Private Lies. Wendy Etherington
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sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She wanted him to wrap her in his strong arms almost as much as she wanted to strangle the man.
“So,” Toni began, peeking slyly over her coffee cup. “You want to meet me at the shop at three?”
“Definitely.”
GAGE DABON STRODE into the Bayou Palace’s lobby bar. Checking his Rolex, he sat on a stool and ordered Jack Daniel’s—Black Label. He retrieved a sterling-silver case from inside his jacket pocket and, lighting a cigarette, settled back with his drink to wait.
Image was everything in his business, as he’d learned a thousand times over. Image and guts. They kept the deal together. They kept you alive.
As he discreetly scanned the lobby for his quarry, he tried to force his thoughts away from Roxanne. But regret fought its way in.
He hated lying to her, hated it more every day, and the deception made him all the more conscious of how long he’d been at the game and how easy leaving would be. But he couldn’t let her discover the truth yet—for her own safety and his. He didn’t think she would appreciate the irony of her being engaged to the one kind of man she always said she could never live with—a cop.
Not just any beat cop, either. A Secret Service undercover agent for the United States Treasury Department.
He smiled grimly. No, he’d lose her. And that was unacceptable.
It had begun with an addiction to their favorite restaurant, and now, was he addicted to her as well? Her smile, her touch?
The fact that he’d actually proposed should tell him he’d lost his mind as well as his edge. A wife and a family made you vulnerable, prevented your heart from turning to steel, forced you think about going too far. But he desperately wanted that life with Roxanne.
Her sweetness and purity were like a balm to a man who’d lived among, then tracked and captured, the worst of society for nearly ten years. She made him feel clean when he was so damn tired of being dirty.
Every day he thought more about retiring. Every time he had to leave her. Every time he had to lie. If he could get through this case…
He shook aside the thought and swallowed another sip of liquor, the drink burning down his throat. He frankly hated the stuff, but the image required it. He had to focus on now. Today. This moment. For now, their engagement bound her to him. He’d find a way to explain things to her soon.
Finally, he spotted his target. And the ridiculous idiocy of criminals struck him anew. The kid—turning twenty-two next month—was a brilliant computer engineer. MIT graduate. Affluent upbringing. All-American good looks—though he really should get to know Calvin Klein and ditch the pocket protector.
Our young “hero” could have his pick of jobs, own a nice house in the suburbs, but instead Clark Mettles had decided to use his varied talents to counterfeit United States currency.
Ah, youth.
Gage shook his head in disgust, even as he raised his index finger to signal the kid.
Briefcase in hand, Mettles made a beeline for the bar stool next to Gage.
“M-Mr. Angelini?”
Sighing inwardly at the tremble in the kid’s voice, Gage tapped the bar. “Drink?”
“Uh—” his gaze darted to Gage’s glass “—whatever you’re having.”
Great. Now the kid would cough all through the meeting.
Gage gave the bartender the order, knowing his cover—Italian-mob-type Gage Angelini—would never talk a fellow criminal into a light beer.
With his dark coloring, it was easy to slip from his native French Creole, to Italian, Black Irish or Hispanic. Different clothes, accents, hairpieces, colored contacts, and presto, a spy is born.
“I brought samples,” Mettles said, reaching into his briefcase.
“Not here,” Gage said through his teeth.
The documents disappeared into the case.
Though Gage would have been thrilled to get the counterfeit plates and sample bills, hand over the payment and slap on the cuffs, he knew the kid was just a middleman. Mettles didn’t put a deal this slick together.
Gage wanted the kid’s boss—Joseph Stephano, if the undercover research was accurate. The Treasury Department had been after him for fifteen years, the FBI even longer.
The bartender delivered the drink, and Mettles threw back a healthy gulp, then gasped and coughed for a full minute before choking out, “Water.”
Gage ordered water and another drink for himself. It was going to be a long afternoon.
2
“IS MY WIG CROOKED?”
As she unlatched her seat belt, Roxanne eyed Toni’s sleek, shoulder-length white-blond hair. Her best friend looked like a cross between the part they planned to play—rich tourists on the make—and a jaded rock star.
Maybe it was the star-shaped crystal glued next to her right eye that sent the disguise over the top.
Roxanne tugged a lock on one side. “It looks great.”
Toni angled her head as she stared at herself in the mirror on the car’s visor. “I like the shade,” she said, fluffing her bangs. “Maybe I’ll go lighter with my color next time at the salon.”
“It flatters you.” Turning the rearview mirror, Roxanne examined her own disguise one last time. She should have known Toni would get carried away with this incognito business.
Her own father wouldn’t know her.
A nearly waist-length, ringlet-curled black wig covered her shoulder-length, dark red hair. She wore heavy pancake makeup; smoky eye shadow and black liner rimmed her eyes, which colored contacts had changed from golden-brown to green. Tanning cream and bronzing powder had turned her pale skin a dusky gold. Dark red lipstick gave her lips a sexy pout, and the body-hugging black pantsuit made her curves—enhanced with these weird, gel-like pads in her bra—obvious for anyone to see.
She felt ridiculous.
“I think we should have gone the other way and dressed as cleaning staff,” she told Toni.
“No way am I wearing those horrible orthopedic shoes.”
“We look obvious.”
Toni grinned as she applied bright pink lipstick. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“As long as we don’t get caught.”
Toni dropped the lipstick in her bag. “Chill. The hotels are crawling with tourists. We’ll blend right in.”
“I can’t believe he lied—again.” Roxanne glanced again at Gage’s Mercedes, parked just one row over.
After spending most of the afternoon on their disguises, they’d driven to the Sheraton and scoped the parking decks for Gage’s car. Without success. So, as her heart pounded and her headache worsened, they’d driven around the other hotels’ lots. On the third one, they’d found their quarry. At the Bayou Palace.
“Maybe the meeting’s at the Palace, and he’s staying at the Sheraton,” she said.
Toni rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s not reaching. And why would he move the car? The hotels are practically across the street from each other.”
“I’m just looking for a way I might have misunderstood.”
Toni laid her hand on her shoulder. Her eyes softened. “You’re in denial.”
Roxanne sighed. “Thanks for being here. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“We could just have my cousin tow