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“You want me to get him out?”
Brody’s laugh was a soft gust.
“We got that covered. It ain’t gonna be fast, though. While we deal, we need someone to defuse the repercussions.”
Repercussions. Dominic stood at the window, glaring out at the soft morning sun as it bounced off the trees. The Candy Man was known for forcing cooperation by kidnapping and torturing his victims’ family members.
“I thought Sir was repercussion-free,” Dominic said quietly. Not that he was close to the guy, but he was sure someone had said the guy’s parents had died, leaving him all alone with his uptight self.
“Tap your repercussions.”
Castillo Security? If searching out Banks’s family required those kind of resources, did Dominic really need to defuse the situation? Wouldn’t the team have Banks out before it was an issue?
A heartbeat later, Dominic closed his eyes and bit back a groan.
Yeah. It was already an issue or Brody wouldn’t have dropped the order.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Top priority.”
“Who do I report to?”
The silence was only broken by static.
Then the line went dead.
Dominic knew it wasn’t a bad connection.
It was Brody’s way of telling him they’d just crossed over into black-ops territory. This particular mission wasn’t sanctioned, hadn’t been green-lighted—or probably even heard of—by the powers that be.
If he got in trouble, he was on his own.
If he needed help, he’d have to find it himself.
And if he screwed up, he’d be tidily disciplined.
The military was funny that way.
Dominic dumped his bowl into the sink, only taking a second to rinse it. He knew Rosa would be by to clean before shutting the cabin up until his return, and dirty dishes pissed her off.
He grabbed his duffel, checked his wallet for cash and pulled his jacket back on. As he straddled the Harley, he punched a button on his phone.
“Lucas, I got a job for you.”
* * *
GLEAMING JUST AS brightly as the glittering curtains and glistening stage, Lara Banks stood tall. Shoulders back, chest out and chin high. Sequins decorated the lush curves of her breasts and her shimmering skin reflected the multicolored lights.
Turquoise feathers floating around her thighs matched the ones on her headdress, a vivid contrast with the fuchsia lamé bikini bottoms and the gloves that stretched from her fingertips to the elbows she held bent at a forty-five-degree angle to hold up the feather fan at just the right angle to contrast with the rest of the girls in the line.
The music’s tempo changed, and Lara swept the fan down to her knee. The vivid purple ostrich plumes tickled her bare flesh as she swished the fan high again and hitch kicked with the rest of the chorus line. She breathed through her nose, her cheeks stretched in a smile so wide her cheeks hurt. As hard as it was to dance in high platform heels, some nights her face ached more than her arches.
She could have taken a position farther back on the stage. She’d still have had to smile, but not as big. But stage left, smack-dab in front of the audience, meant she had to show not just her teeth, but a whole lot of enthusiasm. But the first position paid more, and the enthusiasm didn’t have to be real.
Once she’d loved dancing. It’d been her life, her everything. She’d reveled in the training and embraced the discipline it took to make the body move in ways to which it wasn’t naturally inclined. She’d donned her first tutu at three, tap shoes at eight and, dammit, a showgirl’s headdress at twenty-two.
She’d given up her childhood for dance. Dating, the mall with girlfriends, even proms had all been happily sacrificed for dance. When push came to shove, she’d chosen dancing over her family. Not that they cared. It’d been eight years since she’d had contact with any of them, and she still wasn’t sure if they’d noticed she was gone.
But life, being the big ole kick in the butt that it was, had made sure that all her passion, all her sacrifices hadn’t mattered. A car accident four years ago had resulted in a bad break of her left femur and the end of her stint on Broadway. Fate and its wicked sense of humor had followed that up by sending her Mr. Perfect. And he’d been just that...perfectly charming, perfectly seductive, perfectly reasonable when he’d convinced her to drain her savings account and run away with him to his casino in Reno, where she’d choreograph his latest headlining show. Talk about a break.
It’d only taken her a week and all but her last hundred to realize he’d been full of shit. Well, that and walking into the room of the hotel he’d claimed to own and finding all of her stuff—and him—gone, and the bill waiting under the door. The only things he’d owned were a great ass, a charming smile and a BMW.
