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“How do I look?”
She’s wearing sky-high heels and a red dress that’s somehow classy and leaves little to the imagination. Her crimson hair falls around her shoulders in a smooth, shiny drape. She’s applied more eye makeup. It’s not too much, but it makes her light blue eyes pop, and there’s a light pink blush along her cheekbones that exudes youthful innocence.
“Gorgeous.” The dress is short, but it’s not so short she can’t sit comfortably. Still, it exposes plenty of creamy white thigh, and those long, lean legs are spectacular. “Are you carrying?”
“I can’t fit a gun in this dress.” She looks down at herself wistfully and lifts the hem of the dress as if double-checking her conclusion. But she’s right. She might be able to secure a small blade, but if she sat wrong, it might be detectable. And she and Gemma will be drinking. After the vineyard incident, lower risk is better.
“What about your handbag?”
“I have a Sig in it. But I’m debating taking it out. I’m worried that when I go to pay, she may see it.”
For what she has planned this evening, many CIA officers wouldn’t carry. One could argue she’s bringing more risk on herself by carrying a weapon.
“If Gemma sees it, tell her that after seeing you in that dress, I insisted you carry it.”
Her glossy lips curve into a pleased smile. “Good idea. I’ll play it off like I hate guns, but my overprotective husband feels better if I carry one.”
“You’ve got your earpiece in?”
She nods.
“And your trackers?”
“Yes…” Her mouth opens and she snaps it closed, like she was going to say more but she decided against it. “I have a tag in my clutch, and there’s a tracker on this bracelet.” She points at one of the gold bracelets on her wrist. It’s stacked with two tennis bracelets that glitter and scream money.
“If she talks you into going clubbing, you just remember you’re coming home to me.”
A wicked smile plays across her lips. I think she likes my protective side. “I don’t think she’s going to feel like hitting night clubs when she’s recovering from food poisoning. But, if I’m wrong, trust me when I say you don’t have anything to worry about.”
She sidles up to me. The tips of those nails circle the back of my neck, twisting the hair. Her velvety, hot kiss has me wanting to push her up against the wall, lift that scrap of material higher, and take her. I’m hard as rock at the thought, and the tease backs away, taking my breath with her. She wipes my lips with her fingers.
“If you don’t get out that door in the next thirty seconds, I can’t be held accountable for what happens.”
She gives me a coy smile, triple-checks the contents of the bag she’s carrying, and heads out. It’s a smaller bag, so small it’s surprising to me she can pull off carrying a handgun in it. The door closes behind her, and I stare at it, willing my erection down.
The plan is for her to tell Gemma I’m meeting up with a friend. That way, if I’m seen out and about, no one will think much of it. I check my Glock, slide it into the holster at my waist, put on a jacket that sufficiently covers it, insert my earpiece, and head out the back way, onto the street.
Twenty minutes later, after I’m certain no one is trailing me, I knock on the door of a utility van. Jack Sullivan pushes the door open, and I step inside. He glances behind me, then closes us in.
“You’ve got eyes on Sophia?” I ask, stepping into the van.
Ryan and Trevor are crowded on the far end. A woman with blue hair and a headset sits at a computer. I lean over to see her screen. She’s tapped into the hotel's security system, and the view is of the entrance to the lobby bar. I can make out the back of Sophia’s dress.
“We’ve got two women in the bar. Monitoring.”
“Good. Any word on where Rafael is?”
“We’re thinking he’s in the suite. Sent turndown service up, but Gemma turned it away, so we haven’t been able to get in the room.”
“Now that she’s away, you going to try again?”
Jack answers my question. “We have another team in a food service truck two blocks away. Staging for operatives in hotel employee attire. Once they leave for the restaurant, they’ll send someone else back in. If the room’s vacant, we’ll get it wired.” I give a quick nod. “Can we chat for a minute?”
At the front of the van, there’s a door to the portion of the van where the driver sits. He gestures to it. I don’t bother answering, but head to the private area he seems to have commandeered. Might as well get this over with.
The thin door closes with a click. There’s no way the others won’t hear what we say, but the section has the semblance of privacy. The space is crowded.
This has to be done, but I want to get back to the op. I’m particularly curious who Alejandro is meeting with here in LA. Or, more particularly, who he’s introducing his son to.
