Black and Blue

Nine

I’M IN SO MUCH trouble.

Before, Evie had only been able to speculate about Blue’s sexual prowess. She’d told herself that all the women flocking to him were fools, and his skill completely overrated.

Now she knew better.

His skills were seriously underrated. He hadn’t just kissed her. He’d screwed the hell out of her mouth. And all the while, waves of his power had cascaded over her, heating her, making it feel like a thousand hands were concentrated on her naughty bits.

She’d never been so swept up in a moment, or so lost in sensation.

How close she’d come to letting him take her in public, out in the open, for anyone and everyone to see. How close she’d come to being used—and discarded.

I’m not going to be another conquest. I’m not!

From now on, she would be more careful around him. Although . . . maybe she wouldn’t have to be.

Getting involved with you is the last thing I want to do, he’d said, and even though she’d agreed with the sentiment, the words had still managed to cut at her.

How pathetic am I? she thought. I can’t even get the world’s most promiscuous man to want me unless he’s desperate to release a little power.

Whatever. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Michael, John, and Solo. She wouldn’t forget again. And if she did, she might just give herself a lobotomy.

While Evie set up an external perimeter around the rubble of Michael’s decimated house, creating invisible walls that would keep everyone and everything out, including prying eyes, Blue tossed charred boards out of the way by using his power, clearing the biggest pieces of debris before picking through the section where Fry Guy had tried to cook him for dinner.

He wished he could use his favorite ability. Or rather, he wished he could use a tweaked version of his favorite ability. Blue could stand in one location, any location, and force the last ten minutes to replay. He could watch everything that had transpired, like a movie unfolding across a television screen, whether he’d first borne witness or not. But the explosion had happened over a week ago, too far in the past for this capability.

There was another talent he could use here, however. One he’d always considered useless. An azure glow began to seep from the pores in his hand, and he ran his palm over bits and pieces of scorched wood, metal, and paper, the char disintegrating to reveal whatever was hidden beneath.

The glow could clean anything—except his dirty thoughts. His desire for Evie hadn’t faded in the silence of the drive. Had only grown.

He was more appalled by the knowledge with every second that passed. He was also extremely ticked.

How had he gone from total dislike of her to this . . . seeming obsession?

“Cool trick,” she said, coming up beside him.

He steeled himself against her honey-almond scent, saying, “Just one of many.”

She placed her hand at her heart. “So humble.”

“I seem to recall your aversion to lies. Or has that changed?”

Ignoring the question, she said, “What, exactly, is it that you think we’re going to find?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Ah. This is a we’ll-know-it-when-we-see-it mission.”

“Yes. Now zip it and help.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

The response was unexpected—where was her anger?—and he barely stifled his laughter. There’d never be a dull moment with this girl, that was for sure.

She worked alongside him for ten . . . twenty minutes without a word, but his awareness of her never dissipated. There was something about the grace of her movements that continually drew his eye.

Why did she have to be Michael’s daughter?

“Just say whatever’s on your mind,” she finally growled, her good humor gone. “I don’t like the way you’re watching me.”

Noticed, had she? “And how am I watching you?”

“As if you’d like to eat me.”

I would. I so would. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then again for dessert. “Why don’t you do us both a solid and get over yourself, butter buns.” The best defense was a good offense and all that jazz.

“Butter buns? That’s the worst of the lot!” She threw a piece of wood at his head.

He stopped it midway with only a slight thread of power, letting it hover a moment before he sent it flying to the side. Of course, she used his distraction against him and threw another. This one pelted him in the chest, nearly deflating his lungs.

“Do that again,” he growled. “I dare you.”

“Dare accepted.” She did it again.

Like the first time, he stopped it and sent it flying. “I’m warning you, Evie.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you going to do to me, huh?”

She was panting, he realized, and so was he. They were staring at each other, just as they’d done after the explosion, looking for an outlet for their anger . . . and awareness of each other. Only, this time nothing had happened to provoke such a response. If they kissed, they would only have themselves to blame.

He almost didn’t care. His mouth watered for her. His hands ached for her.

“Never mind.” Her cheeks flushed as she stomped away from him. He thought he heard her mutter the word lobotomy. “We’re here for a reason. Let’s concentrate.”

How aggravating that Evie Black had become the voice of reason in their relationship.

“Miracle of miracles, you’re right.” He returned his attention to the pile of ash, and his gaze snagged on a small cigarette lighter. The metal had melted, but after a quick cleanup the unique logo became visible. A naked blonde straddled a male that was half white knight, half black unicorn.

The logo represented the Lucky Horn. A strip club he may or may not have visited . . . countless times.

Was it Michael’s lighter? Or could it belong to Fry Guy?

“Ever seen this before?” he asked, holding it up for Evie’s inspection.

She looked it over, shook her head. “No. And to my knowledge, Michael has never visited the Lucky Horn.”

How’d she know the logo?

“Like he’d really tell you if he had,” Blue quipped.

“Like he wouldn’t. He doesn’t think of me as a daughter but as an agent. Well, as a doctor now.”

Threads of deep inner pain stroked over him, cold and stinging. They’d come from her, he realized. When would he stop being astonished by that? “What are you talking about? Of course he thinks of you as a daughter. He’s always spoiled you rotten, letting you get away with crap he would have killed other agents for.” And it had always bothered Blue, though he couldn’t seem to work up any kind of indignation at that particular moment.

Her expression turned pensive as she mulled over his words. A few seconds later she said, “Why did he leave me in Westminster with Mum, then? Why did he visit me so rarely?”

She thought . . . what? That Michael had never really loved her? Ouch.

But she couldn’t be more wrong. Hurt was coloring all of her memories.

He had his own experience with that. He couldn’t remember his biological parents, only his three older brothers and two older sisters. They’d lived on the streets, his brothers stealing every scrap of food and clothing, and his sisters . . . he didn’t want to think about what they’d done. But then they all got sick, dying one by one, until, at the age of four, Blue was on his own. To survive, he ate out of trash cans.

A sweet old homeless man noticed him and tried to take care of him for a while. But it wasn’t long before Blue’s pretty face drew the notice of the wrong kind of people. The homeless man was stabbed and killed, and Blue shoved into a car.

That’s when power first bonded with him and activated.

Frantic, scared, he somehow caused the car to levitate and crash into a building. And when the survivors tried to drag him out, he caused them to levitate and crash into the building. Alone once again, he hid in the shadows.

Michael found him two days later.

After feeding him, cleaning him, and clothing him, Michael ensured that Blue was given to a good home. One with lots of children, so that he would have brothers and sisters again.

At first, the parents included him in the family meals. He protested, wanting to be alone with his grief, and they finally stopped asking, allowing him to remain in his room. It was then that Blue decided they didn’t really like him, and that they were glad to be rid of him.

After that, every interaction was strained.

Looking back, without the pain of loss, he could see the couple had only been trying to help, doing everything possible to let him heal.

“Why don’t you ask Michael why he did what he did the next time you see him?” Blue said, using his gentlest tone. “The answer might surprise you.”

Dark eyes probed him, as if searching for answers he couldn’t give her. She offered him a small, sweet smile. “I will. Thank you.”

“Welcome.” He got back to business before he did something stupid, like pull her into his arms. “We need to find out everything we can about the Lucky Horn. If the lighter belongs to Fry Guy instead of Michael, we might be able to ID him.”

“I’m assuming Fry Guy is the man who tried to torch you.”

“Yes. If we can ID him, we can link him to friends. Friends who might know where Michael, John, and Solo are.”

She heaved a sigh of dread. “I have a feeling that includes a personal field trip.”

Blue nodded, astounded by the amount of dread building inside him. For once, he had no desire to be pawed by naked strippers. He just wanted—

Nothing.

“Let’s go,” he snapped.

Five hours later, Evie invaded the Lucky Horn, claiming a table just to the side of the stage.

Blue was the club’s newest stripper.

They’d found out the place was hiring, and he insisted she apply.

“Screw that,” she’d said. “You want someone on the inside. Therefore, you are responsible. I shake tail for no one. Besides, one of us has to pry information out of the patrons, and the more people look at your face, the more likely they are to recognize you. And let’s be honest, up on the stage, no one is going to be looking any higher than your groin.”

He’d only huffed and puffed for a few minutes. “Someone is trying to either abduct you or kill you. Meaning you need a disguise. What better disguise than stripper?”

Nice try. “Give me one hour and I’ll show you a better disguise.”

And she did!

Right now, her hair was so blond it was almost white, and streaked with pink. Her eyes were bright blue and her chest hugely inflated by a silicone-infused bra.

Blue had taken one look at her and shaken his head in disapproval. Disapproval she didn’t understand. No one would recognize her and she fit his preferred type of female.

But on top of the disapproval, he displayed zero hints of arousal. And the lack, well, it disappointed her.

Lo. Bot. Omy.

Even with his scar and piercings, Blue was hired at first sight. No one had a body quite like his. Cut from granite. No one could move quite like he did. Every action was a sensuous mating call.

Now, hoping she appeared awed by her surroundings, she scanned the club. Dark walls, dark carpet. Dim lighting, except onstage. At both sides of that stage, women dangled from wires, their naked bodies sparkling as they twisted and turned into different sexual positions. In the center, glitter rained from the ceiling, sticking to the exposed skin of the half-naked bumping, grinding brunette currently teasing the audience with the removal of her G-string.

One of the patrons shoved a bill in her box—and, no, box wasn’t a euphemism. Men weren’t allowed to touch the goods until they’d paid, stuffing their money inside an actual box at the edge of the stage. The bills disengaged the shock line, allowing the girl to stroll up to the patron and settle a high-heeled boot on his shoulder, giving him the perfect money shot.

A topless waitress arrived and asked for Evie’s drink order. “Beer in a bottle. Don’t pop the cap.” There was no reason to think anyone would try and poison her, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

The brunette finished her show, and a husky voice spilled from the intercom. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to introduce the newest addition to the Lucky Horn family. Give it up for the hard and horny . . . Jack Hammer!”

This was it! Unable to contain her excitement, Evie clapped her hands and bounced in her seat. Sometimes agenting had its perks.

The curtain at the back of the stage parted and out strode Blue, wearing nothing but a scowl and a pair of black leather underpants.

Blimey. She lost her breath. She’d expected to be amused by his situation, but she was inexplicably aroused. He had muscle stacked upon muscle. His skin was pale, like all Arcadians’, and yet, there was a shimmery golden undertone, as if he’d showered in fallen angel dust. He looked wild. Dangerous.

And, okay, quite livid.

The waitress arrived with the beer, and Evie waved her away. “You’re blocking my view.”

As always, power radiated from him. Did anyone else feel it?

He stood still as a statue as the music played. Someone booed. Someone else threw a chip at him. Gonna blow his cover.

“Let’s see your best moves, Mr. Hammer!” Evie put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Yeah, baby. Yeah! Show Momma what the good Lord gave you!”

Somehow he found her in the dark and glared. Then, from one moment to the next, the tone of the glare changed. From anger to anticipation.

Uh-oh. What just happened?

He sauntered in her direction, and her hands began to sweat. At the edge of the stage, he tugged a bill from the waist of the underpants—if some skank backstage put it there, I’m going to . . . nothing—and stuffed it in the hot box, lowering the shield.

He hopped off the stage. The crowd watched, awed.

Surely he wouldn’t close the distance between them.

He did.

Leaning into her, he braced his hands on the arms of her chair. “How about a lap dance, sugar plum?”

Bloody hell. Shivers cascaded down her spine.

“Your nipples just beaded for me. I’ll take that as a yes.”

No way he could tell. Her bra was far too thick.

“I can,” he said, as though reading her thoughts. “I can feel your reaction.”

Her eyes widened, and her response died as his hands encircled her waist. He lifted her to the tabletop, better aligning their bodies. He forced her legs to part and the apex of her thighs to cradle his—

Oh, bless me. His massive erection.

Then he danced. Slow and steady, grinding against her sweet spot. Ratcheting her desire to an earth-shattering level. A place where fires raged. She couldn’t stop her hands. They roamed over his chest, glided over the scar on his face, tangled in his hair.

If the patrons cheered or booed, she didn’t know it. She was utterly focused on the man in front of her, hyperaware of his every move. Of his power, stroking her with the mastery of a thousand hands. Of his scent in her nose, champagne and strawberries. Of his gaze, boring deep into hers—perhaps seeing into her soul. Of his erection, pressing where she needed him most, retreating, pressing again, and—oh, keep going, please. A moan escaped her. The pleasure . . . too much . . . not enough . . . Give me more. Give me everything. Eden was right. The day had come. Evie wanted some guy to give it to her good and hard.

Press, retreat. Press, retreat. Liquid heat pooled between her legs, the crease in her jeans just making everything worse. Press, retreat. Or better. Press, retreat. No, definitely worse.

Her head swam with the force of her arousal. A dangerous pressure built inside her, coiling, readying. If he kept going, he was going to make her come. Right there. In front of everyone.

Dismayed by the thought, she dug her nails into his bare chest. Felt the heat of his skin, and gave another moan.

“Don’t,” she whispered, panicked. “Please.”

Just like that, he stopped.

He was panting, his lips thinned and pulled taut against his perfect teeth.

He turned away from her and returned to the stage, quickly disappearing behind the curtain.

This is being more careful around him? her good sense screamed. Really? Stop threatening that lobotomy and actually do it!

Evie tore the cap from the beer and drained the contents. Then she signaled for another and drained it, too.

Once her body had calmed, she pretended to have a nice buzz going and tripped her way to a table of older gents who looked to be regulars, very familiar with the lay of the land. Over the next hour they hit on her and teased her about the we-swear-you-were-having-sex dance Jack Hammer had done with her. Trying not to blush like a stupid schoolgirl, she bought them several lap dances—not from Blue, because he was still backstage, probably searching the offices and cursing Evie’s very existence—and they finally stopped hitting on her, instead treating her like one of the guys. That’s when she paid for a round of drinks for everyone in the club.

Eventually, all of the patrons came over to thank her and ended up staying to talk. She learned far more than she’d hoped.

Mr. Gregory Star and his entourage visited the club at least twice a month, and they always migrated to the back to speak with Timothy Mercer, who had worked at the Lucky Horn for three years. Two weeks ago, Timothy just up and vanished. No one had seen or heard from him since, or had any idea what might have happened to him.

Star, thrown into the mix once again. No question, the man was involved in her father’s disappearance. It was just as certain that Timothy was the man who’d set Blue on fire.

Eager to verify this news with hard evidence, Evie excused herself under the guise of having to pee and stumbled away as though snockered, heading toward the backstage entrance. The moment she cleared the corner, out of everyone’s view, she dug a shielder out of her purse and threw it behind her, the tiny black device creating an invisible wall upon landing. Until she disabled it, only she and Blue would be able to bypass it, since they were the only ones with a scrambler on their phones, an app designed to disrupt the shielder’s signal.

She tripped her way toward the armed guard at the end of the hallway.

Frowning, he gripped the handle of his gun. “I suggest you turn around, ma’am. No one’s allowed in this section of the building.”

Ma’am? Did she really look like a ma’am?

Ma’ams had at least sixteen robo-cats, wore muumuus, and never took the rollers out of their hair.

Did he want to die?

She stopped in front of him, a familiar surge of excitement hitting her. Don’t you dare get used to this kind of work. It was a onetime gig. As soon as her father and his boys were found, as soon as Star was taken down, she was going back to her nice, normal life.

But honestly, the last time she’d experienced anything this high octane, she’d been on her last mission, and Claire had—

She locked those thoughts down.

“Is this not the bathroom?” she asked, making sure to slur her words.

“Turn. Around. Now. You won’t like what happens if you don’t.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to be so rude about it,” she grumbled—then rammed her knee into his groin.

With a strangled bellow he hunched over, struggling to breathe, and she lined up at his side to slam the back of her elbow into his mastoid process. His body went limp as his brain tissue rapidly compressed, and he collapsed onto the carpet, well and truly out for the count.

“Sorry, bloke, but you picked the wrong side. And you called me ma’am!”

She peeked through a crack in the door. Half-clad dancers sat in front of a row of vanity mirrors, checking their hair and makeup. No one paid a bit of attention to the entrance as she slipped inside the employees-only area.

To her right was a closed door with the name Timothy Mercer in the center. Brilliant. Evie strode forward and twisted the lock. It held. After a quick glance behind her—still good—she pulled the necessary tools from her purse and got to work.

“Hey, what are you doing?” a female snapped from behind her. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

Evie pasted a bright smile on her face before turning and facing the brunette who’d been Blue’s opening act. “Hi. I’m Chlamydia Jones, the new stripper. Hired only a few hours ago.” Too chirpy, Black. Dial it down a notch. “I was told to speak with Mr. Mercer.”

Green eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Mr. Mercer isn’t in.”

“Dang. That sucks.” I tried to do this the nice way. Evie had worn three rings, just in case. In the center of each, under a jewel, was a needle she’d loaded with poison of her own creation; they’d once been trademarks of her mission work. She thumbed the diamond from Wrath, her most-used toxin, and clasped the girl’s hands. “Can you please—”

“Ow,” Brunette said, just before yanking free to clutch her stomach.

“Are you all right?” Evie asked, faking concern.

The girl shook her head. As her skin turned a putrid shade of green, she ran as fast as her feet would carry her to the nearest receptacle, where she vomited the entire contents of her stomach . . . and maybe even the stomach itself.

Behind Evie, the door swung open, and a hard hand seized her arm, wrenching her backward. The moment she was inside the office, the door closed, sealing her inside. With Blue.

She recognized the hum of his power.

Slowly she pivoted. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, all hints of Mr. Hammer eradicated, and yet, as soon as their eyes met, there was a suspended moment where all she could remember was the feel of his erection rubbing between her legs, and the sharp, desperate need of her body.

All she could think was More.

“Stop staring and tell me what you’re doing back here,” he demanded.

O-kay. So he didn’t feel or think the same. Flushing, she said, “I came to give you a review. After a shaky start, you—”

“We will never speak of this again. Do you hear me?”

Can’t laugh. “Consider this blackmail material.” She told him what she’d learned.

“Confirmation that Star is involved.” He nodded. “We’ll have to search his house. Among other things.”

Missionspeak. Good. The best way to get back on track. “Found anything in here?”

“Not yet.” He stomped to the desk and tapped away at the computer keyboard. “I’m loading the club’s security feed for the past three weeks onto a flash drive and erasing today’s activities.”

Thank God. Replaying Jack Hammer’s debut—and her reaction to it—would have been humiliating.

“All right. Done,” he said, removing the flash drive.

“So we’re ready to leave the club?”

“Yes. And if you can get me out without letting anyone grope me, I’ll admit you’re the better agent.”

She snorted—then inwardly cursed. Did the man have to be so witty and likable? “Deal.”