Dark Deception

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Get in. Get the intel. Get out. And above all, don’t get noticed.

Repeating the mantra in her head, Charley D’Amico sipped her Sapphire and tonic, steeling her nerves for tonight’s assignment.

Thirteen years on the job, and she’d never broken the rules. Never left a shred of evidence behind. That was her thing—no trace. The whole reason she handled the public-facing gigs. She was, as her father had declared after her first big win all those years ago, a phantom.

So how the hell did a phantom manage to screw up before she’d even stepped into the elevator?

The man in the lobby had definitely noticed her. And in the span of four seconds, the sinfully hot stranger had burrowed so deeply under her skin, he was practically all she could think about. The sensual curve of his lips, the fire in his eyes, the commanding presence that made it impossible to look away…

Hell on hotcakes, that kind of distraction was enough to put her life at risk.

As if she needed another reminder, her phone buzzed with a text.

Status?

Charley rolled her eyes, thumbing a quick reply. Waiting for the right opportunity. More soon.

Don’t wait too long, kiddo, he replied, but there was nothing sweet in his message.

Even through texts, Uncle Rudy’s voice chilled her to the core. It was like he was standing on her shoulder, waiting for her to f**k up.

Salivating for it.

No matter how many successful missions she’d accomplished, no matter how much lucrative intel she’d delivered, no matter the fact that her late father had built the entire D’Amico empire, good ol’ Uncle Rudy never let her forget who was really in charge.

And though she spent the majority of every day rehearsing all the different languages in which she could tell him to go f**k himself, one thought of her nineteen-year-old sister was enough to put her bravado on ice.

Sasha had a real shot at a decent life. She’d just started at Hunter College, and she was already kicking ass, even while holding down a job at a nearby coffee shop. She would not be part of this screwed-up, bullshit con game. Not as long as Charley had the ability to keep her out of it. To keep her ignorant and safe. To keep her alive.

Get your head in the game, girl.

With an epic sigh and one more glance toward the elevator—one more pang of disappointment that the stranger from downstairs hadn’t magically appeared—she shut down her half-starved libido and snapped into work mode.

Get in. Get the intel. Get out. And above all, don’t get noticed… again.

The penthouse at the Salvatore was enormous by New York standards—a prewar stunner with breathtaking views of Central Park and the glittering buildings that surrounded it. The monthly maintenance fees alone were in the five-figure range, but word on the street said the current owners were tapped out, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. All their valuables would be auctioned off, the apartment sold, the family expatriating to Greece.

Charley hated kicking people when they were down, but in the words of the old family motto they’d probably carve on her tombstone…

“If you’re not an asset, you’re a liability,” she muttered.

Charley already knew the floor plan—she’d memorized the documents Rudy had obtained from the city planning office—but now she scanned the scene, taking in the relevant details:

About forty guests, plus the host. Two people working the bar just past the foyer, two more serving hors d’oeuvres. One security guard making the rounds, beefy but unarmed. Huge, open-plan living area set up with chairs and a small platform for the auction, artwork already on display. Private hallway roped off with theater stanchions, leading to four bedrooms and a study. No visible cameras.

The auction was set to begin soon, but for now, most of the guests mingled at the bar, blathering on about the cutthroat admissions process for Manhattan preschools and exclusive spa vacations for pets.

Reining in an eye-roll, Charley sipped her drink, projecting the cool detachment of the one-percenters surrounding her. Despite her working-class, Jersey-girl roots, it wasn’t hard to look the part, especially with her off-the-books expense account keeping her salon-polished and stylish. Tonight, she wore her auburn hair in a loose twist at the base of her neck, light on the makeup, and a strapless midnight blue cocktail dress tied with a simple sash around the waist.

If anyone were questioned about her later, they’d remember only a classy woman in a dark dress, a splash of tasteful yet unremarkable jewelry. Calm and unconcerned, totally in control.

The exact opposite of her reality.

The security guard headed into the living area, leaving the hallway unguarded.

Go-time.

Charley downed the last of her drink, set the glass on the bar, and slipped past the ropes undetected. She’d just ducked into the master suite when her phone buzzed with four rapid-fire texts.

What’s happening in there?

I don’t like it when you go radio silent.

Charlotte?

?????

The question marks at the end were the worst, the threat behind them evident.

Passive-aggressive asshole.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, a quick reassurance at the ready, but screw it. She was tired of jumping at Rudy’s every command, cowering before him as if she was still a little girl.

Busy, she texted.

Charley didn’t bother waiting for his reply. She silenced the phone, donned her gloves, and got to work.

With clinical efficiency, she searched the suite’s massive oak dressers, vanity, night tables, bookcases, closets, master bathroom drawers, and medicine cabinets, looking for any information that might help. She found a few pieces of jewelry, some antique knickknacks, plenty of prescription drugs, and—bingo—a printout of the family’s travel itinerary. They’d be apartment-hunting in Greece for two weeks at the end of the month.

The opportunity was there, just as Rudy had hoped.

But the score? That wasn’t looking too promising.

The other three bedrooms were sparsely appointed, and Rudy wasn’t interested in a handful of jewels and some dusty figurines. Too late, Charley realized their initial intel must’ve been bad. Tonight wasn’t the first auction—it couldn’t have been. The massive trove of art and antiquities the crew had traced to this family were long gone, likely auctioned off in pieces over the last several weeks. All that remained was the small, somewhat odd collection in the living area.

A flood of conflicting feelings washed through Charley’s heart: relief for the family, that they wouldn’t have to endure a robbery. Disgust at herself, at her crew, for doing what they did. And of course, the dread that always preceded having to face Rudy empty-handed—a situation that was quickly becoming her norm.

Rudy wouldn’t tolerate it. Not for long.

Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, but Charley blinked them away. There was still one more room to search—the potential goldmine otherwise known as the study. Rich people kept all kinds of important s**t in there, like it was some kind of private Fort Knox no thief would ever penetrate.

For her sake, Charley hoped that was the case tonight.

“Saving the best for last,” she whispered hopefully, turning to exit the smallest bedroom.

But she couldn’t. Towering in the doorway, a huge beast of a man blocked her path.

It wasn’t the security guard, but a guest she’d spotted at the bar earlier. Now, he was grinning at Charley like she was a prized piece of art he’d won.

“Oh, hi!” she said brightly, pressing a hand to her chest to keep her heart from bursting out. “I didn’t see you.”

Tall and imposing, with dark, malicious eyes that matched his expensive charcoal-gray suit, he folded his arms over his chest and grinned. “Lost, little one?”

“No, I… I’m looking for—”

“Yes,” the man said, taking a few steps toward her. “Do tell me what you’re looking for, here in the private bedrooms of our hosts.”

The icy tone in his voice sent chills down her spine. Beyond the fact that he’d busted her, there was something off about the guy.

The word unnatural popped into her head. He was too still, even when he moved. Too calm.

And now he had her cornered.

“Tampons,” Charley blurted out, forcing an embarrassed giggle as she reached inside her purse and gripped Beyoncé, her trusty taser. “I was looking for tampons. Don’t suppose you’ve got any?”

The man didn’t flinch, and he sure wasn’t buying her ditzy female act, either. He took another step forward, forcing her back into the bedroom. The chill in his eyes shifted to solid ice, a look of deadly determination Charley knew all too well.

Shit. She really, really didn’t want to tase the guy. Tasing meant causing a scene. It meant people asking questions and calling the cops. It meant getting noticed.

But she wasn’t about to let this guy f**k with her, either.

“Back off, asshole,” she warned, her Jersey-girl soul breaking through the refined exterior as she pointed Beyoncé at his crotch. “Or I’ll send you home with a stutter and a smoking dick.”

He grinned and raised his hands in surrender, and for a second, Charley thought it was done. But then he lunged for her, knocking her purse and weapon to the ground, crushing her upper arms in a bruising grip.

Without hesitation, she slammed her knee into his exposed crotch.

But he didn’t go down. Didn’t even grunt. Just kept grinning at her, his teeth long and sharp and…

Are those fangs?

Charley didn’t waste time second-guessing. She threw herself forward, the unexpected move buying her a momentary reprieve from his clutches, but then he was right back in her face again, hauling her against the brick wall of his chest as he kicked the door shut behind them.

The door didn’t slam, though.

Someone caught it.

“Is everything all right in here?” A smooth, deep-voiced English accent wrapped around her like a hot bath, and when the man it belonged to stepped inside, Charley gasped.

It was him. Her fantasy man from the lobby.

Perfect timing, hot stuff.

He took one look at the scene—giant asshole manhandling her like a rag doll, her belongings scattered on the floor—and his body went rigid.

“Renault Duchanes,” he said, his tone so dark, Charley’s skin erupted in goosebumps.

But that was all it took. One word, one look, and the asshole released her.

“You two are… acquainted?” The creep—Duchanes—stepped away from Charley like she was radioactive.

Ignoring the question, her man turned to her and held out his arm. “They’re almost ready to start the bidding, love. Shall we?”

Love? God, the sweet seduction in his voice made her ache.

She took the offered arm, surprised at how firm his forearm muscle was, thick and taut beneath a soft wool suit jacket.

Duchanes narrowed his eyes, but Charley wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of calling them out. Flashing a smug smile, she said to her man, “You were right, honey. These auctions do bring out the douchebags.”

“I warned you.” He winked at her, but when he turned back to the other guy, it felt like someone sucked all the air out of the room.

Tension simmered between them. Clearly, they knew each other. Clearly, they weren’t friends. They seemed to be having an entire conversation with nothing more than dirty looks and threatening scowls.

Finally, Duchanes backed off, exiting the room with a grunt of annoyance.

Charley blew out a breath, her heart rate slowing back to normal.

“Are you hurt?” the man asked, crouching down to pick up her things.

“I’ll survive. That asshole a friend of yours?”

“He won’t bother you again.”

“Better f*****g not.” She reached out to collect her purse and the taser, the slightest brush of his fingertips sending a zing of pleasure up her arm. “Prick was this close to getting fifty thousand volts up the ass.”

She kept the taser in hand, just in case.

The man chuckled and shook his head, and Charley snapped her mouth shut, stashing the Jersey girl back inside. She was supposed to be a wealthy art collector, and art collectors didn’t go around tasing random creeps at auctions or cursing like scrappy bitches in front of polite company.

Shit, s**t, s**t.

Tonight was not going according to plan.

“Thanks for the save,” she said, searching for a way to break free of his heated gaze. “I should… check my messages. My boss is… messaging me.”

Smooth, Charley. Real smooth.

Cringing, she traded her weapon for the phone, turning it back on vibrate. A dozen notifications flooded in from Rudy, but there was a text from her sister too—no note, just a picture of a huge cucumber strategically positioned between two shriveled avocados.

“Your boss sends you pictures of erotic vegetable art?” the man asked, a hint of playfulness in his tone.

Damn. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close.

“That one’s from my sister,” she said.

His eyes sparkled with mischief and intrigue, a combination that was quickly unraveling her. “Which begs the question… Your sister sends you pictures of erotic vegetable art?”

“It’s… kind of a thing with us. Last night I sent her one with two bananas with whipped cream on the tips, and…” Charley caught herself and shook her head, dropping the phone back into her purse. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Maybe I’m easy to talk to.”

You’re easy to look at, that’s for sure…

He held her gaze another beat, his smile making her heart sputter, then placed his hand on the small of her back. “Follow me.”

I follow no man, Charley thought. The words were poised on the tip of her tongue, but instead of voicing them, she inexplicably gave in to the light pressure of his touch, heading back out into the hallway and wondering why the hell his presence made her so damn lightheaded.