One More Night with You (13 page)

“Whenever you're ready...” She pointed to the steering wheel.

Ready for stuff to spin, change and drift out of control again? No, he wasn't. Life had started to level out after the Chargers traded him to the Slayers last season, but he had spent too much time in steroids-withdrawal fog and still hadn't broken away from his usual crowd. He was close enough to hang with the friends he'd cut up with when he was in California. And as his uncle had told him, he was only as good as the company he kept.

As far as off-field friendships, he had very few—and wasn't all that assured in the genuineness of most of them. A couple of veterans on the team were solid and up for anything. The team's female trainer, Charlotte, she was all right, but she had a man who was getting most of her time now. That left TreShawn with the hipster neighborhood girl whose Doberman had a nasty habit of marking territory that didn't belong to him.

But if he lost Minako...

“One of these days,” she said as he pulled off the curb, “I'm not going to be there to save you from yourself.”

She was here tonight, though, fiddling around with his radio because it irked him and talking over the music, anyway, and that had to be his solace.

1 OAK was at Friday night capacity. Minako chose the room. Immediately, they let the killin' DJ coax them into dancing, then he treated her to a burger and they settled at the bar with a bottle of vodka. The high energy and jazzed crowd let him pretend he could be anonymous for a couple of hours.

“Is this really as excellent as I think it is, or is the whopping price tag influencing my taste buds?” Minako asked, setting her lipstick-stained glass on the bar and twisting around the Cîroc to read the label.

“It's excellent vodka,” he confirmed.

“I'm still baffled that you spent hundreds of bucks just to drink with me. A Big Gulp would've been okay.” She took another swallow. “Oooh, that's perfect.”

TreShawn chuckled. She was real in everything she did. No facades or hidden agendas. He was about to fill his glass when he saw a toss of golden-brown hair and beauty that dudes he'd studied in college wrote poems about.

“
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Look at your thirsty ass,” he heard Minako say, and he found her wearing an I-know-what-you're-doing smirk and shaking her head.

“What're you talking about?”

“Just saying, I'd put this bottle in front of you, but you're not thirsty for a drink. You know her?”

“Met her,” he acknowledged, glancing at Joey de la Peña again. Wrapped in tight silk, she leaned against the bar. At Desert Luck she'd carried around a cane, but he couldn't see it with stools and people obstructing his view. “She's a narc. She's involved in some drug program the front office put together for camp.”

“Ah. Did someone fail the test?”

“The annual pissing event hasn't happened yet,” he told her, holding Joey in his sights.

“Pretty. You aim high, don't you?” Minako cocked her head. “I think she's alone. Let's go say hi.”

“You're not going,” he said, turning her back to the bar when she swiveled on her stool.

“Why not? She knows drugs, I know drugs—we can talk shop. Or are you afraid I'll tell her you want to have plenty of sex and babies with her?” She shrugged at his withering glare. “Fine, abandon the woman you brought here and go to her.”

TreShawn hesitated. “Are you mad?”

“No.” She smiled, lifted her drink. “Really, go to her. We're at 1 OAK. I won't be lonely.”

He took the vodka bottle—which earned him a double take from Minako—and made his way to Joey.

“Care for some Cîroc?” he offered, his voice competing with the ear-ringing noise. Joey leaned close and he repeated the question.

“I don't have a glass.”

“Consider that problem solved,” he said, snagging the bartender's attention.

“I shouldn't, TreShawn,” she said, and he got the impression she was talking about something other than a drink. “Um, I wouldn't have expected to see any Slayers out and about after what I observed at camp today. Aren't you hurting?”

“We push the pain down.” Using a different approach, he asked, “Why aren't men lined up to give you anything you want?”

“This deters them, usually. They ask me to dance, and I can't.” She reached behind her and presented the cane. “Uh, actually, I'm with—”

“Their loss,” he decided. “If you want to go to a couch, I can chill with you. Another option is this. A party's going down at my place.”

“You're throwing a party but you're here?”

“Yes. I'm willing to go back if you'll be my guest.”

Joey smiled. He couldn't read it—had
no
clue what she was thinking—but he didn't care because it was the sexiest thing this night had to offer. “What might I find at your party that I can't get here, TreShawn?”

Privacy
, he almost said. In his mind he could see himself trailing a hand through her hair and laying a kiss on her that'd clear away the hesitation pushing them apart.

Would it take her by surprise? Would she roll with it?

Again, he saw himself touching her, but this was reality. His platinum chronograph watch shone under the bar lights, and the sparkle seemed to spin as he watched his fingers brush the pattern of a loose curl hanging over her cheek.

Last night they'd established that he didn't invite her onto the practice field because he wanted to hit on her. But that was then, this was now. Now he was hitting on her, seducing her, whatever anyone wanted to call it. Because he couldn't pull himself back.

“We can ignore your cane. Put it behind you again and forget all about it. We don't need to dance.”

“TreShawn...wait...” Joey shook her head. “I can't. I'm sorry.”

“The Slayers, the Blues, nobody needs to know if you want it like that.”

“You don't understand—” Her eyes fixed on something behind him and she waved. A tall guy—Middle Eastern, he'd guess—came out of the background.

“TreShawn, this is my boyfriend, Zaf. Zaf, TreShawn's the Slayers' kicker. He told me he's looking to break records this season. I think he'll make this city's sports fanatics proud.”

“Hey, good to meet you,” the man said easily. “I know some folks who're deep in Fantasy Football. Your name comes up.”

Zaf curled an arm around Joey's shoulders, and, like her, allowed an unreadable smile. But the meaning behind his gesture hollered,
This is mine. Don't get too close to what's mine.

So Minako's dog wasn't the only one unafraid to mark his territory.

“Break records, huh?” Zaf said conversationally.

TreShawn didn't trust his casual tone. There was a cagey quality about him
and
Joey, if he wanted to reflect on it more. Except he now knew her secret—she had a man, and TreShawn was wasting his time with her.

Or was he? She hadn't rejected him until she saw her man in the club. Maybe she wasn't happy and wanted a way out.

“Hall of Fame,” TreShawn said to Zaf. “I put down my stamp now and focus on excellence straight to the end, then I'll be in the ranks of Stenerud.”

“Stenerud. A pure kicker.”

“You know football?”

“I pick up things here and there.” Zaf stroked Joey's arm. “Table's ready.”

“Okay.” Joey gazed up at the guy, twisting her hand in his shirt, and damn TreShawn if he didn't sense a sexual intensity between them. They'd either just screwed or would very, very soon.

When they left the bar, he pushed the vodka bottle back to the bartender for disposal. He didn't want it, didn't want to be here, didn't want to go home, either.

Minako said she wouldn't be lonely, but she was sitting alone when he returned to her end of the bar. “I suppose not every woman is destined to fall for your charms?” she surmised, sucking on a slice of fruit.

“She has a man.”

“And you backed off? Well, that's a compliment to your character, TreShawn.”

He almost told her to hold off on declaring him a jolly good fellow, but she was beaming at him and leading him to the dance floor, and it felt kind of nice to have someone think he was a better man than he could possibly be.

Chapter 8

“G
ian DiGorgio's making a move.”

Zaf was standing at the range scrambling eggs with a whisk when the text had come through. Waiting for Joey's response, he sent his contact a quick response.

“What kind of move?” she called out to him from the recesses of the house. Hardly a week ago she'd put a house key in his hand, and they were settled into a routine. Playing house, they had sex but bunked in separate rooms, shared mundane conversations snuggled up on the leather sofa, took turns fixing meals. He went with her to a physical therapy appointment—the highlight of that being taught how to oil-massage her hip at home. She found excuses to hang back at the house while he was pulling out the guest room's original shelving system, and on those days he didn't get any work done without tussling around naked with her first. It was similar to how they'd been in DC, except they'd always slept together then. More was at stake now, more guards up—and they weren't in love.

Joey
wasn't, at least. Love for her poisoned Zaf, and he let it because the torture of wanting to have a right to her but knowing he couldn't was karma he deserved.

Today they would be apart—she had appointments at ODC and Slayers Stadium, he had a meeting with a former DiGorgio Royal Casino employee—and wouldn't see each other until early evening at some bridal boutique where she'd be fitted for a gown.

A dress shop, or any place that had something to do with women's apparel, threatened to trigger hives, but she had agreed to join the bride's crew and their dates for dinner and he wouldn't leave her unaccompanied. As her “boyfriend,” he should be there. As her protector, he'd be damned if anyone kept him away.

He was already pissed enough that Joey wouldn't let him come with her to the stadium or the training camp facility where she was putting in time. A few days ago DiGorgio had entered Desert Luck Center unauthorized and touched Joey's shoulder, claiming he had a wedding gift for his godson's fiancée.

Charlotte Blue had refused to speak to him. His other godson, Santino Franco, a new hire on the team's coaching staff, had ordered security to escort DiGorgio off the premises.

Zaf thought the wedding gift was a pretense, a message that taunted if he couldn't get to Joey at home, he would find another way.

“A lawsuit,” Zaf told her, when he could tamp rage down deep enough to allow him to find his voice again. “Civil bullshit against the city. Defamation of character, other stuff. He's claiming that as a result of being falsely arrested, he suffered financial loss and irreparable damage to his reputation as a businessman.”

He turned off the burner, took the skillet away.

Joey appeared in the doorway, giving him an incredulous stare. “The bastard runs criminal activity out of his casino, orders a hit on his friend, stalks me and he wants to get paid
on top of
escaping charges?”

“His investors are pulling out of the casino. Celebrities are gun-shy. It's more of a variety show punch line than an exclusive Vegas attraction. Hurting his prized casino's like kicking him in the balls. He probably already has the means and money to rebuild his empire, but why do it on his own dime when he can get the city to foot the bill for him? He's riding high on a power trip, but I think most of the erratic behavior is desperation. He's sloppy.”

“I don't like that. Erratic behavior and desperation can get people killed.” Absentmindedly she turned her weapon in her hand.

“If you bring a gun to breakfast, what the hell do you take to bed with you?” Zaf was partly messing with her—but he remained standing with a frying pan full of fluffy steaming scrambled eggs, waiting for her answer.

Joey set the handgun on the counter next to the economy-size jar of Jelly Belly he'd finally got around to buying as a replacement for the candy he'd swiped his first night here. Her stark white shirt was a little too transparent for his liking, since she was planning to go to ODC and a football stadium. He wanted her to stick around and let him undo those smooth plain buttons with his teeth.

“I take my iPad to bed with me,” she admitted, reaching up to whip her hair into the sexiest messy ponytail he'd ever seen. “But my locked and loaded fella here is always close by. Closer now, circumstances as they are.”

“I'm not going to let anyone—
anyone—
hurt you, Jo.”

“You can't be with me every minute, Zaf. My fella can.” Her smile failed to conquer the fear and tension. He didn't regret coming out of hiding for her. He didn't regret rejoining society just to protect her. But if he wasn't careful, what price would she pay this time? “And it's not every day a hot guy invades my house and fixes me breakfast.”

Joey puckered her mouth, winced. “You didn't hear me say that.”

It was Zaf's turn to smile, and his was legit. He grabbed a fork from the counter and handed it to her. “Eat. And yeah, I heard you call me sexy.”

“I did not.” She snatched the fork and scooped up some eggs from the skillet. “I said hot.”

“I know.”

She laughed. “Zaf...”

He held the skillet, waiting again. Would she let him stay here, ready to hold her up if she wanted him to? Or would she keep leaning on that cane and push him away because he was the reason for it?

Did he have any right to pray that she'd look past what he'd done?

“Zaf,” she repeated, shaking her head as she took another bite of eggs.
“Gracias.”

“Did you just thank me?”

Joey put the fork in the skillet and, swallowing, looked him dead in the eye. Her tongue traced her bottom lip, and then, “I could say it again. Or I could show you.”

He set the skillet aside, coming back to her with a kiss on her forehead. “Show me.”

“Oh... You're hard already.”

“What time is ODC expecting you?” He was already unbuttoning her shirt, undoing her efforts to boldly take on the outside world when, according to her moaning whispers last night, she'd rather stay underneath him.

“Nine.” Joey unzipped his jeans, picked his pockets for a condom. “But they know I'm bringing pastries.”

Zaf carried her to the sofa. With her propped carefully on his lap, he sank into smooth leather before his cock sank into her. “So you can be a few minutes late and they'll stop caring once you hand over the goods?”

“It means they'll—
ohhh
!” She began to move on his lap, pressing her hands into the sofa, biting down on her bottom lip until it came away red and plump and ready for his kiss.

“It means what?” he prodded when he released her mouth. One hand guided her ass while the other plucked her bra out of his way. Sucking in a nipple, leaving it dark and wet, he said, “Tell me, Jo.”

“I swear you're evil. You can't expect me to hold a real conversation when you're doing—
ah, mmm, damn it
!” She tried to put her hand between them to control the intensity but he moved it aside and let her sexy scream reverberate inside him. “When you're doing this.”

“You mean doing you?”

She started to laugh but it was lost in a gasp when he moved her in such a way that her clit rubbed up and down his shaft. Her orgasm gripped him and as she constricted around his flesh while moaning in his ear, he came violently in the condom.

Sighing together, holding each other, they waited for the aftershocks to ease. Zaf trashed the condom then helped her to her feet and righted her bra. “Get out of here, slacker.”

“Ha,” she said. “You're a bad influence. I have a full day in front of me.”

“I've got a full day, too. It's going to be a sweaty one. The shelves and the plaster for your closet came in early. Your shoes are going to get their dream home sooner than we figured.”

“The hot guy who invaded my house and fixed breakfast is going to be wearing a tool belt? I'll pass on the stressful day and stay here.”

“Uh-uh. You should be good and mellow to take it on, coming as hard as you did. Think that orgasm will last you until we see each other again later, or do I need to touch you up right quick?”

“I'll last,” she said, but her gaze dropped to his crotch, as though she was on second thought considering a
touch up
. “Okay, now I need to wash up and get out the door.”

In the kitchen, he sat on the counter and picked up his coffee mug.

“Zaf, how did you know about Gian DiGorgio's lawsuits? They're not public knowledge. I've been having someone in the Bureau keep an eye on developments before the media can detect it. You're ahead of even that person.”

The coffee had grown colder than he liked it, but he swallowed the caffeine to buy a moment to think. Living with Joey was great in that it allowed him the proximity to do his job, yet outmaneuvering her daily was taxing. She followed him when he stepped away to take private phone calls, asked questions that were difficult to circumvent without outright deceiving her—and somehow he'd gotten to a place where he hated resorting to deceit when it came to her.

“Different intelligence sources rake in different information. That's nothing unusual, Jo.”

She shut off the faucet, bunched a drying towel in her hands and observed him with reproach. “Are you lying to me? And to say you're not when in fact you are—that's a lie, too.”

“Am I lying about the inconsistency between intelligence sources? No, Josephine, I'm not.”

Tossing the towel, she and her cane closed in. “Are you leading me away from my question to avoid answering me straight-on?”

“I keep a trusted network, and not everyone in that network is a part of the Bureau. I'm not a part of the Bureau anymore, so does it even make a difference?”

“Sometimes,” she said, “I feel you're holding back information I should know. The secrecy, the suspicious phone calls, the times you disappear from this house with your computer when you think I'm not paying attention. So tell me. If you're not Archangel back in the line of duty, are you hacking again?”

Hacking had first gotten him expelled from high school for altering attendance records and grade reports at the well-paid request of classmates. The expulsion had resulted in his being hired by a top-tier corporate attorney under the table, and that had led him to losing the riches he'd accumulated when he was arrested, tried and convicted for his offenses.

A prison term had encouraged him to rethink his career as a computer criminal for hire. The military had reformed him and he'd fought for the other side of the law. As of late his security expertise paid the bills and then some, but the jobs he booked were few. For five years he'd kept himself hidden and untraceable, and only one of the most privileged in his field had been able to convince him to rejoin civilization for something other than a lead concerning his cousin's killers.

Avenging the death of a kid left in his care had been Zaf's driving force for so long that it felt unnatural to put any other priority first. Every day he quietly questioned whether or not his presence in Joey's life was a hindrance. He cared about her, wanted to do right by her, but hadn't those intentions always led to needless bloodshed?

“I'm not tapping anyone's systems to put cash in my pocket,” he told her.

“What are you doing that can take you away from me again?” Joey cursed, backed up. “Forget I said that. I shouldn't have said that.”

“I'm not here, Jo. Not really. So I can't be taken away.” A freakin' liar was what he'd become. He was here, with Joey, in every way. But the second she resurrected her love for him was the second he added to the danger he was here to defuse.

“I said forget it.”

“Joey, I have people in place in DiGorgio's circle. Household staff, casino personnel, security experts. I can't compromise the identities of these people while they still have lives to defend.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Someone fell.” The words sort of dangled in the air, and he put down his coffee mug. “It was Wilcox Smitz.”

He watched through hooded eyes as she connected the name to the dead man. “Wilcox was the man DiGorgio hired to kill Alessandro Franco in Italy. He was on my payroll and I had him in place to intercept the job. DiGorgio managed to put some fear into him and Wilcox recanted every word of his confession—”

“Before taking a cyanide capsule.” Smitz nullified his statement and committed suicide instead of putting faith in WITSEC relocation. This combined with the court's decision to toss the video footage Zaf had collected that contained Alessandro Franco's confession detailing DiGorgio's misdeeds, had enabled DiGorgio to walk as a free man.

Explaining this to Joey, patiently managing the conversation when she frequently interrupted, he felt her start to distance herself. The magnitude of it all began to settle.

“You were in Italy a few months ago,” she said slowly. “Franco was a fugitive then. So you found him, taped his confession, then instead of alerting the authorities or his family to his whereabouts, you allowed him to almost die. And somehow your name never came up.”

“I made sure one of my people picked up the order. He wasn't going to be murdered.”

“Zaf, he tried to kill himself because he thought someone else was going to do it.” She scrunched her face. “How can you tell me all of this so calmly? So mechanically? You say you're not capable of love, but do you have a heart at all?”

“I had what I needed to put DiGorgio away.”

“Except it didn't do any good in the end. That's why you're here, isn't it? To perform cleanup?” She buttoned her shirt and fussed with her ponytail, which had been messy to begin with. “He's following me around because he knows he's untouchable. Your plan was a deadly one. It failed and it's too late for damage control.”