Private Lies. Wendy Etherington
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the rim of his glass, looking suddenly like the shrewd mobster Gage knew him to be. “If there is a deal.”
“Of course.” Gage had set up his cover very well. He’d check out, and Stephano would let him in. He just needed to get Roxanne away from the sleaze and danger. “But Marina isn’t much of a party girl. I’ll leave her here.”
Stephano gestured behind Gage, and he turned to see Mettles filling Roxanne’s glass yet again. “She looks like she’s havin’ a good time to me.”
“Mr. Stephano doesn’t like to be disappointed,” Mettles put in nervously.
Stephano smiled. “Yeah. Tell Mr. Angelini what happens to guys who disappoint me.”
Mettles swallowed, glancing around nervously. “They die,” he whispered.
Roxanne knocked over her champagne glass, which Mettles righted just as quickly. She stared at Gage, her eyes wide with horror.
Stephano, of course, laughed.
“Marina would love to join us for dinner,” Gage made himself say, though he had no intention of having Roxanne hang around this investigation. He listened carefully as Stephano turned the conversation back to their deal, his possible percentage, the money he wanted transferred if he decided to let Gage “invest.” Gage activated the recorder concealed in his watch, but didn’t expect to get much. The gangster was careful to use code words and euphemisms, never saying money or plates. The key to the investigation was finding the place where everything was being manufactured, tracing the operation to Stephano, so warrants could be issued and arrests made.
Roxanne tossed her head back, a giggle escaping her mouth. Gage fought to focus on Stephano, wondering how quickly they could escape, and fighting an intensified arousal at her laughter. She had a beautiful mouth, soft, full bottom lip, and when she kissed her way to his ear and bit down…
Oh, man. He shifted on his stool, the tightness of his groin growing uncomfortable.
“How soon do we start?” he asked Stephano, desperate to stay focused.
Stephano’s cagey smile appeared. “Soon.”
Gage thought about his groin. And Roxanne’s lips.
They’d never actually met, but Gage had dreamed. Probably more often than he should. But Roxanne was shy, caring and sweet. Encouraging her to…explore him that way always seemed too…wild. But he still thought about it—a lot.
“I’ve got several deals cooking at the moment,” Stephano went on.
Gage fought for professional detachment. Gambling? Drugs? Prostitution? All of it sickened him. At some point, would he become sick with himself? “I’m sure,” he said, striving for a bored, jaded tone.
“You know I’m particular about business.”
Gage met the man’s chilling eyes. “Yes.”
“I know you only by reputation.”
Gage nodded.
“I’m definitely considering moving on this deal, but don’t screw with me.” He paused. “As Mettles said, I can be…difficult.”
Recognizing the warning, the cold-bloodedness not even vaguely disguised, Gage clenched his glass. His head spun, though not from alcohol. He’d poured most of his drinks with Mettles into a nearby plant. The implications of the last few minutes had rattled his thoughts. His personal life and his professional life had merged. His worst nightmare.
“We’ll suit each other,” Gage said, then downed the rest of the drink.
Stephano rose. “You and your lady freshen up. We’ll meet in the lobby in an hour.”
Gage lit a cigarette—his nerves might actually need the tobacco at this point. “Sure.”
“We’ll celebrate. There’s a great Italian restaurant on Chartres Street. We’ll take my limo and relax.”
Trapped in a dark car with a mobster heading to an Italian restaurant. Holy hell, when had his life become an episode of The Sopranos? “Sure.”
Stephano smiled at Roxanne. “I’ll see you at dinner, Marina.”
Her gaze rose slowly. Gage noted her large, black pupils and the exaggerated way she lifted her hand to pat Stephano’s cheek—and swore, internally and viscously.
“Sure, honey,” she said, then gulped a swallow of champagne.
Stephano smiled, then kissed the back of her hand. His gaze lingered on Roxanne’s longer than necessary. “An hour. Mettles, with me.” He strode off.
Fists clenched, Gage stood next to his fiancée—the delicate flower he’d fought so hard to protect. And miserably failed. “Let’s go.”
She plopped down her champagne flute and slid off the stool. “Sure, Gage, baby. This has been a blast.”
She wasn’t so tipsy that she couldn’t inject a tone of sarcasm into her words. Even as Gage admired her guts, he tossed a few bills on the bar and wondered how he’d ever manage to save the best—really the only—relationship in his life.
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN fuzzy fear and hot rage, Roxanne stood back to let Gage unlock his room. He eased the door open and nodded for her to go in first.
Her gaze bounced around the elegant, sunken living area, noting the bedroom off to the left. Blinking back tears, her gaze latched on to the windows across the suite. She moved toward them, laying her palm against the cool glass, staring at the lights below.
The whole night seemed a dream. Or a nightmare. She couldn’t even remember how much time had passed since she’d watched her reflection in the mirror as Toni had transformed her from a pale, plain redhead into an exotic Gypsy.
Toni. At least she’d had the sense—maybe premonition—to send her friend out of the bar. She’d wanted to confront Gage alone.
“I need to call Toni. She’s waiting downstairs.”
Gage laid his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll—”
She shrugged. “Don’t touch me.”
Silence. Then his hand fell away. His breathing seemed the only sound to fill the room, and she longed to turn and find his gaze. But those eyes had looked into hers and lied too often.
“I’ll get you down there,” he said. “You can leave.”
She nodded. But she had questions first.
She might not like her dad’s and siblings’ jobs, she might distance herself from anything relating to their work, she might still grieve for the tragic, unnecessary loss of her gentle mother, but she hadn’t spent twenty years in the Lewis household wearing blinders.
Gage wearing a disguise. That Stephano character with his dead eyes. She wanted to laugh. Hysterically. Her fears of infidelity seemed so distant. The reality might be much, much worse.
Beneath the dull layer of alcohol, her stomach churned. “Who are you, Gage?” she asked quietly.
He sighed. Then, as she sensed him moving away from her, she turned. He paced alongside the glass and chrome coffee table. His long legs ate up the distance quickly, and even as she wanted to throw something at him, she had to admire his profile—the strong jaw, the broad shoulder, the curve of his tight backside. As long as she lived, she doubted she’d ever find a man she wanted as much. Before tonight, she’d even thought she loved him.
But now betrayal and anger and fear vibrated in her veins. She fought to stay calm. She wanted to give him time to explain. Though how any of this could make sense, she couldn’t imagine.
He stopped finally. He stared directly at her. Their gazes locked—brown to green, instead of silver to gold. She wanted to scream at the deception. “Dammit, Gage, what the hell is going on?”
“I’m