Face of Danger

  And out. “You’re from L.A., aren’t you? Your family’s there?”

  “Just my dad, and he’s getting on. I’m the only kid around to help, since my brother lives in Europe and is a complete waste of a human.”

  She snorted softly. “Nice.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s true.”

  He guided her toward the snack shack. “Tell me about the L.A. job.”

  “No, thanks. I try to avoid your ridicule whenever possible.”

  “I won’t ridicule you.” He walked up to the window. “Want a Coke?”

  “Cherry slurpy.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And you make fun of me.”

  “See? Ridicule because I want a slurpy.”

  “Vivi, you’re thirty-one years old.”

  “Right. So make it a vodka slurpy and meet me at that table.” She walked to an empty round table with matching cement benches and sat down. There, she positioned herself to watch Lang buy their drinks.

  And think about him moving to Los Angeles.

  Lang leaving was a good thing, she told herself, but she couldn’t deny the pressure on her heart. She would be able to work with another ASAC, someone who didn’t wreck her balance and make her freaking heart stutter every time his ID showed up on her phone. Like the man said, she was thirty-one years old and way past the time of teenage crushes.

  But look at him. Even his doofus Izod shirt looked… hot. And as much as she loathed a pair of khaki Dockers, his covered a world-class backside and had just enough of a bulge in the front to send her imagination into overdrive and make her little vibrator seem inadequate.

  Sunlight pouring over him, he was all goodness and strength. The gold flecks in his eyes and hair looked like God had dipped him in bronze when he was born. The sun highlighted the sharp angle of his cheekbone and jaw and the fullness of a mouth that rarely smiled, but when it did, stupid things happened in her lower half.

  She blew out a shaky breath. So, yeah. L.A. Good move for everyone.

  He strolled over with the drinks, his eyes locking on her as if he knew what she was thinking. Thank God that was impossible, because Lord knows if he had even an inkling of the direction her thoughts took when she looked at him he’d laugh himself silly. She was a colleague, a consultant, a friend at best. Nothing more to him. Nothing would be more humiliating than him knowing just how many times she’d fantasized about tearing off that golf shirt. With her teeth.

  “Interesting hairstyle,” he said, placing the drinks on the table. “Even for you.”

  Yeah. They were most definitely not on the same wavelength.

  “Is this your way of sweet-talking information about my new client out of me? So effective.” She took the slurpy and tore the paper off the top of the straw, turning it around to blow the wrapper in his face.

  He snapped it midair with one lightning-fast hand. “You know you want to tell me.” He leaned over the table. “Just give in to it, Vivi.”

  Her nether regions took another thrill ride.

  “Give me one good reason why I should tell you anything.”

  “Because,” he said, lowering his voice to that I-call-the-shots tone she found maddening and sexy and, every once in a while, a little scary, “I want to know.”

  And just like that, she capitulated. No man had ever had that effect on her. Ever.

  When Vivi Angelino closed her mouth over a wide straw and sucked hard enough to hollow her delicate cheeks, Colton Lang almost got a boner.

  Almost.

  The state of damn-near-hard was status quo around this woman, so in the few months he’d been sending consulting jobs to her firm, Colt had learned a couple of tricks to ensure that “almost” didn’t become “obvious.”

  Like focusing on her outlandish black hair, made even more so today by the helmet and what appeared to be yesterday’s hair gel. Or he’d let his gaze settle on the diamond dot in the side of her nose, concentrating on how much that puncture had to hurt instead of how it would feel to run his tongue over the stone.

  Or he’d simply remind himself that this skateboard-riding, sneaker-wearing, guitar-playing tomboy happened to have some of the best investigative instincts around, and if he wanted to keep the Guardian Angelinos in his back pocket for certain jobs, acting on a mindless surge of blood to his dick would be not only unprofessional, but also foolish.

  That was usually enough to quell the erection. Sometimes. Today, finding her in this skate park with a little sheen of perspiration making her pixie-like features glisten and her coffee-brown eyes spark with unexpected interest, the boner might win this battle.

  But look at that outfit, Colt. A long-sleeved cotton T-shirt that dangled off her narrow frame and faded green cargo pants frayed at the cuffs. He could never be attracted to a woman who cared so little about her appearance that she rolled around Boston dressed like she’d shopped at Goodwill.

  He preferred a woman who looked like a woman, who wore a little makeup, had hair falling to her shoulders, and maybe strolled—not rolled—through a park in a pretty sundress. He’d bet his bottom dollar she didn’t own a dress.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” she said after swallowing. “But I swear to God, Lang, don’t try to talk me out of it, because I want this job.”

  “What job?”

  “You’ve heard about the Red Carpet Killer, of course.”

  He held his Coke, frozen midway to his mouth. “You don’t buy that malarkey, do you?”

  She smiled. “Lang, malarkey hasn’t been sold for forty years. Can you get with this century? And do you really think two Oscar-winning actresses being killed in two consecutive years, weeks after winning, isn’t more than simple coincidence?”

  “One was an overdose, one was an accident. No matching MO, no serial killer. But I do know there’s an FBI task force out of L.A. with an eye on the possibility of a copycat killer.”

  “Exactly.” She pointed at him. “I don’t happen to think there’s a serial killer, but I do know there are five women in Hollywood who are scared spitless right now. They are ramping up security like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You think they’re going to hire your firm for protection?” He tried not to scoff, he really did. But it was ludicrous. “A brand-new firm made up of an extended family of renegade Angelinos and Rossi cousins?”

  No surprise, her espresso eyes narrowed in disgust. “We are not renegades, for God’s sake. I’m a former investigative journalist, in case you forgot, so getting a PI license was a natural move. Zach is a former Army Ranger. And, yeah, our core employee base happens to be a few cousins my brother and I were raised with—”

  “Don’t forget Uncle Nino, providing pasta and daily encouragement.”

  “Don’t knock my Nino,” she shot back. “And, for your information, we’re interviewing protection and security specialists, including some highly qualified bodyguards. The Guardian Angelinos are experiencing a growth spurt.”

  He angled his head in acknowledgment. “I know that, Vivi, especially since I keep throwing FBI consulting jobs at you. I just think the actresses who are worried about being victims of a curse or a killer will hire the biggest and best in the protection industry.”

  “Maybe.” She took another drink, her eyes dancing with some untold secret. “What do you think of Cara Ferrari?”

  “I think I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”

  She looked skyward with a loud tsk. “I meant of her chances to win.”

  “I don’t follow Hollywood too closely, but I did see that remake of Now, Voyager. My opinion? She was too melodramatic.”

  “Fortunately, your opinion doesn’t matter. She’s got a chance.” She gave him a slow smile, revealing that tiny chip on her front tooth. God, he’d thought about licking that, too. “So I think I have a chance, too.”

  He just shook his head, not following, but maybe because his body was betraying him again.

  “Look at me,” she demanded, leaning back to prop her han
ds on her hips and cock her head to one side.

  “I’m looking.” That was the problem. She was so damn cute he forgot what they were talking about.

  “Look, Lang.”

  At what? The way her position pulled the T-shirt just tight enough to outline her breasts? They weren’t big but perky and sweet, just as spunky as she was and, well, even on Vivi some things were feminine. Was that what she wanted him to look at? Because if he eyed them any longer, his hard-on was poised to make a reappearance.

  “Don’t you see the resemblance?” She turned her face to give him a profile, lifting her chin, closing her eyes, and dropping her head back in a classic movie-star pose. His gaze drifted over her throat which was—just another fucking thing he wanted to lick.

  Jesus, Colt. Get a grip.

  She spun her face around and for one insane second he thought she’d read his mind.

  “I look exactly like Cara Ferrari,” she insisted.

  He let out a soft hoot of laughter. “Are you as stoned as half these other skaters?”

  She scowled at him. “Real skaters don’t get high—posers do. And look at this face,” she demanded, pointing to her cheeks with two index fingers. “Is this not Cara Ferrari’s twin sister?”

  He chuckled again. “Speaking of posers.”

  “Lang, damn it.” Frustration heightened her color, making her even cuter. “Everyone says I look like her. I mean if my hair were longer and I—you know, had some makeup on.”

  “Like a truckload.”

  “I get stopped and asked if I’m Cara Ferrari all the time,” she insisted.

  “And you believe what drunks say to you in bars?”

  “Jeez, you’re as bad as my cousins. Quit teasing me and take this seriously.”

  He worked his face into the most humorless expression he had, and he had many. “Cara Ferrari is a movie star, Vivi.”

  “So?”

  How deep was she going to let him dig himself? “I mean, she’s a gorgeous icon….”

  Deep.

  “Not that you’re not attractive in your own way.” This was getting worse, but on he went. “It’s just that she’s all glitz and glamour and gloss and you’re…” Not.

  “I can glam up.”

  Now that, he’d like to see. “All right,” he relented, not wanting to hurt her. He squinted at her, and made a camera viewing box with his fingers. “Yeah, I can see the similarity. You both have dark hair and dark eyes.”

  She swiped his hands down. “Never mind, Lang. I should have known you couldn’t think outside the box. You’re all linear, trapped by your rules and the way things are supposed to be done. I shouldn’t ever dream that you might approach something creatively. That would just be asking too much from your structured, formulaic, uninspired brain.”

  All right, he deserved that after the insults he’d just heaped on her, but something was really off in this conversation, even for them. “What the hell are you getting at, Vivi?”

  “A body double.”

  This time he just stared at her for a minute. “You’re not serious.”

  She thumped her fist on the table. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “C’mon, Lang, it’s the oldest form of security in the world. Put a fake—a professional fake—in her shoes until the killer is caught. If there even is a killer, which I don’t happen to think there is. But, still, we bait with a decoy and—”

  “Stop it,” he said, his voice low and harsh, not having to pretend seriousness at all now. “All kidding aside, you’d need an extreme makeover to pass as Cara Ferrari.”

  “Not from a distance.”

  “A job like that should go to a trained professional, not an outside consultant. And good luck getting to Cara Ferrari. It’s easier to get an appointment with the President.”

  A flicker of arrogance crossed her face. “Maybe I already have.”

  “What? How?”

  She shrugged. “What do they say—everyone is six degrees of separation from someone.”

  “You are not six degrees of anything from Cara Ferrari.” Was she?

  She picked up her drink and then set it down again. “Forget it, Lang. You’re right, she did suck in Now, Voyager. She should stick to the trashy stuff that made her real money.”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed, ignoring her sarcasm. “Like one of her really early B movies, the one where she played the undercover cop working as a stripper? I liked that.”

  “Of course you did. What man doesn’t love the raw acting talent it takes for a woman to use her mouth to unzip thigh-high boots during a lap dance?”

  “You have to admit that was a memorable scene.”

  “Yeah, that took mad acting skills.”

  “And coordination,” he agreed. “Just think how many college boys she made happy.”

  “Were you one of them, Lang?”

  “Please. I was in the FBI Academy when that movie came out.” Still, he fought a smile. “But it was a pretty sexy lap dance. Although, I guess that’s redundant.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Can we just forget we had this conversation? It’s moot anyway. They say Kimberly Horne has the Oscar in the bag.”

  He relaxed a little. “Vivi, you can’t seriously think you could convince Cara Ferrari to let you be her for however long it takes for this Red Carpet Killer brouhaha to die down. I think you should forget this idea completely.”

  “Brouhaha.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed her drink. “I don’t care what you think.”

  He didn’t respond and she sucked the straw again, looking up at him with her wide eyes—kind of exactly like she’d look up from a blow job.

  Goddamn his dancing dick.

  “Just forget it,” he said, as much to his disobedient organ as to his unintentionally sexy consultant. “It’s a cute idea, but—”

  “Fuck you, Lang.”

  “Sorry, I know you hate anything cute.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  Evidently not. “Get what?”

  “What I’m trying to do with this business my brother and I started.”

  “How can you say that?” He pushed his drink aside to move closer to Vivi. “I believe in your business. Hell, if I’m not careful, my boss is going to start questioning just why I’ve given you—what, four or five assignments in as many months? We’re supposed to spread the outsourcing wealth, not focus on one firm.”

  She just shook her head. “This isn’t about you and your office. This is about me and my office.”

  “Seriously, Vivi. You only started this business last fall. What do you expect?”

  “Greatness,” she replied without pause. “There are companies doing what mine does and making millions. They’ve got multiple offices and hundreds of investigators and bodyguards and security specialists on their payroll.”

  “And that’s what you want?” Somehow, the dream of big business just didn’t fit this skater chick. The raw ambition, like so many things about Vivi, surprised him.

  “I always want to be the best,” she told him. “I don’t like to do things half-assed.”

  “I respect that, but”—he placed both his hands over hers, damning the electrical charge he got every time his skin made contact with hers—“you’re not starting with Cara and your body-double idea.”

  She snapped her hands away. “You can’t tell me what to do, Lang. No one can.”

  Obviously.

  “Give me one good reason why not, other than the fact that I don’t look like a movie star, as you’ve pointed out with great relish and candor.”

  “What if there really is a Red Carpet Killer? Or a copycat? It’s dangerous.”

  “My job is dangerous,” she replied. “Your job is dangerous. That’s the life we’ve chosen. If we get the assignment, Zach has three excellent bodyguards who can come stay with me twenty-four/seven.”

  Three guys with her twenty-four/seven? Unfamiliar and ugly jealousy rolled through
him. “Doesn’t matter. With all the nutcases out there, it’s too risky.”

  She pushed back with a disgusted breath. “You are so… careful.”

  “You say that like it’s a detriment. I’m an FBI agent, Vivi. Cautious is my middle name. And if you’re going to make it in the security consulting business, you’d do well to adopt the same one.”

  “Well, my middle name is Belladonna,” she informed him.

  “A poison.”

  “ ‘Beautiful woman’ in Italian,” she corrected him, then raised a palm to stop his response. “Don’t. You’ve insulted me enough for one day. My point is, cautious doesn’t always work in business, Lang.”

  “It does in the security business.” Three bodyguards? Shit, he hated that.

  “Nobody gets ahead playing it safe. It’s like that half-pipe over there.” She tipped her head to the concrete slopes where skaters flew and flipped. And fell on their asses. “You gotta go big or go down.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve gone big and gone down hard.” No, he hadn’t gone down. The one and only woman he’d ever loved had gone down. All the way down. Six-feet-under down.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Just don’t take crazy risks, Vivi.”

  “Can’t help it—that’s how I roll.” She got up, kicked her board out from under the table, and hopped on it. “I’m going to be late for the Rossi family Sunday dinner if I don’t leave now. See ya, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Colton Cautious Lang.”

  “Bye, Private Investigator Viviana Poison Angelino.”

  She untied a ratty sweatshirt and pulled it over her head, then tugged on her helmet. “Thanks for the slurpy and the advice.”

  She zipped off, giving him a perfect shot of her ass as she kicked into high speed.

  There went his cock again.

  To make the blood flow north to his brain, he forced himself to think about her stupid, foolish, crazy idea. Okay, it wasn’t entirely stupid, but the last time he took a risk like that, he’d lost everything.

  Never again.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lang had gotten one thing right: Vivi wasn’t six degrees from Cara Ferrari. She was three. Her cousin Nicki had gone to shrink graduate school with a guy who was the brother of Cara’s stylist, Bridget McKeever, who’d agreed to help arrange a meeting because the brother convinced the stylist that Cara should at least talk to Vivi.