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“Money! Hand it over.”
All three of her companions started digging and shoved money into her hand. “Cover me.” Jumping out of the van, she rushed over to the woman. The side door opened, and Gage and Logan watched her back. “I’ll give you…” She counted the money fast. “…five hundred for your clothes.”
Startled, the woman stared at her for a moment. “What is this? Are you crazy?”
“Yes. Seven hundred.” Jessica jumped down and slapped two more bills into her hand.
“All—right.”
“Strip,” Ophelia said as she tucked the money into her jeans and yanked off her shirt, shoving it at the woman. The woman pulled off her denim vest and yanked her black tank top up over her head, her boobs flopping.
Ophelia ignored the men behind her and pulled off her bra, then donned the tank top and the vest. She made a gimme with her fingers. “The cross too.” It was black and stylized. It would sit right into her cleavage.
She grabbed her phone out of the back pocket and reached for the tab of her jeans. Pulling them down, she stepped out of both the jeans and her sandals, which she then exchanged for the stranger’s short denim skirt and stylishly studded black ankle boots.
After stamping her foot into the second boot, she took off running, pulling at her hair until it came tumbling down. The woman walked away quickly.
“Ophelia. What are you doing?” Jessica asked.
“Stalling for time. Just go with it!” she said firmly. “This will work.” She hoped like hell it would work.
She slammed into the bar, breathing hard, swinging her phone around. “Where is he?” She demanded loudly. “I just talked to him.” She stared into the shocked faces and demanded, “I know he’s here.”
Dos set down his pool cue and his sharp blue eyes went over her like a laser, the admiration in his glance evident. He walked over until he was in front of her.
His gaze lowered to her breasts, the fabric barely holding them in. “This is a private club. Who is it you’re looking for?”
Dos and every man in there moved near, wanting a closer look, and she allowed them with the grace and poise of a woman used to this kind of attention. The tank top clung to her breasts, accentuating her nipples, and the low-slung skirt highlighted her flat belly and the lushness of her hips. This outfit was made for her kind of distraction.
The men couldn’t keep the lascivious intent out of their eyes—if they were even trying to.
“Dean Teller. I know he’s here and he was supposed to take my mom to the doctor’s. She missed her appointment. So, where the fuck is he?”
“Who exactly are you?”
She raised her chin, putting fire in her eyes. “His old lady. Sherry Cherry.”
Dos chuckled. Good. She’d hoped the name would amuse them, disarm them enough for her to continue her act. She was nothing but a mad little cupcake.
She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, my mom had a sense of humor. Where is he?” she shouted and started toward the back. Men came out of the doors as Dos grabbed her arm and swung her around.
“You are a spitfire. I like that in a woman.”
“Babe,” Dean said from the back of the room, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
She turned slowly, lifting her gaze to his. “Don’t you ‘babe’ me,” she groused. She felt something clutch through her, seizing her heartbeat, her muscles. He shouldn’t have this much effect on her, but those dark eyes and hair were a force to be reckoned with.
In that moment, everything seemed to freeze.
There was no doubt in her heart. She loved him.
Deeply.
Always had.
His eyes took on a feral gleam as they took in her outfit.
“My mom missed her appointment. I’m so pissed.”
