Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” he said. It came out sharper than he meant, and she flinched. He pulled his lips into some semblance of a smile. “You slept so hard that if it hadn’t been for the snoring, I would’ve thought you’d died.”

For a guy who’d spent a good portion of his life charming women out of their panties and into his bed, his game suddenly sucked. Being around her did that to him. She made him want to become more than just a guy who survived on charm and luck—instead be a guy who settled down and found something permanent—but he knew himself better than to think that he could ever make that transition for real.

“You’re full of it. I don’t snore.” Her sharp gaze zeroed in on his open laptop. “How long have you been up?”

Grateful for an excuse to look away from her beautiful face, he glanced over at the digital clock on the bedside table. It read 6 a.m. “About an hour and a half.” Though judging by the crick in his neck, it had been longer.

She swiped his T-shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head as easy and smooth as if she’d been wearing his clothes whenever she wanted for years. It hung loose, stopped a few inches above her knees, and gave only the barest hint at her curves underneath. His mouth went dry as she crossed the room to his side. Dressed or naked, the woman was magma hot. The sooner he got away from her, the better for his sanity.

“Find anything?”

He turned his attention back to the screen. Not that it made him any less aware of her scent, her warmth, or the low hum of attraction that buzzed in the background whenever she was near. His inability to block it out pissed him off. If he didn’t get his shit together, he’d fuck them both, and not in a good way.

“Not yet.” He shook his head. “I’m trying to find the string tying Fergus and Diamond Tommy together. What do you know about Fergus?”

She sighed, and the deep intake of breath made her round tits push against the cotton T-shirt. She pivoted so that she rested her butt against the table. It took every last bit of his self-control to not to let his gaze dip from his screen to the miles of her strong legs on display. But even without looking, he could still recall the feel of her inner thighs brushing against his cheeks while she wriggled and moaned above him.

“He grew up in Harbor City,” she said, bringing him back from the brink. “He’s been a butler for the past ten years.”

Not a common career choice. “Family business?”

“No. He’s with a service.”

Okay, now they were getting somewhere. Fergus had come up clean, but the service could be a different story. Diamond Tommy had a slew of legitimate businesses to help hide his other funding sources. “Do you remember the name?”

She closed her eyes and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Grayson Domestics Incorporated.”

“Sounds expensive.”

She snorted. “It probably is.”

And snooty. Who in the hell said domestics?

He brought up Grayson’s website and scrolled through. “It looks legit from this end, but we need to get a peek at the stuff we can’t see.” He picked up the burner phone and dialed.

Carlos answered on the first ring. “Dude. I thought Tony was on the warpath about how this case is going, then I had a chat with Sylvie.”

He’d seen his boss at Maltese Security lose his temper only once—when Ryder had taken off for The Andol Republic on a case without clearing it with Tony first. She’d almost gotten killed before taking down the bad guy and bringing home a fiancé. Tony’s explosion had to have hit twenty on the Richter scale. If Sylvie was worse than that, Cam was glad to be in hiding.

“Not good?”

“Depends. How attached are you to your motorcycle? She’s threatened to run it over…while you’re still on it.”

She had to be joking. Mostly. But he’d seen Sylvie with Drea. Those two were as loyal to each other as a quarterback and a killer offensive line. “Yeah, this case hasn’t taken the usual path. Any luck on the safe house?”

“Fifteen Parsnip Lane in Waterburg. It’s fully equipped. Go in through the garage keypad. The code is nine—six—three—one. When you get there, Tony wants an update STAT.”

Cam just bet he did. He pushed away from the table and stood. Antsy energy rolled through him in waves. He needed to pace. He knew the feeling well. It was the same edgy rush that had pushed him onto black helicopters and unregistered flights from one end of South America to another—the knowledge that he was about to take care of business. His gut didn’t lie, they had something with Fergus.

“Thanks ‘Los, but I need another favor.”

“Shocker.”

He crossed to the window and peeked out. The silent parking lot was filled with older model cars that had more dents and less tire tread than you’d find in the parking garages across the bridge in Harbor City. Nothing and no one moved outside. The stillness did nothing to lessen the amped up buzz running through him. “Can you bring up Grayson Domestics Incorporated? I need to know owners, stock holders if they’ve got them, board of directors. Also, let me know what their money situation is like.”

“Need it right away?” Carlos asked.

“I needed it yesterday.”