The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

He found the name in the book. Bachelorette party. “Got it. What’ll you have?”

The woman smiled in gratitude, or maybe warning, and gave him a drink order that must’ve been for ten people.

The order was mostly craft beers, so not that hard to line up. As he made one of the mixed drinks, he asked, “Who’s winning? I got money on you guys.”

She laughed the laugh of the cynical sober. “As the designated driver, I can tell you it’s close. My team switched to beer. They’re at the point where they think that’s strategic.”

He laughed. “Couldn’t hurt.”

She shook her head. “I think those guys ingested fourteen pounds of nachos, so they’ve got a cushion.”

Sounded like he was going to lose ten bucks. Dusty spotted a bag of pretzels and placed them on the tray next to the beers. The woman, a dark-haired Filipino with a thousand-watt smile, lifted the tray and said, “You must really hate to lose.”

He winked at her. “I just prefer an even playing field.”

She maneuvered herself from the bar with the caution of a sober person in a sea of drunks.

Quick to learn where everything was, Dusty hit his stride. It wasn’t hard to find people with cash or on account, so he didn’t hurt for business. For the next few hours, he and Gracie worked, brushing hotly against each other as they buzzed here and there.

But, much to his disappointment, not standing in one place long enough to talk or explore that heat. The crowd kept them hopping. A few people got handsy with him and her, trying to get attention. Nothing they couldn’t handle, until the big guy.

Dusty watched him. Impatient as hell, using his size to insert himself at the bar as if the crowd were an insult. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud to get Gracie’s attention. She turned.

If it had been him, Dusty would’ve ignored the guy. But he saw Gracie’s eyes evaluate the guy and the situation. A smile on her face, she went right over. They exchanged a few words. She tapped the bar as if asking for his patience and began to turn.

Guy’s big hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Gracie looked at where he held her, said something, smiled like it was the only warning she’d give.

The guy’s knuckles whitened on her wrist. A few people at the bar were paying attention now. Someone had taken out a cell. Gracie Parish on camera. Which meant she wasn’t likely to pull any self-defense. She surely wouldn’t want that all over the internet.

Dusty would’ve moved to help, but he was sure the lady didn’t need it and wouldn’t appreciate him butting in. Plus he wanted to see what she’d do.

Still smiling at the guy, she reached under the bar, pulled out a nozzle for the fountain drinks, and blasted the guy, not in the face, but directly up his nose.

Shock and the sting of it had him reeling back. The people lining the bar sprang away. Gracie backed up too but kept hold of the nozzle.

That second was all that was needed for one of the bouncers to move in for the kill. He wrestled the dude, got him under control, grabbed him by the neck. Forcing the guy’s head down, he marched the soaked idiot out.

By the time the bouncer reached the front door, Gracie was already getting bar towels and handing them to customers, apologizing for the mess and offering free drinks.

Maybe feeling his gaze, she looked over at him. He’d thought he’d see condemnation, like why hadn’t he hotfooted it over there and given her a hand, but she smiled. She smiled and mouthed, “That was fun.”

Lady was going to break his heart.

As things slowed—the two big parties headed off for greener pastures and he was ten bucks lighter—they were able to catch their breaths. Even stood side-by-side and made drinks.

He looked down at her. She looked up and stopped dead with a bottle of rum in her hand. Did he imagine it, or was there a slight change in her face, not just the red that crept up and made her look so sweet, but another softening?

She moved off.

An hour later, the club was closed. The servers had left, and he helped clean up behind the bar. “’Cept for that incident, I had a great time tonight,” he said.

She stopped stacking glasses on the shelf under the bar and graced him with a full smile. “It happens. But you did great. I’m impressed with the way you can make drinks and conversation simultaneously. You have what my biological mother called the social virus.”

He laughed. “That’s funny. But just so we’re clear, I’m clean as a whistle.”

Her face heated. She ducked her head, looked away.

This was becoming his favorite game, making her blush. He returned to wiping the bar, but even with his back to her, he was hyperaware of where she was, when she moved.

All night, the atmosphere in the club had been buzzing in him, through him. He’d assumed it was the crowd, the music, the action. It wasn’t. It was her.

Pretty obvious now when he could feel her behind him, smell her, almost hear her intent as she brushed past him and began to wipe the bar area right next to him.

His body heated to tense awareness as her legs pressed closer. This was more than a softening. This was a probe of the heat between them.

He’d take that bait. “Gracie.”

She stopped with the bar rag and smiled up at him, a genuine smile. The zing between them caused his blood to surge, hot and eager. She felt it. He saw it in her eyes and the way her mouth parted the slightest bit.

She stood on her tiptoes, fisted his shirt. “Don’t talk.” She pulled him down and kissed him, long and slow and wet. He put his hands under her ass, pressed her body against his.

Need hummed and throbbed along his skin. They were breathing heavily in no time, moaning against each other, and he was sure it could end only one way.

Then she stopped. She stepped back, stared at him. Her eyes were hungry. Her face flushed with want.

Her gaze rolled across him. “Thanks for helping tonight. I can handle the close.”

A thank-you wasn’t what he wanted. Needed. “You know, you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Kissing me into madness and sending me away.”

“That’s because you are you.” She waved as if that statement made total sense. “And I can’t stop myself”—her voice lowered—“until I remember you’re spying on my family.”

This woman was one awkward honesty bomb after another. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you can’t admit it.”

Had him there. He wiped his hands on a bar rag. “I’ll be by for that drink sometime.”

As he moved past, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Her face warmed. “You’re a really good kisser.”

Lord help him, but he wasn’t the only one not going to sleep tonight. He lowered his head, close enough he could whisper hot sighs in her ear. “It’s not just kissing that I’m good at.”

He heard her breath catch.

Oh man. The red creeping up her face. His heart jumped

and bucked like a bull released from a chute. As bulls went, he came equipped with only one horn, but it was hard and determined and rarin’ to charge at her.

Aw, hell. This might’ve been a mistake.

Chapter 15

Inside her pristine upper level office, Gracie yawned and punched another key on the computer keyboard. She hadn’t slept well last night. Having someone who wanted to kill her had turned every noise in her apartment into a threat. And since she’d been awake anyway, her mind had turned to Dusty.

He was a really good kisser.

It’s not just kissing that I’m good at.

Ugh. The man was wheedling his way past her defenses. And it was somehow working. Thanks, hormones. This was getting messy. She hated messy. Attested to by her upstairs office—orderly white walls, white desk, rounded white grandfather clock, and white leather chairs. Neat and clean.

Everything here was where it should be, and it made her feel better. It reminded her she had control. Things were bad, scary, but she’d set up new security protocols, added panic buttons behind the bar, and had planned a refresher course in threat response for her employees. It was a bar, so they’d take the changes seriously but wouldn’t find them suspicious.

She looked at the time on her cell. Almost eleven a.m. Victor said he’d call at eleven. She needed him to call. Still in sweats, she had to dress and head downstairs to handle lunch. But doing that seemed ridiculous when her list of would-be killers was downright unnerving.

Well, actually, it was the two names left on that list that unnerved her—John and El. Because how could she defend herself from them, take them down, and not hurt Tyler? She couldn’t. So, what, let herself be a sitting duck?

Her cell rang. Her heart picked up its pace and every nerve in her body rushed forward at the same time. She fumbled with the phone. “What do you have on them?”

Victor answered her anxious tone with, “They seem like a stable couple. Well respected. But there was an unusual transfer of money, ten thousand dollars. I tracked it. It went into an offshore account.”

Gracie froze. Her face. Her heart. Her muscles. Her breath. Her vision dimmed to the point where she had to remind herself to breathe. “When?”