Undercover Engagement by Samanthe Beck

Chapter Seven

Swain would bet the pink slip for the Bronco that nobody had ever looked so regal in the glow of neon beer signs as Eden. He ran his thumb over her stiff fingers and mentally kicked his own ass for his last words to her before they’d left his car. Now they walked hand-in-hand up the wide wood steps leading to the front entrance of Rawley’s, and she refused to look at him. Those Lite-Brite colorful signs in the windows beckoned with beverage options as diverse as Kentucky Bourbon Barrel Ale and White Claw. The bouncy beat of “Jolene”—courtesy of Miley, not Dolly—danced out to the parking lot, but Eden held her spine ramrod straight and kept a remote expression on her face.

Guilt aside—and since when had he started feeling guilty about things?—he’d worked her into the perfect pissed fiancée, don’t-want-to-be-at-this-backwoods-bar-with-your-backwards-friends mood. Even the glittering crystal earrings she’d chosen hit the right note. They matched the overblown ambition of the engagement ring and played up the disconnect between his fake fiancée’s expectations and their fake reality.

He held the door for her, like a man minding his manners, and she walked through like a queen. If she felt self-conscious in the clothes, it didn’t show. She fucking owned the place, though she did pause to let him catch up. He took her hand, threaded their fingers together, and led her past the standing-room-only bar to the precipice of the short set of steps leading down to the main room. Like any self-respecting local joint, Rawley’s ran toward old wood—scarred but polished—and low light filtered down from naked bulbs suspended from the ceiling. A well-used pool table sat in one corner, with cues racked nearby in a converted whiskey barrel stand and chalk cubes scattered across the top. An incongruously modern TouchTunes jukebox glowed blue on the back wall, just beyond a hallway that presumably led to restrooms. Simple wood booths lined the long, far wall—all currently occupied. The front of the room served as a small dance floor and/or stage area, and a well-filled-out jumble of tables with chairs crowded the territory in the middle.

Junior sat at a central table with front-row access to the dance floor but otherwise hemmed in on three sides by other tables. He’d slung an arm along the back of the chair tucked up next to his that was occupied by a big-haired blonde. They faced the dance floor, looking comfy and cozy as they chatted and watched the antics of some barely-twenty-ones kicking up their heels to “Party in the U.S.A.”

Was it Miley Cyrus night? Why would God do that to him?

As the song wound down, he put his index finger and thumb in his mouth and let out a whistle loud enough to pierce the din. Beside him, Eden winced. Conversation didn’t stop, but people looked over.

Junior leaned back in his chair and looked as well. Then a smile stretched across his face. “Swaaaiiiin! Get your ass down here, boy. You’re a round behind.” The jukebox switched to another Miley anthem. He let out a mental sigh as he stepped back to position Eden as the center of attention and followed her down the stairs.

Eat your hearts out, boys. This wrecking ball is all mine.

As if she read his mind, she aimed a glare at him over her shoulder. It probably had more to do with how he’d pushed her into the spotlight, so to speak, but either way, it left nobody in the room with any doubt about who was number one on her shit list tonight.

Junior stood as they approached and spread his arms wide to welcome them. “C’mon over here and set yourselves down.” He pulled out a chair for Eden and clapped Swain on the shoulder. “You must be Eden. This guy”—Junior clapped his shoulder again and ended it with a little shake—“sings your praises twenty-four seven.” Junior sent him a wink, as if to say, Lover’s quarrel? Don’t worry, man; I’ll help you thaw her out. “‘Eden’s so smart. Eden’s so pretty. Eden’s turned me into a better man.’”

“I’ve still got some work to do, apparently,” she replied, which provoked a laugh of solidarity from Lou Ann. “But,” she added as she settled into the chair and smiled up at Junior, “that’s sweet of you to say.”

Junior tipped his head to direct Swain to the seat beside Eden and slid his way between the tight-packed tables to get back to his chair. “Well, whatever doghouse this fool is in, I’m sure he deserves it, but don’t keep him there too long. He missed you something fierce. And before I end up in a doghouse of my own, this beautiful lady way out of my league is my better half, Lou Ann. Double D, this is Michael Swain, the new guy on our crew, and his fiancée, Eden…?”

“Braxton,” she supplied and shook Lou Ann’s outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet your both. I mean, you both. It’s a pleasure to meet you and your husband.”

“Pleasure,” Swain chimed and tried not to laugh at Eden’s flub. Hovering over his chair, he took Lou Ann’s hand. The blonde’s hair wasn’t the only big thing about her. She had a rack that would put Stormy Daniels to shame and displayed it proudly in a hot pink halter top. Your both were hard to overlook. He kept his eyes on her friendly smile and slightly sympathetic brown eyes. When he sat, those eyes cut to her husband, and she gestured to the empty wineglass in front of her. “Baby, table service will take forever tonight. Would you get us another round and something for”—she gestured across the table—“Eden, Mike, what can we get y’all?”

“No, no.” Swain stood. “This round is on me. Junior, a Bud?”

He affirmed with a two-finger salute from under the blue brim of his Wildcats cap. “Lou Ann likes the Chablis.”

“One Bud, one Chablis. Got it.” He’d started to turn and make his way to the bar when Eden said, “I’d like a—”

“I know what you like, choux.” When she blushed, he blew her a kiss, then turned and walked through the crowd and gave himself a few hard-earned points for the exchange.

The bar was packed. It took some time to place his order, then more time for the thirty-something dark-haired, spray-tanned man he identified as Jeb Rawley to get on filling it. But it was all good, because the bait was at the table, and the longer he was gone, the more likely she’d draw some eager comer, wanting to take a shot.

Then it’d be game on.

A big guy hunkered up to the bar beside him. Swain glanced over and took stock. In this particular game, anybody on the field had the potential for play. Even a pawn could be useful. Mid-twenties, six-four, solid build going soft in the middle like a high-school linebacker who spent more time nowadays hitting the bar than the weight room. Reds cap turned backward over stringy brown hair, maybe hiding some thinning on top. From a no-doubt extensive collection of tank tops favored for showing off the guns, this dude had chosen a black one with a Harley-Davidson logo splashed across the chest. Baggy jeans with the chain on the wallet and black biker boots completed the ensemble.

Taking in the backup at the bar, Harley-Davidson expelled an impatient breath and flung an arm out to encompass the general chaos around them. “Jesus fucking Christ, would you look at this place? I can’t believe I hauled my ass over from Millersville to stand bodies deep in some dive just to get a damn beer.”

Not his first beer, or his first something, Swain guessed by the bloodshot eyes and the sloppy edge to his gesture.

The live music had started, and a pink-haired pixie with a voice like velvet commandeered a lot of the attention in the room by strumming a guitar and singing the shit out of “Love on the Brain.” Couples swayed together on the dance floor.

Swain nodded toward the singer. “I hear the entertainment is worth the trip.” The “trip” amounted to seven whole miles. He could run the distance in an hour, but Harley-Davidson clearly wasn’t a world traveler or a distance runner.

“Yeah.” The guy turned around, rested his elbows on the bar, and leaned back. “That’s what my boy said.” He made another careless gesture, in the general direction of the main room. “He’s got a real hard-on for the singer. Roxy something. That sort of entertainment don’t interest me.”

“Not interested in talent?”

The redneck sent him a greasy grin. “In a woman? Shit, man. The only talent I need in a woman is a deep throat and a deep… Fuck me. Her.” He unleashed the trademark arm fling again, sending a couple patrons on his other side flinching back. “She’s got all the talent I need.”

Swain tracked the guy’s sightline to…Eden. Fuck him. While he and his new friend watched, she leaned over the pool table, lining up her shot and giving every guy on the other side of the table a spectacular view. Hanging back on her right stood Kenny Whelan, holding a cue and checking out her ass, and on the left stood Dobie Dobbins, offering his opinion on how she should make the shot.

Ten minutes in, and she had their targets buzzing around her like bees to honey. Fast work.

“She oozes talent,” Swain agreed.

“Not too smart, though,” the other man opined.

Interesting observation from someone he doubted spent his spare time attending Mensa meetings. Yep. Harley-Davidson had pawn written all over him.

Time to get myself into the game.

“What makes you say that?”

“Bitch is wasting her time with the two biggest losers in this place. Kenny and Dobie? Couple of stoners. Spend most of their time smoking weed and each other’s dicks.”

Swain feigned a squint, then turned back to the bar and uttered a “Huh” dripping with irony.

“What?”

He hid a smile. He could bait a hook, too. “Nothing. It’s just…the little guy, Dobie?”

At the other man’s nod, he continued, “Dobie was up here a few minutes ago getting beers, and he said practically the same thing about you and your friend.” Said friend was currently deeply engaged in watching the singer.

Harley straightened. “You fucking serious? That little shit shit-talked me?” The lantern jaw jutted. Two big hands clenched into fists.

Cocked and loaded. Time to fire. “Yeah, he said you and your friend…uh…”

“Travis?”

Swain snapped his fingers and nodded. “Right. Travis. He said he couldn’t believe you and Travis had stopped sucking each other’s dicks long enough to come out tonight.”

Harley’s face turned a mottled shade of red. “Imma kill that little bastard.”

And…bang. He was off like a poorly aimed shot, cutting and shoving through groups of people, jostling drinks and pissing everyone off on his way to the pool table. Swain gave him a ten-second head start and then followed at a quick but careful clip.

Eden looked up from the game as Harley approached, read the threat immediately, and angled herself in front of Kenny and Dobie even before the guy yelled, “Dobbins, you shit-spewing son of a bitch. I’m gonna tear out your tongue and shove it up your ass, since that’s what you’ve been talking out of.”

Both guys immediately retreated around the pool table, leaving Eden standing there with her legs braced, shoulders squared, holding the pool cue like a billy club.

Yeah, screw that.

“Back off, Arlo, you crazy fuck,” Dobie shouted and continued to circle the table. “I didn’t say jack.”

Arlo changed tactics, went the other way around the table, and made a lunge for Dobie, who got tangled up with Kenny in his effort to reverse course. Before a blow could land, Swain stepped in, caught the fist in his hand, and struck out with his other arm to hit Arlo’s brachial plexus with enough power to drop him to his knees. By this time, a crowd had gathered—including Arlo’s good buddy Travis. Prevailing sentiment being it was past time for Arlo to leave, it didn’t take long for a few of the other patrons, led by Junior, to step forward and make it happen.

Swain stood aside, purposefully nursing the hand he’d used to catch Arlo’s fist, and waited as Dobie, Kenny, and Eden approached. “Dude,” Dobie said, “you saved my life. I don’t know what got into that motherfucker. Arlo’s always had a short fuse, but damn…” He looked genuinely dazed. “I seriously don’t even know.”

Eden didn’t know, either. Her wide-set eyes held no hint of suspicion when they turned his way. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her. He wasn’t sure she’d appreciate it, since she’d been making plenty of headway with their targets on her own. But now he was in this game, too, with a big opening move.

“I’m Dobie,” the sandy-haired kid in the Gas N Go work shirt continued. “I totally owe you one. This here is Kenny.”

Swain nodded to the tall, skinny, dark-haired guy in a T-shirt and jeans. “Mike Swain.”

Dobie took a swig from the bottle of beer he’d left on the pool table and then aimed puppy-dog eyes at Eden. “This here is Eden. Shoots pool like a pro. Looks like a model. Has the prettiest laugh I’ve ever heard.” If puppy-dog eyes could go heart-shaped, the kid pulled it off. “Eden, you’re, like, my dream girl.”

“Mine, too,” Swain interjected, stepping up beside her and draping his arm around her shoulders. “That’s why I put a ring on it. Right, choux?” Letting his smile go slightly feral, he turned to Dobie. “But you’ve got good taste.”

And now the guy looked like a puppy who’d just lost his shiny new toy to the big alpha dog. Shock came into his eyes first, then dismay at the unfairness of fate and nature, and then—there it was—resignation. Like most affable creatures, he recovered from disappointment quickly. “Well, Swain.” Dobie held out a hand and shook his. “Guess I owe you two.”

“How’s that?”

“One for saving me from a beatdown, and one for beautifying our town.” He tipped his head to Eden.

“Smooth.” Kenny grinned and clinked his beer to Dobie’s.

“Gentlemen, the pleasure is all mine,” he replied. Eden rolled her eyes. Kenny laughed. Dobie laughed as well, but his expression turned wistful. Oh yeah, she had that one hook, line, and sinker.

“Rematch?” Kenny asked Eden. “Gimme a chance to earn back that drink?”

He responded before she could agree. “Sorry, guys. Gotta steal my girl away for a dance, if you don’t mind?”

Now both their expressions turned wistful. “Sure. Sure,” Dobie said. “We’ll catch up with y’all later.”

“Later.” Eden waved as he tugged her toward the dance floor. When they were a comfortable distance from her adoring acquaintances, she whispered, “I don’t dance, Swain.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your mom a ballerina?”

“Okay, fine. I don’t want to—”

“Go with the flow, choux.” He led her onto the small dance floor, turned to her, and put his hands on her hips. The first notes of “Cowboy Take Me Away” filled the room while he pulled her close. The amplified guitar chords vibrated along the floorboards and through his boots. On a long exhale, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and clasped her hands at the back of his neck. They swayed together as the singer implored a cowboy to take her closer to heaven.

“That was an unexpected stroke of luck back there,” she murmured. “I’m glad nobody got hurt.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to come clean. “I made that luck.”

She eased back and looked up at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Let’s just say I caught a fuse already half-lit and tossed it in a useful direction.”

Her lips turned down at the corners, instantly transforming confusion to disapproval. “Why? Why draw attention like that? Why risk getting punched—or getting me punched? Or, hell, risk me punching him and getting us both kicked out? I was ready to take that guy down.”

“Yeah, you were,” he conceded and pulled her in again. “Nobody was going to get punched. I had the situation under control from the jump. If I hadn’t, I sure as hell wouldn’t have let the guy get within an inch of you.” Before she could argue her ability to handle herself in a physical altercation, he went on. “As for why? Because it helps us. Now I’m their hero. Instant trust established, and Dobie, by his own estimate, owes me a favor.”

She let out a breath. “You really are quite the manipulator, aren’t you?”

Guilty, though suddenly not so proud of it, because instead of admiration in her tone, he heard unease. Distrust, even. Strangely defensive, he rolled a shoulder. “Everybody manipulates. Everybody works their angle. I’m just better at it than most.”

“Is that a fact, Swain?”

He nodded. “You know it. I’m a con man born and bred. Thanks to nature and nurture, those skills run all the way through me. All the way down to my foundations. Best remember that, choux.”

“Remember you’re not to be trusted?”

“Exactly.” Maybe just to make her as edgy as he now felt, he held her tight against him again, but instead of resisting, she went with it.

They spent the next few moments in silence, slowly swaying to the music. Her body felt close to heaven against his. They fit together like she’d been made for him. Or he for her. Like they’d been made for each other. He let his hands roam over the curves of her hips and justified it on the grounds of their cover. “Impressions tonight?” he whispered in her ear.

“Primarily? That you’re going to lose your hands if you keep that up.”

“Just doin’ my job.” He cupped her ass and hauled her closer. “Makin’ it look like we can’t keep our hands off each other.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Two can play this game, cooyon.” Her hand took a slow slide down his spine to snuggle into the back pocket of his jeans, which had a predictable effect on body parts much closer to his front pockets.

This seduction might be staged, but as far as his body knew, it was as real as it got. Pushing past the sweet agony of having her hands on him, he focused on the assignment. “Speaking of hands, you’ve got Dobie eating out of yours.”

“That’s my job, right?” She tipped her head back and looked up at him from beneath lowered eyelids. Contrived as it may have been, his pulse still skipped around. “I assume Malone gave you the same intel I got from Buchanan.”

“He did.” Damn, she smelled good. Not the kind of thick, sultry, behind-the-glass-cabinet-at-Dalton’s-Drugstore fragrance she should be wearing, but the fresh, clean scent he’d noticed before. Like an apple- and pear-blossom bouquet. It made him imagine laying her out on a soft, white sheet in a springtime orchard and sinking into her while she moaned his name and small pink petals rained down on them. He lowered his face to the curve of her neck and inhaled deep. Inhaled everything he shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, even as their thighs brushed, retreated, and brushed again, and he swore he could feel her legs, long and bare, through his jeans. “Malone filled me in. You found the right cock to tease. Nice work.”

She jerked out of his hold. “Do you work at being a dick, or does it come naturally?” With the question hanging in the air, she stalked back to the table where Junior and Lou Ann sat, Kenny and Dobie having joined them.

He gave her a moment, then followed. The singer switched the tempo up with “Beer Can’t Fix,” and people packed the dance floor, filling in the space he vacated. “Aw, c’mon, choux,” he called to her over the music. “Don’t be like that. Dance with me. They’re playin’ our song.”

She sat there facing him, arms and legs crossed, one booted foot bouncing like she was ready to kick him to the curb. “I wouldn’t dance with you if you were the last person in this place.”

“I’ll dance with you, Eden,” Dobie offered.

“Hey, man.” Swain sent him an exasperated look. “I’m workin’ an apology here.”

Eden smiled at Dobie and then turned her stern look on him. “After what you said, it’s going to take way more than an apology.” Nose in the air, she added, “I don’t really think you’re up to the task.”

Perfect. Did she have any idea how perfect she looked, shimmering with quiet fury? Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered Lou Ann’s quick laugh and Junior’s “Hoooo buddy. You done goofed.” Applause erupted behind him as the singer finished her set.

Sliding what he knew to be a sly smile on his lips, he let his legs go lax and dropped to his knees. “You want me to grovel, baby?”

She examined her fingernails. “I want you to go away.”

He crawled toward her on hands and knees. “You know you like it.” With the featured show over, their show started to attract attention. A few women whistled and catcalled. A few men groaned. He crawled closer, so he knelt directly in front of her, never taking his eyes off her face. “You like it when I grovel at your feet.” He ran his jaw suggestively over her bare leg. Her knee. The skirt left a lot of unprotected territory. The crowd howled. Somebody put Cardi B on the jukebox.

She uncrossed her legs and placed the sole of her boot against his shoulder. A warning. “That’s not my foot, Swain.”

“I know, choux.” He took her hand and guided it to his head, sinking her fingers in his hair before letting go. “As much as you like when I grovel at your feet, I know you like it even better when I grovel…” He scooted closer, taking advantage of her un-parted legs. “…here.” He looked up at her as he ran his jaw along her inner thigh and took unreasonable satisfaction from the flutter of her eyelids and the flush of her cheeks. The fingers in his hair tightened.

Around them, the bar chanted, “Gro-vel! Gro-vel! Gro-vel!”

He put his neck into it, rubbing on her like a cat. Her boot heel dug into his shoulder, but she didn’t kick him away. He hitched a hand beneath her knee and eased her leg down until she had both feet on the floor. Her knees splayed open a bit, so he positioned himself between them—so they didn’t put on more of a show than he’d planned—and laid his head in her lap, nuzzled there a long moment. A new scent reached his nose. Something earthy and seductive and not from a bottle. Something all Eden. His mouth watered. The fingers in his hair squeezed tight and then went lax.

“Make ’im work for it, sister!” a woman called over the music and the chant.

He lifted his head and yelled over his shoulder, “Good God, y’all. Give a guy a chance.”

That caused more laughter. He turned back to Eden, winked, and then nuzzled her abdomen through the tank top. Her stomach fluttered under his lips. Working his way up the shirt, he accidentally grazed his jaw against one tight nipple standing high and proud beneath the flimsy confines of cotton and lace, and he heard her soft whimper. He kissed between her breasts, buried his face there just long enough to draw encouragement from the crowd and have her holding his head with both hands—another warning, perhaps—but her heart pounded against his cheek like a caged animal, the rapid cadence practically synchronized to his own.

Tipping his head to the side, he kissed her neck, then her chin, and then, at last, he reached her mouth. He heard her quick inhale just before he pressed his lips to hers. Hoots, hollers, whistles, and applause all faded away. For several long seconds, the world narrowed to just this. Just them. His mouth under hers. Her fingers in his hair. Her knees clamped tight to his hips. Pushing up higher on his knees, he sank his hands into her hair, tipped her head back, and took control of the kiss—if control equaled diving in to find and taste every flavor, from her cherry-glossed lips, to her pink-champagne tongue, to the hot, sweet haven at the back of her throat.

When he drew away to change the angle and take her mouth again, the music and noise flooded back, providing him with a brutal reminder that this was, indeed, strictly for show. He gave himself a minute to catch his breath, then hitched his mouth into a smile and stared into wide, dazed eyes. “Forgive me yet?”

She blinked slowly, and awareness crept into the foggy depths. An awareness that if she said “no,” God only knew what he’d do next. Same deal if she said “yes.” He solved it for her. “Dance with me, choux.”

“Like a Wrecking Ball” poured from the jukebox, but the Eric Church song this time. He stood, held out a hand to her, and tipped his head toward the dance floor.

When she reluctantly took it, the onlookers burst into applause. He accepted backslaps and fist bumps as he tugged her onto the dance floor. Couples joined them, packing the small area. This time, when he drew her into his arms, he wrapped one around her waist and cupped the back of her head with the other. Wanting to put a smile on her lips, he murmured, “Given how easy it is to piss you off, I’ll have to remember how much you appreciate a good grovel.”

“Oh, please. I told you when it mattered I could play my part convincingly.” She angled her head and sent him a pitying look. “Did I fool everyone, including you, cooyon?”

Wow. Had she? If so, she absolutely had made a cooyon of him, because he hadn’t doubted the sincerity of her reactions for a second. The flush, the heartbeat, the heat of her body, and the intensity of the kiss—it all felt real.

He narrowed his eyes to the pulse racing at the base of her throat. Because it was real. Some things just couldn’t be faked. Lowering his mouth to her ear, he said, “If you can fire it up so easy, choux, let’s keep right on convincing them.” Using the tip of his tongue, he traced the shell of her ear. She shivered. In a crowded bar, on a packed dance floor, with his body pumping out heat like a furnace against her, she shivered.

“Still playing, choux?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just checking.” He trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses along her jaw to her mouth but stopped a hairsbreadth from her open invitation. He hovered there, letting her unsteady puffs of breath tease over his lips. Cradling the back of her head, he lowered his face to brush his lips slowly over hers. Plush as pillows and soft as a sigh, they parted for him. He pulled back just a degree and rubbed his thumb over her lower lip.

“These lips. You can’t know the things I’ve dreamed of doing to them.” The words just tumbled out from some pent-up place in his soul. Probably the same place that wove the dreams. “Kissing them so softly you aren’t even sure it happened.” He demonstrated and savored the way her body melted against his. “Using my teeth on them the way I’ve watched you do yourself, because even you know they’re irresistible.” He ran his teeth along her lower lip and bit just sharply enough to make her gasp. Her hands clasped his neck, then pulled him closer. She made a restless sound. Lightheaded, with a hard-on that throbbed like a bruise, he backed them off the dance floor and into a dark corner. Pinning her in with a wall at her back and his chest crushed to hers, he went on. “In some dreams, choux, I don’t hold back. I can’t. I haul you up and fuck your mouth with my tongue. Hard, fast, deep. I go at you so long your lips get roughed up ’cause I’m not as clean-shaven as I should be. They’re a little sore when I’m done, so the barest touch makes them tingle. Makes everything tingle.”

Bracketing her head with his hands, he gave them both a demonstration of what that would be like. Demonstrated until she clutched his wrists and urgent pleas came from her throat. Nearly out of control, he tore his mouth away. “Do you feel it, choux? Do you feel it here?” He gently pinched her very stiff nipple through the shirt and bra.

Her back bowed as she arched into his touch. One long leg curled around his thigh. “Jesus. God. Yes.”

“And here?” He panted the word and bit his own lip as he slipped a hand under her skirt and stroked the lace covering her pussy. “Jesus, God, Eden, do you feel it here?”

Her eyelids went heavy, but her glazed gaze locked with his. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. Somehow, that enflamed him even more. He rested his forehead against hers and went swimming in the green ponds of her eyes. “When I’ve done all that to your mouth, choux, I’m going to come down here”—he stroked her again and watched her eyelids surrender to the pull of sensations he set loose inside her—“and do it all again. Every bit. Until you come so hard the whole bar hears you wail.”

He eased a finger under the lace and stirred his way through the hot, wet heaven waiting for him. Forehead still pressed to hers, he stroked again. “Tell me, Eden.” Begging now. He was begging. “Tell me true. You still acting? Because I don’t think your body knows it.” His sure as hell didn’t.

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as the words left his lips. They came from the part of his brain that stayed 100 percent focused on self-preservation, no matter what the situation. Apparently, it spoke directly to the part of Eden’s brain that stayed focused on maintaining a line between her professional duties and her personal choices, because her body stilled. Long eyelids snapped open. She took a second to assess their situation—the relative privacy of their dark corner—and then shoved him away.

Right. He mustered up a smug smile and crossed his arms over his chest. “Told you that before we left here tonight you’d forget I was running a con.”

She blinked at him, clearly replaying his words, connecting them to the boast he’d tossed out while they’d been sitting in the parking lot. Her gorgeous mouth dropped open, then closed and firmed into a furious line. “And I told you I didn’t expect to be mauled.” With movements as stiff as her voice, she straightened her clothes, then turned away and made a beeline to the exit.

“Shit.” He took a minute to watch her go. Long, fast steps ate up the distance to the front door. The slender arms that had been wrapped around him moments ago were now locked protectively around her middle, but despite that self-containment, the people socializing in the bar parted to make a path for her. She pushed out the door without breaking stride.

“Shit,” he repeated and thumped his head against the wood-paneled wall. What the hell was wrong with him? There was chemistry between them, but because he didn’t measure up to her standards, or her daddy’s standards, or really anyone with standards, Eden chose to deny it. Still, no matter what her reasons might be, they were her reasons. At the end of the day, denying the attraction was the right thing to do, because they didn’t need a physical relationship getting in the way of their assignment. Was his ego really so wounded by her opinion of him that he reduced himself to using their cover to prove she didn’t find him quite as substandard as she wanted to? The “mauling” comment made him feel like a bully. Even for an unrepentant manipulator like him, that reached a new low.

Groaning, he gathered himself and went after her. This time he ought to repent. Try to put a truce in place and stick to it, for both their sakes.

His semi-noble intentions went straight out the window when he reached the parking lot and saw her sliding into the passenger side of a beat-to-shit black Honda Accord.

Has she lost her fucking mind?

He ran to the car and smacked his palm down on the hood. Three sets of startled eyes turned to peer at him through the windshield. Eden occupied the passenger seat, Kenny sat behind the wheel, and sidekick Dobie parked his butt in the back, leaning up between the front seats. “Uh-uh. Get out of the car, Eden. You wanna go home—I’ll take you home.”

She answered by slamming the passenger door.

Fuck. He pointed at Whelan and warned, “Don’t even think about it,” as he circled the hood to get to her door.

“Hey man,” Dobie called from the lowered back window. “We saw Eden out here walking on her own, and, like, offered her a ride home. We didn’t mean to get in the middle of anything. But”—round eyes looked up at him speculatively—“maybe you should go back in and, you know, cool down.”

Ignoring him, he focused on his partner. “We need to talk. Don’t do this, Eden. Neither of us wants the fallout,” he said meaningfully, hinting Buchanan and Malone would question their efficacy—and her sanity—if she went rogue their first night. “C’mon, choux.” He reached through Dobie’s window and unlocked Eden’s door, then held it open for her. Her eyes lasered go-to-hell at him. No doubt he would.

He extended his hand to help her.

She knocked it away. “Don’t touch me.” But she got out of the car.

Good. He turned and fell in step beside her as they made their way to the Bronco. This section of the parking lot was a rutted mess. Without thinking, he took her arm—and realized his mistake the instant she pulled free of his grasp and whirled on him.

“I said, don’t touch me.” She used a slick little self-defense move to back him up against the side of the Bronco and hold him at bay with a forearm across his windpipe. Chest heaving, fists clenched, she stared him down.

He held his hands up, palms forward. “You wanna take a shot, Eden? Do it. Free shot. We’ll both feel better—”

She swung away, stormed around to the passenger side, and got in. He walked to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. “Thank you for getting in the car.”

“First thing tomorrow, I’m asking Buchanan to take me off this assignment. I didn’t need your rude and inappropriate demonstration tonight to solidify that decision, but congratulations. It did.”

Her leaving would effectively end the op. After tonight, she couldn’t assume her duties with the Bluelick PD without blowing both their covers, and she probably wasn’t interested in taking a leave of absence of undetermined duration to wait for him to close the investigation alone, assuming he could. “Can we talk about this before you make a final decision?”

“I don’t see any point.”

A weight of failure settled on his shoulders—which was exactly where it belonged, he admitted as he started the engine. He’d told her he wouldn’t let her fuck things up, and then he’d gone and fucked them up himself, because as effective as their performance had been tonight, it amounted to wasted time if he’d alienated her to the extent she wouldn’t finish the assignment. And he didn’t want to alienate her. Not professionally. Not personally. Not at all.

The silent treatment continued for the rest of the drive home, which gave him time to acknowledge the bitter disappointment piled onto the heavy failure. He tried to tell himself it was rooted in his desire to successfully execute the op according to plan, but some of those roots tangled around less straightforward reasons. Reasons like he had something to prove. To Eden. But he wouldn’t get the chance unless he could convince her not to go to Buchanan. He’d crossed a line tonight due to his own hang-ups, and frankly, she had every right to be pissed. He owed her an apology, but offering one now amounted to wasted breath. She wouldn’t believe him, and he couldn’t blame her for it. He had to find something to say that she would believe.

As soon as he pulled into the driveway, she hopped out and walked to the porch. “Eden.”

She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder, impatience coming off her in visible waves.

“I know you don’t trust me.” True words, those. “Ought not trust me, when it comes right down to it, considering those born-and-bred talents I have. I’ve lied convincingly on both sides of the line of duty.” Also completely accurate. “But you’ve got expertise of your own, and between the two of us, we have the skills and opportunity to do this right. At first, I wasn’t convinced we could make it work—I said as much when they pitched this to us, so you know that’s the gospel truth—but we can. We proved it tonight. This might not be an easy partnership, but it’s an effective one. If you leave the assignment now, you kill the op. We’ll be letting down both our departments and all the people we’ve sworn to protect and serve if we don’t see this through.”

Eden’s reaction to his little speech was no reaction at all, but at least he’d said his piece. He started the engine.

That got a reaction. “Where are you going?”

“That’s classified,” he replied. “Need-to-know basis only.” He was going to get a fifth of whiskey, park at the jobsite, and drink until he forgot about shit like failure and disappointment, then sleep it off in the bed of the Bronco while the mosquitos ate him alive.

And that, she most definitely did not need to know.