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

  “I will, yeah?”

  I blink, wondering if he’s laying the Irish on a bit too thick, though nothing—and I mean nothing—else about the man is for show. “Yeah, you will.”

  His eyes narrow on me. It takes great discipline not to wiggle in my seat as I struggle to hold my suggestive smile in place. For several uncomfortable seconds, he studies me. As if I’m the one with the dreadful beard, bad fashion sense, and an accent that does funny things to one’s insides. He’s a trained CIA agent, I remind myself, an important bit of information my source in Acapulco confirmed. This is what they do when you hit them with a vague proposition.

  “You, lass, are away with the fairies.” But he nods and unwinds his big body out of the tiny car. “Come inside for a drink then.” The door slams, and he stalks off.

  And as if the goose fairies are nipping at my heels, I hurry after him. Dead set on convincing him, one way or another, to confide in me.

  He has a candle fetish.

  I stare in wonder at the clutter dispersed about the living room of his apartment. An enormous, battered sofa takes up a large part of the space. It’s lost its legs and sits low to the ground. Pillows in various shapes and sizes cover the worn cushions and spill off onto the floor. But it’s the candle-cluttered coffee table in front of it that captures my complete attention. Round, fat candles, tall, thin candles, tapers with long wicks and even two flameless, battery operated candles fill the glass surface.

  “Aren’t you prepared for the next major power outage. I bet your bathtub is filled with water.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Or are you going for a primitive vibe?”

  He smiles at me, his eyes twinkling.

  Those eyes . . . they catch me off guard. I feel my breath hitch unexpectedly in my throat. That naughty twinkle of his speaks volumes: Take a gander, storeen, I’m a man who’ll make you come fifty different ways. But it’s the baby blue color of his irises that has me looking more closely at him. A soothingly beautiful color, his eyes remind me of a Maine winter sky over a morning bay. A sky I often dreamed about during the two long years I worked in Aleppo, where bomb dust and bloodshed shaded everything gray. No one looks at the Syrian sky anymore; survival means you fix your gaze straight ahead and nowhere else.

  I mentally sigh. It’s been ages since I’ve seen a Maine sky. Ages since I’ve stopped long enough to come up for air. Ages since I’ve been intimate with a man.

  Wait . . . what?

  My gaze drops. Better. Someone should alert Gandalf from Lord of the Rings that this man stole his beard. He looks like Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in The Revenant. And he has the same rugged, I’m-gonna-kick-some-ass-when-you-least-expect-it attitude, too. Unlike his eyes, that beard makes it difficult to consider him in a romantic way.

  A contradiction, as is the man himself.

  His grin broadens, like he’s well aware of the confusion he’s causing. “Guilty as charged,” he murmurs. “What can I say? Primitive man, primitive needs.”

  He runs his hand across his scruff, drawing my attention to it.

  Intentionally?

  “With a beard that fits the part,” I comment, testing the waters, and now very curious about what he looks like beneath all the hair.

  “About that drink,” he says, ignoring my comment and gesturing to the glasses beside the bottle he placed on the coffee table. “Might want to give them a quick rinse.”

  He ambles off, no worries, no rush. I stare after him, thinking how his easygoing attitude contradicts the demanding kind of work he’s involved in.

  Work that is the reason you’re here.

  I’m following a lead on a drugs for weapons deal, the largest of its kind since the Columbian cartels fell apart. A friend of mine from Aleppo, who now works for French law enforcement, tipped me off. Guns. Drugs. Criminal racketeering on a global scale. It’s the sort of corruption that sets governments on edge and the kind of story that could reach all the major airwaves.

  I’ve tracked the weapons shipment from Marseille to Acapulco. I’ve confirmed with my informant, El Chulo, the name of the Mexican recipient, one Señor Fahder. I’ve visited the heavily guarded warehouse in Acapulco where the weapons are being stored.

  Only, I’m not the only person watching things unfold. I came to discover the CIA is working alongside me in the shadows. It makes sense France alerted them. I still can’t believe my good fortune.

  Hard work, grit, and the ability to turn on a dime when an investigation goes ass-up has served me well. But sometimes, when the journalistic gods deem it so, all it takes for an average story to becoming John F. Hogan Award worthy is luck. “Forget the movers and the shakers,” Anchorman Peter Jennings once told my hero, reporter John Quiñones, “Talk to the moved and the shaken.” My spotting this man at the warehouse then bribing my contact into confirming his identity? The world shifted beneath my feet with that stroke of luck.

  When the CIA makes this bust, news agencies from Sydney to New York will be scrambling to cover it. This time, I’ll be on the inside looking out. In possession of a comprehensive body of work they’ll be begging me for instead of the other way around.

  I’m approaching this assignment from multiple points of view. El Chulo and his men are keeping an eye on things in Acapulco. I paid a hefty sum for the gang leader to notify me the second the weapons are moved or if Señor Fahder makes an appearance at the warehouse.

  Things should start shaking up soon because I’m nearly certain Señor Fahder has already sold the goods. After culling through shipping log after shipping log searching for information, I discovered a cargo ship is scheduled to arrive in Acapulco three weeks from now. Not so unusual. What raises an eyebrow is there’s no record of what’s scheduled to be on the ship, where it will head next, or even why it will remain in port until the twenty-second. There are hefty transportation costs for detaining the cargo ship for a significant time period. And those costs were paid in advance—in hard currency. The best leads often come about from what’s not being said. Fahder, the weapons, and that ship are far too coincidental not to be linked.

  I’ll be revisiting the port closer to the ship’s arrival date. In the meantime, I’m doing what reporters refer to as “cultivating a source”— that is, this CIA agent. I plan on giving the broadcast networks a heroes-conquer-evil story they’ll be fighting to air. “We won’t air it if viewers won’t watch it,” I’ve been informed time and time again. Exposing the ugly truths and giving voice to the moved and the shaken is what motivates me as a journalist. But if viewers adore happy endings, that’s what I’ll offer them as well.

  Like me, I suspect the CIA is waiting for confirmation on the foreign buyer’s identity. Lining up all the eggs in play then swooping in before they hatch. What will it take to get “Antonio” to trust me?

  I bite my lip, trying to erase the image of his beard from my head. Focus on his eyes . . .

  Yes, he’s repulsive. Yet, in a far less obvious way, he’s attractive. I don’t know what to make of him.

  With a sigh, I make my way into the kitchen and rinse the glasses out in the sink. I open a kitchen cabinet in search of a dish towel and find several neatly folded in a pile. Surprise, surprise, there’s not a single one cockeyed. Curiosity rising, I open the refrigerator to make a quick assessment of what’s inside.

  You can tell a lot by what people eat. Protein and greens, he’s health conscious. Leftovers and tin-foiled wrapped slices of pizza, he’s careful with his money. Store bought, prepackaged or to go foods, and he follows a busy schedule. Uncovered containers of foods, no longer identifiable, and he’s gross on top of careless.

  I open the refrigerator, fully expecting to find the latter. A man like him could give a rat’s ass about a tidy fridge.

  But I’m wrong.

  His refrigerator is nearly empty. A neat stack of plain yogurt sits in the door. Bottles of Guinness are lined up like soldiers across the bottom rack. And there’s one plastic container with a rubber band fastened aroun
d its lid to hold it in place. Store bought . . . or homemade food?

  I place the glasses on the counter then carefully remove the rubber band and pry off the lid.

  It’s some type of chicken dish with rice in a brown sauce. I dip my finger inside and bring it to my lips for a taste. Curry?

  Where in Mexico City do they sell curry?

  “Looks like I snared a rabbit.”

  I freeze, guilty finger midair. He reappeared so quietly I didn’t hear him approach. “I was . . . um . . . hungry.”

  “So you poke your finger inside my supper?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

  “Fine,” I say, deciding on a different tactic. “I wasn’t hungry but curious about what kind of brown sauce this was.” I turn my attention to recovering the curry and placing it back inside the refrigerator.

  “And what kind is it?”

  I blink. “Um . . .”

  “Where’s the bottle of Jamie?”

  “On the coffee table, where you left it.” I pause. “Why?”

  “It empty?”

  “No.”

  A broad smile spreads across his face. “So, you’re not twisted?”

  “Twisted?”

  “Drunk off yer ass. Bolloxed.”

  Is he upset I stuck my finger in his curry? I bite my lip, deciding on the best way to handle this.

  “You going to be asking me next for my recipe?”

  I seize the chance to change the topic. “This is homemade curry chicken?”

  He offers me a smug smile full of challenge. Testing me, I’m certain of it.

  “You cook?”

  “I do. In and out of the kitchen.”

  Our eyes connect, his baby blues glimmering with mischief.

  I want to make a smart-ass comment, something to the effect of him out there hunting for food rather than inside a kitchen. But time is ticking and this banter between us is getting me nowhere.

  “Is that right?” I breathe. Think of this as feeding a goose your brand of Pop-Tart. Tempt him with the treat, get him to quack, then fall back before getting bit.

  I step forward with a little swing in my hips. Savoring the exact moment his smile slips. It’s the same moment I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and draw myself into his warm body.

  “I lied,” I murmur.

  I wait. One second. Two.

  “About?” he asks in an equally low tone.

  “Not being hungry. Matter of fact, I’m famished.” I raise my chin and look him square in the eyes. “Good thing you can cook, in and out of the bedroom.”

  He stares at me hard. Warning bells ring, and every fiber of my being tells me I’m in danger. That this man isn’t what he seems. That it’d be foolish to underestimate him.

  I search his deep blue depths for answers. What I come away with is a deep, albeit surprising, stirring within. Hells bells, what am I doing? Brushing my confusion aside, I come up on my tippy-toes then sweep in for a kiss.

  Let the seduction begin.

  Finn

  She moves soft lips over mine, growing more aggressive when I don’t reciprocate.

  I’m less surprised she’s gone in for a snog than puzzled why she’d take things beyond the fine line we’ve been dodging all night. Whatever she wants, she’s claiming it.

  I can play this a few ways. Be the sweet-talking shyster like my fellow mercenary, Jaxson. Not give a shite and go in for the kill like Declan would do. Sass my way through this Kylie Smith-like. Go Diego on her pretty ass, in an all-out explosive way, overwhelming her with emotion.

  I can manipulate the shit out of the stubborn beour. Have her eating out of my hands without her even knowing it, like my boss, the Bastard Hayden, expertly does with everyone.

  Or, do as my da always said. “Play to yer weaknesses, bucko, because you got ample material to pull from.”

  My old man was always quick with a kind word.

  How easy it’d be to give into temptation. Lay her across the kitchen table and have a wild go at her. I might not be the man of her dreams right now, but by the time I’m through with her, she’d be humming a different tune.

  Be that as it may, I wouldn’t ride her if she had pedals. I’ve got a job to do. And though I’ve come to detest the role I’m playing—the bumbling eegit Antonio being the feckin’ worst one yet, he’s all this mad minx is going to get.

  I break free. “Whoa. Aren’t you taking things a wee bit fast?”

  She blinks, and I almost feel sorry for the lass.

  “I know I’m irresistible but how about we add a drop or two of whiskey to this fire to heat things up?”

  Her lips part in surprise. Her reaction is like watching someone find a winning lottery ticket she thought she’d lost.

  Confusion.

  Joy.

  I’m sixteen years old again. Now who’s the bigger gobshite? Antonio or bleedin’ you?

  “I’d love a drink,” she murmurs.

  “Hold up then,” I reply, then get the hell out of Derry before I hoist her into the air and toss her happy self onto the table. I make her wait as I retrieve the bottle of Jamison from the living room, my movements slow as I calm my delusional thoughts.

  She’s here for a purpose, bucko. It’s not your body she wants, but information.

  I amble back to her and, while she holds out the two glasses, pour amber liquid into both.

  “What took you so long?” she teases. “Run out for a new bottle?”

  I gift her with a lazy smile. “Only one thing in life worth pursuing.”

  Her eyes light up. Damn, she’s pretty. Deep blue eyes. Rich auburn hair. A faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. And she’s clever. A challenge.

  Wouldn’t you know a chancer like me thrives on challenges? For most, there’s a time and place for everything. For heartless killers like me, there’s the job, period.

  “I can’t imagine what might get you moving fast.”

  “Can’t you?” I wink.

  She laughs. A disbeliever in my lovemaking skills.

  How I’m tempted to prove her wrong. Fuck her hard and furious, at a speed that’d leave her breathlessly begging me for more.

  “Not sex,” I say. No sex. Not with you. Not now. Not ever.

  She cocks her head at me, inquisitively.

  “Assassin’s Creed.”

  “The . . . video game?” she asks in complete wonderment.

  “You play?”

  She bursts into hilarious laughter.

  I strive to look contrite, yet, in truth, I’m feeling a wee bit disappointed she can’t see past my malarkey. Though, how could she? Dishing out my brand of shite is what I excel at. I’m a player, slipping seamlessly into one role after another.

  My life has been one motherfucking lie after another. I’ve been a priest. A delivery man. A sloppy drunk. My best role, which I masterfully executed if I do say so myself, was that of an old, frail Frenchman. Even my colleague and fellow mercenary, Kylie Smith, was fooled. Role playing, fighting, pissing people off, these are things I excel at.

  You used to be a charmer. A ladies’ man, tried and true. Before Antonio came to be.

  I can’t feckin’ wait to be rid of the wanker.

  But Hayden says we wait. He thinks there’s more than meets the eye going on here. To keep our eyes and ears open and figure out who all is involved in this back-alley deal.

  So, while my counterpart, Diego, has all the fun playing Don Juan inside some luxurious mountaintop retreat, I’m bumbling about like a goddamn fool, with my tongue stuck out in the hopes of tasting that one tiny drop that preludes the motherfucking flood I’m hoping for. Tedious work for a man like me, who thrives best when he’s in the mix of things and not biding his time on the sidelines.

  Truth is, I was bored to death. Until this fine specimen of womanhood showed up, flashing her eyes and giving me hell. “Before we get down to business, a toast.” I raise my glass and wait for her to do the same. “Ma
y we get what we want. May we get what we need. But may we never get what we deserve.”

  Her eyes dance.

  What is it you think you deserve, Samantha-not? I take a healthy swig as I consider her. Feeling the welcome burn of the alcohol in my throat.

  “May we get what we want,” she murmurs in a voice of steel, then mimics my actions and drinks heavy-handedly.

  I fully expect her to break out into a coughing fit as the fires of hell set in. But this colleen’s got some throat on her. My respect for her grows by leaps and bounds as she handles the burn like a seasoned champ.

  She takes a second sip, while studying me beneath her lashes. Trying to make her mind up about me. Trying to reconcile what she sees with what her instincts have got to be telling her: run.

  “So, back to that video game . . .”

  My ears perk up.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she says. “I kick your ass all the way back to the emerald shores of Ireland and you agree to give me what I want.”

  Well, bugger me blind. “Deal,” I quickly say. Not that I’m within a whisker of sharing anything with her. Not on yer nelly.

  She frowns. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

  I toss back the whiskey, grab the bottle, and crook my finger, signaling her to follow me.

  “You know, for someone who pretends to not care about much,” she calls out from behind me, “you’re moving awfully fast toward that X-box.”

  Cheeky woman.

  What I should be doing is escorting her pretty self out the door. Dodging her perceptiveness. Removing temptation.

  Well, like me da always says, I was born thick in the head.

  Clarissa

  The apartment is illuminated in candlelight. Pillows decorate the floor beneath us. An empty whiskey bottle lies nearby on its side. My victory chant still rings in the air, but it’s shifting into something else entirely.

  Something I initiated . . . when I placed my hand on his cock.

  He didn’t push it away. No, his lips curled—or at least beneath all that bristle I think they did—at my bold move. He’s sprawled back onto his forearms, thick cushions wedged behind him and legs spread like he’s awaiting his pleasure. Relaxed after winning two of our three games.