Midnight Games

“And I happen to be a fan of this establishment,” she teased. “You have a beautiful hotel, Mr. Meiro.”

  “Please, call me Tomas.” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “And what shall I call you?”

  “Valerie. Valerie Parker-Smith.” She extended her hand, and the square-cut emerald ring on her fourth finger winked in the soft overhead lighting.

  Meiro brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sweet Valerie.”

  Sullivan’s laughter poured out of the transmitter.

  “Smooth,” Liam piped up.

  Isabel ignored them both. Wished like hell she could find a way to stop her swinging earring from activating her damn mic.

  “Are you traveling alone?” Meiro inquired.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I was supposed to be here with friends, but my party abandoned me at the last minute.”

  “You poor thing.”

  She waved a hand. “Your sympathy is appreciated but unnecessary. Truthfully, I prefer traveling alone. This way I get to indulge my own whims and no one else’s.”

  “My staff tell me you arrived from London earlier this morning.”

  Isabel laughed in delight. “Ah, so you knew who I was the entire time. Why did we go through the formality of introductions, then?”

  “A gentleman and a lady must always be properly introduced.”

  “I think it’s time we stop referring to me as that.” She shot him a mischievous look. “Because I can assure you, there is nothing ladylike about me. I’m a very naughty girl, Tomas.”

  Meiro’s laugh was so surprisingly warm she found herself responding with a genuine smile.

  She swiftly had to remind herself that this was no ordinary casino owner. The man abducted tourists and sold them into the sex trade, for Pete’s sake.

  “I know redheads are rumored to have fiery tempers,” he said in amusement, “but are they typically this bold as well?”

  “Of course, luv. Us redheads are downright brazen. Shameless, in fact.”

  The blackjack game was all but forgotten as Isabel rested her hand on Meiro’s biceps. “So, I was told you save all your finest vintages for preferred guests.” She dragged her fingers over the expensive material of his sleeve. “I’m curious—am I a preferred guest?”

  Heat darkened his gaze. “White or red?”

  She smiled sensually. “What do you think, Tomas?”

  “Red it is.” Meiro signaled one of the waiters, then addressed the dealer who’d been standing silently during his boss’s flirtation with Valerie Parker-Smith. “Arrange for a cashier’s check of the lady’s winnings to be delivered to the Lavender Suite.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Isabel and Meiro drifted away from the table. She kept her hand on his arm. He kept his gaze on her eyes. In fact, he stared for so long, and so intensely, that prickles of unease traveled over her skin.

  “Is something wrong, Tomas?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The lounge offered several seating areas—velvet couches and small tables that allowed for seclusion, some shielded from view thanks to black marble columns or low walls made of frosted glass that were difficult to see through.

  Meiro spoke after they’d settled on a plush burgundy couch. “Nothing is wrong. To be honest, I’m captivated by your overwhelming beauty and I’m having trouble concentrating on anything else.”

  Trevor made a sound of disgust that rumbled in her ear.

  Once again, the disturbance snapped her right out of character. For a second, she couldn’t formulate a single response to Meiro’s gruff admission.

  Shit. Fucking shit. Flirting came as naturally to Valerie Parker-Smith as brushing her teeth in the morning. She didn’t get flustered or hesitate or forget how to string together a few seductive words to create a provocative response.

  A spark of anger lit Isabel’s belly. This wasn’t the way she operated, damn it. She worked solo, not with a team, and she certainly didn’t have someone blabbering in her ear in the middle of an op.

  “I do tend to have that effect on men,” she said cheekily, finally managing to regroup.

  When she crossed her legs, Meiro’s dark eyes instantly homed in on the creamy expanse of thigh revealed by the dress’s perilously high slit. Appreciation and desire washed over his face, fueling her returning confidence.

  His voice lowered to a smoky pitch. “Tell me about yourself, chérie. I want to know everything about you.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Everything?”

  “Everything.” Meiro slid closer. So close she could smell his spicy aftershave again, feel the heat of his body. He placed a hand on her knee, his touch possessive. “I want to know you inside and out.”

  Sullivan laughed in her ear.

  Isabel had officially had enough.

  Fortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to approach their table with a bottle of Romanée-Conti and two wineglasses in his hands.

  Meiro insisted on uncorking the expensive vintage himself, and Isabel waited until he was focused on the task before reaching up and unclipping her right earring. She let the dangling string of diamonds slip through her fingers and land in her lap, then released an exasperated squeal.

  “This bloody clasp!” she huffed. “This is the third time tonight it’s come undone by itself.”

  Meiro glanced over with an indulgent smile. “Perhaps the hotel jeweler can take a look at it.”

  She feigned annoyance. “Yes, I might need to get it fixed. For now, I’ll just take them off before I end up losing one.”

  With a sigh, she removed her other earring and proceeded to drop both into her clutch.

  Then she snapped the little purse closed.

  Effectively cutting off contact with the team.

  • • •

  Son of a bitch.

  Trevor had no clue what Isabel was up to, but he was so furious his vision turned into a red haze. He tried to concentrate on the spinning roulette wheel, but it was hard to cheer for a fucking ball to land on black when one of his team members had deliberately gone dark.

  “What is she doing?” Sullivan demanded.

  Trevor scratched the side of his face to activate his mic and muttered, “No clue, man.”

  A chorus of cheers rang out as the ball landed on black thirteen.

  “Lucky thirteen!” the dealer announced before raking the unlucky chips off the table.

  Rather than place another bet, Trevor left the game. His gaze gravitated to the curtained archway a hundred feet away.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Juliet’s voice warned. “Down, boy.”

  An unexpected vise of panic squeezed his chest. Fuck. He didn’t like knowing Isabel was in that lounge with Meiro. Tossing suggestive remarks his way. Batting her eyelashes and flashing him coquettish little smiles. Flicking an imaginary piece of lint off the man’s lapel, touching his arm in a teasing caress.

  Each thought made Trevor’s gut clench. He’d worked with Isabel before. He was well aware that she was a pro. Well aware that she could take care of herself, and that she utilized certain methods to pry information out of her targets.

  At the moment, however, that awareness was overshadowed by a streak of jealousy and the rush of protectiveness currently wreaking havoc on his body.

  Tomas Meiro sounded like a total slimeball. The man was too smooth, too confident, and clearly this was a routine of his—invite beautiful female guests to the VIP lounge, shower them with compliments and pump them full of expensive wine, all for the purpose of luring them into his bed.

  Trevor promptly saw red again.

  If that son of a bitch so much as touched a hair on Isabel’s head—

  “For fuck’s sake, Callaghan, what are you doing?”

  Juliet’s incredulous voice penetrated his irrational train of thought, made him realize he was fifteen feet from the VIP entrance. His legs had carried him there of their own volition, similar to the way he would sometimes drive home on autopil
ot and find himself in his driveway without remembering how he’d gotten there.

  He inhaled a calming breath. Shit. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he control the tornado of panic swirling inside him?

  He quickly repeated a silent mantra.

  Isabel was fine. She was a professional. He had to stop worrying about her.

  Fine. Professional. Stop worrying.

  “Hey there, darling. Buy a lady a drink?”

  Trevor’s head jerked up at the sound of Juliet’s femme fatale voice—which hadn’t come from his earpiece.

  No, the brunette was standing directly in front of him, a come-hither smile on her lush mouth. He hadn’t seen her leave the bar, yet here she was, blocking his path.

  “What are you doing?” He summoned a smile to his face even as a bite entered his voice.

  “Damage control.” She kept up the flirtatious act by letting out a loud, musical laugh, then moved closer and brought her mouth right up to his ear. “You’re this close to fucking blowing this, Trevor. I’m pulling you out.”

  He perpetuated the charade by laughing in return and linking his arm through hers. All the while grinding his molars.

  “Says who?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Me. I made an executive decision. So now you and I are going to have a drink and calm ourselves down.”

  The only reason he allowed Juliet to lead him toward the bar was because he didn’t want to make a scene. Not with the pit boss standing ten feet away, not to mention the various floor supervisors whose cagey eyes flicked over them as they strolled past.

  A few minutes later, a bartender placed a glass of scotch in front of Trevor and a martini in front of Juliet.

  One look from the brunette and Trevor’s ass sank into one of the high-backed stools, but his jaw was tighter than a drum as he raised the glass to his lips.

  “Good boy.” A resigned look settled over Juliet’s face. “And now we’re not moving an inch until Isabel has concluded tonight’s business.”

  Trevor drained the rest of his scotch and ordered another.

  • • •

  The next hour was pure torture. Neither Isabel nor Meiro reappeared on the main floor, which told Trevor that Isabel must be making headway in the VIP lounge and had succeeded in hooking her target.

  Her target.

  The word loitered in his head like an unwanted visitor. Christ, he didn’t want Isabel anywhere near someone like Tomas Meiro. A man who passed himself off as a legitimate businessman, all the while operating in the seedy underworld of Europe and treating young women like commodities.

  Granted, most of Meiro’s brothels were actually legal—but the tourist scheme he had going? His dossier had included far too many details about that particular venture, leaving Trevor feeling sick to his stomach.

  Meiro had a standing deal with an Asian crime outfit. The majority of the abducted female tourists were shipped to Hong Kong and Tokyo, where blond hair and Western features were in high demand among the whorehouses that needed fresh meat or the men who were in the market for a sex slave. As far as Trevor was concerned, Tomas Meiro deserved to rot in hell for the role he played in that vile operation.

  So, yeah, could anyone really blame him for wanting to protect Isabel from the motherfucker?

  Apparently, yes, considering that the woman beside him looked ready to kill him.

  “Still haven’t calmed down, have you?” she drawled.

  He casually sipped his scotch, but every muscle in his body ached from being coiled so tight. “I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

  “Who does? But you’re just gonna have to deal with it.” Juliet popped her martini olive into her mouth. “Don’t worry. She’s fine.”

  “Yeah? Do you have some secret way of monitoring what’s going on in there? Astral projection, maybe?”

  “Nope. I just have faith in the greatest chameleon I know.”

  He wished he possessed that same level of faith, but Isabel’s radio silence was discouraging. Why the hell had she cut off contact?

  “See,” Juliet said a second later, sounding very smug. “Just fine.”

  Relief washed over him as he saw Isabel emerge from the curtained lounge.

  On Meiro’s arm.

  Laughing. They were laughing. And Meiro was taking too many damn liberties—touching her bare shoulder, stroking her upper arm, bringing his lips much too close to her neck.

  Trevor tightened his grip on his scotch glass.

  Isabel and Meiro strolled across the gaming floor, lost in their own private world.

  When he realized they were leaving the casino, panic spiked in his blood again. “Sully,” he hissed. “Blackjack’s knocking on your front door.”

  Sullivan, who was out on the street with a line of sight into the Palace lobby, replied with a brisk “Got ’em. He’s escorting her to the elevator.”

  Some of the panic dimmed. “Is he getting in with her?”

  “Negative. She’s giving him a kiss on the cheek, getting into the elevator alone. Blackjack is chatting with the concierge now.”

  Trevor polished off his scotch and stood up, extending a hand to the woman he was supposed to be interested in. “Care to join me for a nightcap in my suite?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed, but she still accepted his hand. “I would love to.”

  He and Juliet had just stepped into the lobby when Isabel rejoined the feed.

  “Sorry, guys. Didn’t mean to go dark on you. I couldn’t stay in character. The chatter on the line was too distracting.”

  Trevor was in no way appeased by her explanation. She was part of the team, damn it. When you worked with a fucking team, you didn’t break communication. Ever.

  “Anyway, I’ll make my way over to you when I feel like I can slip away,” she added in a soft tone. “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow. I’ll brief you on the rest later tonight.”

  And then she was gone again.

  I’ll brief you.

  Damn right she would.

  “Hey, Callaghan, flap those wings and fly back to the nest.”

  For the first time all evening, Noelle’s voice finally made an appearance on the comm. And she didn’t sound the least bit happy.

  “Uh-oh,” Juliet said mockingly. “Someone’s in trouble.”

  He stifled a groan. Fuck. Looked like Isabel wasn’t the only one who needed to explain herself tonight.

  Chapter 15

  When Isabel strode into the suite at White Sands several hours later, it took a valiant effort on Trevor’s part not to pull her into his arms and hold her tight. He couldn’t, though. Not with Noelle’s blue eyes already shooting daggers at him.

  The “boss” was pissed. When he’d returned to the hotel earlier, the blonde had given him a tongue-lashing in a voice so sharp it could have cut glass. She’d finished the scolding by informing him that he was being replaced; Liam would take over casino duty, while Trevor joined Ethan on mansion surveillance.

  Trevor hadn’t argued with the woman. Because . . . well, fuck. Because she was making the right call. Killed him to admit it, but it was the truth.

  He’d nearly blown it tonight by marching into the VIP lounge. His sole focus had been on protecting Isabel from Tomas Meiro, and the man hadn’t even done anything wrong. Whatever his past crimes, the only offense Meiro committed tonight was flirting with the woman Trevor happened to be in love with.

  Whoa—what?

  The thought came out of nowhere, whizzing into his head like a sniper’s bullet.

  The woman he was in love with?

  No. He couldn’t be in love with Isabel.

  Could he?

  He did his best to stop the confusion and shock from showing on his face. He took a breath, tried to focus on the briefing, but his concentration was shot to hell.

  He kept sneaking peeks at Isabel, but clearly he wasn’t being at all covert, because each time he looked at her, she looked right back.

  And each time their gazes
held, her expression grew increasingly troubled.

  Fuck, why did he get the feeling she could read his thoughts?

  Trevor’s pulse sped up. Did she somehow know that the L-word had breached his consciousness? That he was, at this very moment, questioning whether he’d fallen in love with her?

  How was it possible, though? He’d been in love before, and he didn’t remember it feeling like this.

  His love for Gina had filled him with an overpowering sense of peace. Yes, there had been passion and arguments, and sure, Gina’s kisses definitely made his heart beat a whole lot faster, but at the end of the day, when he’d looked into her big brown eyes he’d seen his best friend and his soul mate, not a woman he wanted to . . . to possess, damn it.

  So why did he feel this crazy urge to possess Isabel, body and soul? Why were his emotions so much more heightened in her presence? Passion became raw lust. Anger became red-hot fury. Peace became bone-numbing serenity.

  When he looked into Isabel’s eyes, he saw . . . his other half. He saw a missing piece of himself, and that was beyond fucked up, because he’d never thought of himself as lacking.

  What did that mean? And why didn’t he feel like he was betraying Gina by considering that he was meant to be with Isabel?

  “Keep a close eye on the wife.” Noelle interrupted his thoughts. “She might know more than we think.”

  “I doubt it, but sure,” Trevor replied.

  As the briefing came to an end, Noelle disappeared onto the terrace, while Juliet and Liam walked over to the wet bar on the other side of the suite. Sully, D, and Ethan were on surveillance duty, which meant Trevor would be bunking alone tonight.

  He glanced at Isabel and lowered his voice. “We should probably talk.”

  “Damn right.” Her dark expression followed them all the way to his room. “What the hell happened tonight, Trevor? Why did Noelle reassign you?”

  He closed the door and locked it. He didn’t bother with a lie or an excuse; when it came to Isabel, he always found himself being totally honest, no matter how painful or embarrassing it was.

  “I didn’t like listening to you flirt with him,” he said gruffly.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I got jealous, okay? Your voice was in my ear, cooing and giggling and being all sexy, and it pissed me off.” He offered a sheepish shrug. “I may have been on my way to crash the VIP lounge when Juliet stopped me.”