It’s going to take more than a pretty face, a nice pair of tits, and her ballsy attitude, which is doin’ a number on my competitive nature, to warm me up to even a lie, let alone the truth. The truth isn’t pretty.

  I stall just outside the main entrance, until the door swings open and she hurriedly and unwisely exits the dive bar after me.

  Bad decision, colleen—because the truth might get you killed.

  2

  Clarissa

  The man is a modern-day barbarian, and I wonder, for the umpteenth time, what I’m getting myself into. That the information I received was wrong. That I’ve ventured on some wild goose chase? My only experience with geese is the time I offered a half-eaten Pop-Tart to one, only to have it chase me around a lake for the better part of a half hour. Nasty birds, geese.

  I’m not the type of woman who’s easily deterred. When I want something, I go for it, even if an entire flock of geese with a Pop-Tart fetish are nipping at my heels.

  I hurried outside after him, thankful to be away from a bar that smells like a bullfight, where the matador’s bathed in raw sweat and great grandpa’s Old Spice. Before my mental list of “do nots”—do not pick strangers up in seedy bars, do not flirt with unpredictable, unbelievably daunting men, do not let ambition get in the way of self-preservation—stopped me in my tracks, I slipped into the passenger seat of the savage’s lime green Fiat and placed my fate in his big, bruiser-like hands. We drove a few blocks, and now he’s pulled into the gated garage of an apartment building, parked the vehicle, and, I suspect, is waiting on me to make the next move.

  I’ve been called many things in my lifetime. Honey. Baby. Brave. Clever. Ballbuster. Bitch. Fired . . . unemployed, but never foolish.

  I mentally sigh. There’s a first time for everything.

  You’ve never been called a storeen. Issued in such a deep, lilting tone, in a kind of whiskey-rich, A-list-actor worthy voice that could only come from the sexiest, handsomest of men. Right. And what does the word even mean?

  I glance at him from beneath my eyelashes. The glow of the garage lights casts a yellow hue over his features, making him seem even more monster-like. His unkept hair, that bushy beard, and the horribly mismatched ensemble of clothing covering his large frame.

  “Nice car,” I murmur.

  “Like it?” His response is quick. “It’s the only small thing about me.”

  Of course he’s well-hung, the man is a beast. I try not to react and instead deflect. “Tiny car, enormous ego.”

  “Short ride in my car. Long ride in my bed.”

  My lips part, and his blue eyes gleam mischievously.

  “Or do I take you home? Your call.”

  I feel a frown form. I’m tempted to say yes. Please drive me home and we’ll forget this insanity. I’m the last person to back down from a challenge, though he’s proving to be more of one than I anticipated.

  He grins at me like he understands the dilemma I’ve placed myself in. Hideous to look at and intelligent.

  A scary combination for sure.

  My purse slips sideways on my lap, and I swear I can hear the small tin of breath mints rattle from inside. Whiskey to kill the germs, extra-strength mints to sweeten his breath. A few chaste kisses to loosen him up and get him talking, and then I can get this story locked, loaded and ready for prime time.

  “How about you invite me inside for a drink?” I lift the whiskey bottle he dropped in my lap.

  “I have to say you fascinate me. Tell me, is this your first dog and pony show?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is this the first time you’ve picked up a stranger, taken a ride inside his car, placed yourself in a completely vulnerable situation, and stubbornly refused to take his advice and run like hell?”

  I stiffen, uncomfortably. He’s suspicious, with good reason, of my motives. “If you’re asking me if I’ve been in less than predictable situations before, the answer is yes.”

  Many times. It’s the nature of the work
I do. Two years working as a war correspondent in Syria will wipe the blush off any novice journalist’s cheeks. That forward push to investigate a lead. The commitment to get to the heart of the story. To tell the truth. To get it right.

  To get it aired, for the world to see.

  Tonight is far from being the first time I’ve put myself on the line. Though it might be my first experience crossing the line.

  I grind my teeth together. Time isn’t on my side; it never is.

  “I know who you are,” I turn the conversation back onto him.

  His eyebrows arch. “Who am I?” he bluntly says.

  A barbarian and, more importantly, a CIA agent.

  I offer my most seductive look, and go for the gold. “The question really is who are you going to be?”

  His eyes narrow on me. “I’ll bite. Who am I going to be?”

  I force my lips into an upward curl in what I hope is a seductive smile that suggests everything but commits nothing.

  The parking garage is so quiet I could hear a whisker hit the carpet flooring. He interrupts the silence with a throaty laugh. It comes from deep within his diaphragm. Like I’m some late night comedian instead of the journalist who gets the story. Period.