Olivia opened her mouth, but he grabbed her chin, keeping her jaw locked. “Were you turned on?” he demanded. “Did you get wet when you were humping his thigh?”
She gave a wild shake of her head.
Vince’s grip tightened. He forced her to look at the screen again. “Then why do you look like you’re having such a delightful time, Olivia?”
Her heart thudded, a spurt of fear erupting inside her. When Vince released her jaw, she took a breath and said, “I was pretending. That’s what I’m paid to do.”
He relaxed. Slightly. “Pretending.”
“Y-yes. You trained me, remember? You taught me what to do, showed me how to adapt to each customer’s needs.” Her words popped out rapidly, one after the other. “He was a talker. So I talked to him. I only did what you taught me to do.”
His expression softened, but she still glimpsed the traces of fire in his eyes. She had to calm him down. Placate him. The last time she’d “upset” him, he’d reciprocated with a black eye that no amount of makeup could cover up. She refused to let that happen again.
Olivia let her shoulders sag, deciding to play the one card that always seemed to work in her favor. Innocence.
“I can’t believe you think I was enjoying myself,” she whispered, making her bottom lip quiver. Summoning the tears was easier—she constantly felt like crying in this man’s presence. “I was just doing what you told me.”
It worked. Almost instantly the anger vanished, and Vince reached out and wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders. “Aw, fuck, babe, don’t cry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He stroked her back in circular motions. “You know I’m a proud man. I don’t like the idea of anyone other than me bringing a smile to those beautiful lips.”
Olivia buried her head against his neck and tried not to breathe in the scent of his overpowering cologne. Soon, Liv. Soon you’ll be free of him.
At the sound of a knock, Vince released her, and she almost keeled over in relief. He patted her knee as a signal for her to rise, then turned to the door as another one of his bodyguards entered the office.
“Cora’s waiting to see you, boss.”
“Good, send her in. And walk my girl out to the car, Mikey.”
“Yes, boss.”
As her heartbeat reverted to a normal tempo, Olivia followed Mikey downstairs, waving good-bye to a few members of the waitstaff. Mikey stuck close as he escorted her to the parking lot, and despite the uneasiness that Vince’s guard evoked in her, she appreciated his presence. Each time she walked across this parking lot, the memories hit her hard and fast.
The pain shooting through her scalp as the customer dragged her by the hair. The odor of garbage and urine in that dark alley. The cold steel pressed against her flesh.
Scream and I’ll slash your throat.
Gulping, she banished the grisly images and followed Mikey to her car. Gone was her rusty old Impala—after the attack, Vince had given her a brand-new BMW with heavily tinted windows. Every time she drove the car, she felt like vomiting.
“Have a good night, Liv,” Mikey said curtly.
“You too,” she murmured.
He waited until she was safely in the driver’s seat before stalking back to the club. Olivia’s hands shook as she stuck the key in the ignition. God, that had been close. Handling Vince Angelo was like walking a tightrope; one misstep and she risked taking a tumble—and there was no net to catch her. Fortunately, tomorrow was her day off, and she couldn’t wait for the reprieve. Vince never bothered her on her nights off—it was almost as if he forgot she existed once she left the vicinity of the club. Out of sight, out of mind—and thank God for that. It only added fuel to her hope that he’d forget about her once she left New York. He had to.
Yet as she drove away from the club, she had to wonder, what if he didn’t? What if she ran, and he came after her?
What if she could never be rid of him?
* * *
Vince Angelo prided himself on being a patient man, but it was getting harder and harder not to claim the woman he’d loved for nearly a year now. A tender expression graced his face as he watched Olivia leave with Mikey. Olivia. Even her name was elegant, as elegant as the beauty it belonged to. She’d stolen his heart the day she’d interviewed for the dancing position. Even back then he’d known she was different. Special. Worthy.
And that worth was the only reason he’d held back for so long. Women like Olivia Taylor deserved to be respected, worshipped. A more brutish man would have just taken her, but Vince was no brute. He was a perfect gentleman, just as Olivia was a perfect lady.
Rage bubbled in his gut as he remembered what the punk in the alley had done to her. Some women deserved to be raped, some even asked for it, but the mere notion of anyone taking his Olivia by force made him want to shoot something. Yet something beautiful had stemmed from that ugly night. Olivia had finally opened her heart to him. Sure, she’d put up some resistance at first, reluctant to let him in. She hadn’t wanted preferential treatment, or to trigger the other girls’ jealousy by dating the boss, but he’d worked his magic and eventually she’d come around. Realized just how much she needed him.
“You wanted to see me?”
Cora’s hesitant voice drew him out of his reverie. He beckoned for the redhead to sit on the chair in front of his desk. After she was settled, he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “I’m sending you to dance at a private party tonight.”
As he’d expected, Cora’s fair face turned an annoying shade of gray. “But . . . you said I wouldn’t have to do that again. You know what happened last time, Vince.”
He waved a careless hand. “That was unfortunate, yes, but this is different. The customer who requested you is an important client and a distinguished businessman.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I . . . don’t know. I don’t know if I can find a babysitter for Katie on such short notice.”
“Doesn’t your mother watch the kid for you?”
“Yeah, but Mom has to work the graveyard shift tonight.” She nibbled on her lip some more.
“Tell her to call in sick. You can give her twice what she’ll make tonight out of your earnings. Two G’s, babe. Two fucking grand for an hour of dancing.” Vince grinned. “Olivia only got a grand when she danced for him last month.”
Cora lifted her head, her pale blue eyes flickering with indecision. “You sent Olivia to him?”
“I told you, he’s a good guy.”
The girl went silent again, raising Vince’s hackles. You’d think she’d be a bit more grateful, the little bitch. He’d hired her when no other club would—B-cups weren’t that popular with the customers, after all—and he’d kept her on even after she’d completely fucked up several performances. Well, if he was being honest, he’d kept her on only because Cora had been the one to refer Olivia to him. But still. He could have fired the stupid twit a hundred times over.
“Okay,” she agreed, pushing strands of hair out of her eyes. “I’ll do it.”
“Great. Go find Tony—he’ll drive you to the client’s hotel.”
After Cora left the office, Vince reached for the phone on his desk and punched in a number. “Tony,” he barked when his bodyguard answered. “Cora’s on her way down. I want you to give her something to relax her. Can’t have her sobbing like a fucking newborn again. De Luca’s guests were very insulted the last time.” His tone hardened. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Chapter 3
“So, her name’s Olivia Taylor. Twenty-five years old, born in Arlington, Virginia.” Holden McCall closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table, resuming his recitation from memory. “Her father, Eddie, was a marine. He died in a car accident when Olivia was ten—going way over the speed limit, lost control of the car, and slammed into a telephone pole. The mother, Kathleen, was a teacher, moved them to Brooklyn when Taylor was twelve.”
Luke waved his hand. “Can you skip to the relevant shit?”
&n
bsp; Holden shot him a menacing scowl. For a moment there the man resembled Morgan, their prickly, unsmiling boss, mercenary extraordinaire. Not surprising. Holden was as serious as the boss, a black-haired man with intense charcoal gray eyes that rivaled Morgan’s intense blue ones. He was older than most of the guys too, late thirties or so, and the only one who wore a wedding ring. Luke had yet to meet Holden’s wife, Beth, but it was clear her husband worshipped the ground she walked on.
It was also clear that Holden didn’t appreciate being interrupted, so Luke decided to back off. “Sorry. Continue,” he mumbled.
Along with possessing the most impressive set of hacking skills on the planet, Holden also had a photographic memory, and he was apparently determined to give them a play-by-play account of Olivia Taylor’s life.
The name lingered in Luke’s mind like a woman’s perfume. Olivia Taylor. He had to admit, he liked it a lot better than Livy Lovelace. And he found himself liking her even more as Holden continued spitting out details.
“Mom taught junior high at a private school in New York. Held the job for four years, until she was diagnosed with breast cancer.” Holden’s voice grew serious. “She had a mastectomy—Taylor was sixteen at the time. She dropped out of high school during her junior year and got a job at a fast-food joint to help out her mother.”
“The mom didn’t get any assistance from the marine corps?” Trevor piped up from his perch on the other couch.
“I’m still looking into that. All I know is that the mom used the life insurance to pay her medical bills. I haven’t finished following the financial trail yet, but it looks like the Taylors hit some tough times. Eddie Taylor made several bad investments, then the house in Virginia burned down—”
“Arson?” Luke asked, furrowing his brow.
“Electrical issue. Apparently an electrician told Eddie Taylor in no uncertain terms that the place needed to be rewired, but he ignored the advice. Insurance wouldn’t pay up since the homeowner had neglected to fix the problem. Anyway, that’s irrelevant. So the family was broke, Kathleen had breast cancer . . .”
“And Olivia dropped out of school to help her mom,” Luke said, hoping the others couldn’t hear the crack in his voice. What was it about that woman that got him feeling all gooey inside? She was a stripper, for fuck’s sake.
And a pre-law student.
Fluent in French.
Drop-dead gorgeous . . .
“Kathleen went into remission after the surgery, and Olivia went back to school,” Holden continued. “She was a semester from graduating when the cancer returned.”
Luke ignored the ache in his heart.
“Kathleen’s remaining breast was removed. Olivia held three jobs to pay a second round of hospital bills. She got her G.E.D., applied to NYU.” Holden sighed. “Thirteen months ago, Kathleen’s cancer made an appearance for a third time.”
Trevor let out a soft whistle. “Shit, the mom is one tough broad. Double mastectomy, twice out of remission, and still hanging on.”
“And in remission for a third time now,” Holden said, “according to the hospital records I hacked into. They got the good news a few days ago.”
Smothering an impatient groan, Luke reached for the Starbucks cup on the table and took a long swig of coffee. “When did she start stripping?”
“A year ago.” Holden shrugged. “She was waitressing at the time, but I’m guessing on her wages she couldn’t afford tuition and a new round of medical bills.”
“What’s her connection to Angelo?” Trevor asked.
“I’ll let Morgan tell you that part.” Holden was already punching a number into his cell phone. He placed the phone in the center of the table, and a moment later, Morgan’s commanding voice boomed out of the speaker.
As usual, Morgan got right to business. “So my informant just phoned in—”
“How’s my dog?” Luke interrupted, earning himself an annoyed frown from Trevor.
But the boss just chuckled. “Busy. Abby’s teaching him some new tricks.”
“What? No. Get Bear away from her. My dog is not an assassin.”
Morgan’s tone turned sarcastic. “She’s making more progress with that mutt than you hacks are with this gig.” There was a soft expletive. “Anyway, you were right to suspect the dancer. Our source tells me that Olivia Taylor is Vince Angelo’s girl.”
The blast of jealousy that hit Luke in the chest was most certainly unwelcome. He couldn’t help it, though. The thought of that gel-haired slimeball putting his hands all over Olivia’s delectable curves made him want to hit something.
“They don’t see much of each other out of the club,” Morgan added, sounding perplexed. “Can’t figure that one out. But apparently she spends a lot of time in his office, and my source says she glimpsed them kissing once. He also bought her a car, a shiny new Beemer.”
“So if we want to get to Angelo, it might be worthwhile to do it through Olivia Taylor,” Trevor mused.
“Look, it’s been six days and we’ve got no leads on Dane’s whereabouts,” Morgan said, his voice hard. “At this point, I don’t care what it takes to get the fucking job done. So it’s your show, Luke. Go back in and pump Taylor for information, see if she knows anything about Dane, if she saw him at the club, heard his name mentioned.”
“That won’t happen,” Luke answered. “She won’t talk to me, not at the club, anyway. To her, I’m just another horny loser who wants to see her tits. Only way she’ll trust me is if she sees me as a normal guy. A guy she could go on a date with.”
Morgan’s sigh slid out of the speakers. “If that’s the case, I should have sent Ethan.”
The boss had a point—Ethan Hayes was the boy next door; he practically oozed “normal guy.” But the idea of Ethan spending time with his goddess made Luke grind his teeth.
“I can get close to her,” he said in a steely voice. “But I’ll need to make contact outside the club.”
“Fine. Do it.” Morgan’s curse reverberated through the room. “Just find the missing agent so we can wash our hands of this bullshit. Government agencies are a total bitch to deal with.”
“Any progress on the mole angle?” Trevor spoke up.
“The DEA can find their own moles” was Morgan’s harsh response. “We were contracted to find out what happened to Dane. That’s our focus.”
“And the girl on the inside—she came up with nothing in regards to Dane?” Trevor asked with a frown.
“She says there’s no trace of him, but there are areas in the club that are restricted to her.”
“How did you get someone in place so fast, anyway?”
“I have my ways.” A typically vague answer from the boss. “Anyway, she hasn’t seen Dane. He might be there.” Morgan paused. “Or he might not.”
Gee, how fucking encouraging. Luke stifled another groan, once again wishing they’d never taken this job. As far as he was concerned, this was the DEA’s mess to clean up. They were the ones who’d sent in an undercover agent to gather intel on Ric De Luca’s drug-smuggling rackets. Luke was no Mafia expert, but he was pretty sure the Mob didn’t take kindly to strangers sticking their noses into its business. Apparently this had been a deep-cover job; Carter Dane had been cozying up to Vince Angelo for more than a year. But Angelo worked for De Luca, and according to the dossier they’d compiled, Ric De Luca possessed razor-sharp intelligence. He’d sniff out a rat in a heartbeat, no doubt about that.
Which meant that Carter Dane was probably dead. Or who knew, maybe his cover had been so good and he was now so deep in De Luca’s organization that he couldn’t get out. The agent had broken off contact two months ago. The DEA had tried handling the matter on their own before finally admitting defeat and hiring Morgan’s team last week, but Luke and the guys weren’t making any damn headway either.
“If Olivia Taylor knows something about Dane, I’ll get it out of her,” he announced.
“Good.” Morgan hung up without another word. Words like hello
and good-bye weren’t part of his vocabulary.
Reaching for his coffee, Luke drained the cup and glanced at Trevor. “Tomorrow I start tailing her.”
The other man nodded. “The rest of us will keep watching the club.” He gave a wry smile. “And trying not to rip out our hair from boredom.”
“Weren’t you the one who gave me a whole lecture about how not every mission was gonna be exciting? Hypocrite.”
Trevor sighed. “That I am. You were right. This sucks.”
Not anymore, Luke almost said. But he bit his tongue. It was probably best if he didn’t let the others know just how interesting this job had become.
* * *
“Liv?”
Olivia quit tiptoeing through the bedroom when she heard her mother’s voice. She’d been trying not to wake her mom as she’d gathered the clothing strewn on the weathered hardwood floor, but now she approached the bed, putting down the laundry bag and sitting on the edge of the mattress. She took her mother’s hand and squeezed it. Tried not to cringe when she noticed the skinny arms poking out of Kathleen’s sleeveless white nightgown.
“I was just getting the laundry,” Olivia said. “You should go back to sleep. You look exhausted.”
The chemo had really taken its toll on Kathleen Taylor this time. Her bald head looked painfully grotesque, especially now that it was covered with brown stubble as her hair began to grow back. Her cheeks were hollow, green eyes sunken in her skull. And so thin. So frail. It was hard to believe that the woman lying in this bed was only forty-six years old. She looked two decades older, a remnant of the vibrant, strong woman Olivia remembered from her childhood.
But she was alive. That was all that mattered. Her mom was the only family she had, the only person she could depend on, and seeing her like this made Olivia want to cry.
She’s in remission, came a gentle reminder.
Yeah. And maybe for once—God, just once—she’d stay that way.
“I’m tired of being cooped up inside,” Kathleen said in a weary voice. “I was thinking of taking a walk today.”
Olivia tightened her grip on her mom’s hand. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said firmly. “Right now, you need to recover your strength. These last treatments were stronger than the others, all that poison being pumped into your body. Dr. Hopkins said you can’t overdo it.”