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Humor.
Veronica had always been able to shake a laugh out of him. Problem was, Hawk Masters never laughed unless it was ugly, an expression of very dark, evil gratification. He broke into a coughing fit.
“You okay, boss?” Brick yelled from the building door, where he was certain all three of his men and Hank were watching the scene play out.
“He’s fine, boys.” Veronica was all business. “I hear the pollen’s bad this year. Do you have hay fever, Hawk? I don’t have time for a man who’s got anything distracting him. And I detest sneezes, by the way.” He refused to meet her gaze. He couldn’t, or they’d both start laughing and it would be too difficult to explain their mirth away. As far as their four lackeys knew, they’d never met.
“What exactly do you want, Moni?” The raspiness of his voice from his coughing added to the menace he needed to pull this off. A lucky break.
“We’ll get to that. But first, hands up, Hawk.” When he didn’t immediately comply, she cleared her throat, made the same motion he’d done to her moments earlier. “Turnabout is fair play, cowboy.” Titters sounded from the abandoned warehouse, but Dylan was frozen, unable to scowl at his men.
Holy hell, Veronica intended to pat him down, too.
He gritted his teeth, inhaled deeply. This situation had not been covered in improv class.
Chapter 4
Veronica fought to contain her anger at the way Dylan had pronounced “Moni.” She’d confided to him that the moniker “Roni” had been used by her younger sister Tawny as her affectionate nickname. Since Tawny had OD’d on heroin laced with fentanyl when she was only sixteen, it had been too painful for Veronica to allow anyone to ever call her Roni again. She’d told Dylan he could, though, right before the night that was supposed to be theirs. Their first date, after working alongside one another for over a year, after becoming confidantes. But Dylan had left before the date happened, before anything more than a friendly hug was exchanged between them. No one had called her Roni since.
Until now.
Okay, so he’d called her Moni, but he’d drawled it out, said it with a tone that was for her ears only. I remember.
She didn’t have to feign how awkward it was to pat down Dylan. She couldn’t pat him down as she would if she were herself, of course. Instead, she had to act as if she didn’t know what the hell she was doing, didn’t have a gram of security or law enforcement experience. It wasn’t difficult to act as if she felt out of her comfort zone, because seeing him, or rather, meeting him as Hawk Masters had stunned her. Hank would expect her to know how to check for weapons, though. He’d made a big show of explaining how everyone employed by Frisky had to be wary of all visitors.
You’re a nightclub owner who wants in on the drug money. She mentally reminded herself what her purpose was, why she was here.
She didn’t have time to be a woman who was staring down the barrel of her past, wishing she could tell the man who’d left and never looked back what she really thought of him, how maybe he’d once broken her heart but today she didn’t need him, or want what he’d offered her back then. When she’d mistakenly believed in best-friends-to-lovers and happily-ever-afters.
She swallowed a cynical snort as she tapped her palms on Dylan’s thighs, his calves. As sultry Monique the nightclub boss, a night in Hawk’s arms wouldn’t be unwelcome, five years past due. But as herself, as much as she’d dreamed of seeing Dylan again, in this moment she wished they’d never crossed paths. Not like this.
Stay here, now.
The biggest danger to any cop was allowing her mind to drift while in the middle of an op, especially a sting.
Sting or get stung.
“You can turn back around.” His slow compliance, hands still raised, allowed her to appreciate how toned his body remained. Hawk had always been in top shape; they both had. His advantage at the moment was that he wore boots he could run in, if need be.
“Interesting combination, Hawk.” She held up his handgun and switchblade as if for auction. “Which do you prefer?”
His gaze glittered with challenge. “Whatever gets the job done fastest, sugar.” He drawled the last word the same way she had. As an invitation to more than a drug deal.
Snickers sounded from the warehouse and she fought against the anger snaking through her center. Undercover was the most demanding of all her roles as a cop, hands down. But with the addition her former—almost—lover, the man she’d foolishly hoped to make a future with?
Un-freakin’-believable.
They sat opposite one another, a rusty table between them. Dylan’s weapons lay flat on the surface. A curl of satisfaction that he’d missed the knife in her bra—or overlooked it—did little to warm her frozen heart, though. Because the two people facing one another were Monique and Hawk, not former colleagues and BFFs Veronica and Dylan. Not the close friends who’d agreed to take their platonic-not-really relationship to the next level of intimacy—and then hadn’t. And she was definitely not the naive woman who’d fallen for a man who had left Red Grove, and her life, without a trace.
She smiled at Dylan, imbuing it with a steel she didn’t have to fake. Their shared history made playing the distrustful crook easy. Monique wanted to make herself rich on the devil’s substances, with zero regard for the lives it cost.
“Your offer is a joke.” She wasn’t certain on the usual cut between traffickers, but he’d offered only 10 percent of profit.
“Well, if you want a bigger piece, I’ll cut you in thirty-seventy. But you have to agree to allow my product to supply your patrons. Only my product, though. No mix.” Dylan proved a formidable dealmaker, and his minions—all standing down behind him, weapons held across their chests—demonstrated the respect he commanded among the traffickers.
Just how long had he been at this?
Don’t you mean how long has he been back in North Dakota?
