Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

Ian was in the shower when I woke up to the sound of knocking. I ducked into the bathroom, told him someone was at the door, and shut it before answering. Standing outside in the hall was our contact, DEA Agent Orton Taggart, posing as Brock Huber, high-profile drug dealer from Dallas.

He came in and I closed the door behind him, taking in his surfer-cut blond hair, the navy blue Hugo Boss suit, and his black wingtips.

“No tie?” I asked.

“I’m keeping it casual,” he said, patting my abdomen as he moved in closer to me. “Hey, man, I’m counting on you and Morse to keep me alive on this op, right?”

Hey, man? Christ. “No worries,” I assured him, hopefully keeping the annoyance out of my voice. “So where are we going this morning?”

“The guy we’re meeting is Luis Cano, and he’s sending guys to pick us up in the bar in twenty minutes. Are you and your partner ready to go?”

“Always,” I assured him.

He squinted at me. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“No,” I said irritably, since I was in my sleep shorts and a T-shirt. “Obviously not.”

“Well, let’s go, man.”

It was way too much familiarity and trying to sound street.

In the bar lounge twenty minutes later, I was having coffee and scarfing down a croissant along with Ian, and Taggart was smiling.

“What?” Ian asked.

“You two clean up nice.”

Ian did look stunning in his brown Gucci suit with a brown pinstripe dress shirt underneath. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did in anything but fatigues or jeans, but he wore it well and that was all that mattered. According to him, the best accessories he had on were the two gun holsters—one under his jacket, the other around his ankle.

“You look better than he does,” Taggart said, smiling at me, leaning forward into my space. “What is this, Armani?”

I was wearing my gray three-piece suit with a white dress shirt underneath and, unlike Ian, I had on a tie. It was yellow, as was the pocket square, and I knew I looked good because my boyfriend had made that noise in the back of his throat when I came out of the bedroom to head down to the bar with him and Taggart.

As we were leaving the room, Ian let Taggart out and then closed the door before I could follow him. I turned and he’d stepped in close, bumping his nose along my jaw, inhaling me.

“Yes?”

“I should take you places where you wear suits more often.”

“Why’s that?” I fished.

“You know why,” he said, his voice husky, coaxing.

“You like what you see.”

“I do.” He took a step back, his gaze running down my body. “Very much.”

“I’ll leave it on ’til you take it off.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” he said, coughing, opening the door right before Taggart knocked.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he huffed at Ian.

“Following you,” Ian growled back, and because of the ice in his tone and the chill in his gaze, Taggart shut up, pivoted, and walked away. It was the smart choice.

“Smith?”

I came back sharply to the present. “Sorry. What?”

“Is this Armani?” Taggart questioned again.

“Yeah.”

“So, Smith, you—”

“Oh, here we go,” Ian interrupted as two men stepped up to the table.

Eventually we would meet with Wilson Roan, but before that his second-in-command, Cano, had to vet us to make sure we were who we said we were.

We were greeted by the men who were clearly bodyguards, like Ian and I were pretending to be, and then escorted outside and put into a Maserati Kubang SUV that was roomier inside than I thought it would be for one made by a sports car company.

They drove us to Paradise Valley, a stunning area full of million-dollar homes, finally turning onto E. Caballo Drive and rolling through the enormous wrought iron gates of a house I could never hope to afford unless I won a lottery.

“Holy crap,” I said under my breath as we all got out of the car.

“This is how the other half lives, M,” Ian teased, bumping me with his shoulder as we trailed behind the others.

“This is incredible,” I went on, glancing around. “Are you seeing this?”

He huffed out a breath. “I’d rather have the townhouse with you.”

“Ian, come on.” I prodded him, since we were walking well behind the others. “Are you looking at this? I bet they have like twelve thousand square feet or something.”

He shrugged. “I don’t care. I don’t need a house like this. I have what I need, what I want. Don’t you?”

I did. “Well, yeah, but it’s still nice to dream.”

“I did dream, now I live in it.”

Fucking Ian. “Why you gotta say shit like that when you know we’re here and I can’t do nothin’ about it?”

He shrugged. “’Cause it’s true.”

God.

“Man, could you go for some pizza or what?” he grumbled, breaking the spell.