2. Lyric
CHAPTER 2
LYRIC
I froze, hand hovering over the weapon strapped to my thigh, pulse spiking as a man strode into the room like he had every right to be there. My first thought: security. My second: assassin. My third?
Damn, he was hot.
Not ideal, brain. Not the time.
“Ms. Deveraux,” he said. “I don’t appreciate you disappearing on me.”
Moreau’s guards materialized from everywhere like shadows, but the stranger wasn’t intimidated. His focus was entirely on me. Like he knew me. The real me.
But that was impossible.
I’d never seen him before in my life. He was tall and heavily muscled, with scruffy dark hair and eyes the color of the cognac I hadn’t touched. He carried himself like a soldier and wore a well-tailored suit designed to disappear.
Moreau turned to me. “You know this man?”
Nope. But I had my suspicions that Ethan Voss was behind this.
I rose smoothly, setting my untouched glass aside and adopting the irritated expression of an heiress whose plans had been interrupted. “My head of security, apparently under the misapprehension that I need constant supervision. I believe I made it clear I didn’t require your services this evening, Mr. Mercer.”
It was the first name that came to mind. Mr. Mercer had been my piano teacher as a kid, but this guy definitely didn’t look like him.
A piano teacher wouldn’t have the lazy, predatory confidence of a man who knew exactly how much space he took up and dared anyone to challenge him for it.
A piano teacher wouldn’t have a body built for violence.
And a piano teacher certainly wouldn’t make heat curl low in my stomach.
Oh, perfect.
Now my libido decides to come out of hibernation and take notice of a guy?
Annoying. So annoying.
I stared at the man. Don’t ruin this. Just go with it. Please, for the love of God, play along.
The stranger moved further into the room. “Your father pays me to disagree with you when necessary, Ms. Deveraux.”
“ This man is your head of security?” Moreau waved off his guards and closed the case containing the drone schematics. He passed it to Vidal, who carried it into the other room and put it into a lockbox.
Goddammit.
Now I’d have to find something else to put the tracker on.
Raising my chin, I pinned my supposed head of security with a withering glare. “The man is a hammer in search of a nail. My father insisted after the Dubai incident. I didn’t think it was necessary, but... here we are.”
A beat of silence.
Then two.
Dubai wasn’t in my dossier. It was a lie, but hopefully one delivered with enough conviction that Moreau would believe it.
Moreau’s eyes flicked to the intruder, then to me, then back to the intruder. “I see. How did you get past my guards?”
“I’m paid not to be seen,” the man—‘Mercer’—drawled, his voice a rough rasp that did absolutely nothing to help my libido situation. “And your guards are better at looking intimidating than actually securing the perimeter.”
Moreau did not like that. A frown tried to wrinkle his brow, but Botox kept it smooth, so instead he just looked constipated.
“Mr. Mercer is excellent at his job,” I added, “but terrible at understanding boundaries.”
The man’s mouth curved in a quicksilver smile. “Boundaries are luxuries for people who don’t have enemies, Ms. Deveraux.”
He stepped closer, and I caught his scent. It wasn’t expensive cologne like Moreau wore. It was soap and leather and clean sweat and so very… male. His hand came to rest at the small of my back. The touch was warm through the silk of my gown, just as proprietary as Moreau’s had been, but it didn’t give me the same chill.
“You need to come with me, ma’am.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and his fingers pressed against my spine. A warning? A signal? I couldn’t be sure.
“Now.”
The look in his amber eyes held me frozen, a message there I couldn’t quite decipher but understood was important.
I took a moment to pull myself together, making sure my Elisa persona was firmly in place before facing Moreau again.
“Perhaps we can continue our discussion tomorrow,” I suggested, allowing regret to color my tone. “I find your proposal intriguing.”
Moreau studied us both for a long, uncomfortable time before inclining his head. “Of course. I have a private cabana at the beach club. Join me for a light lunch? One o’clock.”
“Sounds lovely,” I said, offering my hand.
Instead of shaking it, Moreau pressed his lips to my knuckles, lingering a few seconds longer than necessary. “Until tomorrow, then.” When he straightened, his eyes were on my supposed head of security instead of me. “Mr. Mercer, I trust you’ll take good care of our mutual interest.”
The stranger’s fingers flexed against my spine. “That’s what I’m paid for.” He guided me toward the elevator with firm pressure on my back. Every instinct screamed to stay and plant the tracker, but Moreau’s suspicions were already aroused. One wrong move could blow my cover entirely.
“A pleasure meeting you, Ms. Deveraux,” Moreau called after us. “I look forward to continuing our negotiations.”
The threat beneath his words was unmistakable. He’d be investigating “the Dubai incident” before our lunch. I had less than twenty-four hours to patch the hole in my cover story.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was excruciating.
The moment the doors slid shut, I stepped out of the stranger’s reach. Tension knotted the muscles in my neck and shoulders, and a headache throbbed in warning at the back of my skull. I wanted answers, but didn’t dare speak yet. Cameras were watching, and Moreau would absolutely comb through every frame. I had to stay in character. Cool. Controlled. Unbothered.
Meanwhile, the so-called bodyguard beside me stood with infuriating ease, his hands folded in front of him like he hadn’t just steamrolled into my op and detonated weeks of prep work with a single dramatic entrance. His face was a mask of professional indifference, but there was something in his eyes, wild and sharp-edged.
I hated how aware of him I was.
When the elevator dinged, he moved again, his hand returning possessively to the small of my back like it belonged there, infuriatingly warm through the silk of my dress. I wanted to elbow him in the ribs. I also wanted to lean back into that touch.
God, was I so starved for sex that this was all it took? Sure, it had been almost a year since I’d seen any action beyond my vibrator, but come on. One attractive guy with boundary issues, and my body was suddenly all in?
Pathetic.
Focus, Lyric.
We stepped into the gilded lobby of the H?tel de Paris Monte-Carlo, and by tacit agreement, we headed outside. I couldn’t risk saying the things I needed to say in the hotel. I hadn’t finished checking my suite for bugs, and I didn’t dare risk anyone eavesdropping.
The night was balmy, kissed with the salt-sweet breeze off the sea and perfumed by manicured gardens that wrapped around the square in lush, deliberate excess.
We passed the famous fountain in front of the hotel, its marble nymphs frozen mid-dance beneath a spray of sparkling water. Lights shimmered across the surface like scattered diamonds. Tourists lingered near the edges, taking selfies, laughing too loudly. A Bugatti idled nearby, a woman in couture climbing out with a laugh like broken glass. Monte Carlo at midnight was all pageantry.
My “bodyguard” didn’t say a word as we moved down the steps and left the facade behind. I could feel his gaze even though he stayed a step behind and to the right, exactly where a bodyguard should be. But that wasn’t what he was, and we both knew it.
We turned down a quiet side street where boutique storefronts were shuttered and cobblestones replaced the polished marble. The buzz of the square faded, replaced by the softer sound of our footsteps and the distant echo of a Vespa engine somewhere near the harbor.
The air here was cooler, realer, and I felt like I could finally breathe again. But I couldn’t enjoy it.
I let the cork pop on my fury, and I dropped Elisa’s accent entirely. My real voice cracked through the night like a whip as I spun on him. “Who the hell are you?”
He grinned. It was a slow, lazy pull of his lips that was absolutely nothing like Moreau’s practiced smile. This was genuine amusement, like he found my anger entertaining. Like I was a kitten hissing at a wolf.
Yeah, well. This kitten had claws, and she was dying for a chance to use them.
“Flynn Shepherd,” he said, extending his hand like we were meeting at a damn cocktail party. “But the team calls me Outlaw.”
Outlaw. I’d seen that codename attached to other Edge missions. He was an independent contractor they brought in when they needed extra muscle. A lone wolf type.
No one had mentioned he’d be joining this op.
“Outlaw,” I repeated, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Yeah, you look the part.”
“And you are the lovely, deadly Siren. You also look the part.” If he was annoyed that I didn’t shake his hand, he didn’t show it. He simply hooked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels with a devil-may-care grin. “I’m your partner.”
“I don’t have a partner.”
“You do now.” His smile widened, showcasing a dimple in his cheek and setting off a weird fluttery feeling in my belly. I hated it. The smile. The sensation. Hated that I suddenly noticed the way his shirt stretched over broad shoulders and lean muscle. Hated that I wondered what he’d look like without the suit.
Seriously. What was wrong with me?
I should be furious. No, I was furious. He’d nearly blown my cover and wrecked the mission, all while waltzing in like a knight in pressed Italian armor when I did not need saving.
I should’ve punched him.
“The Grim Reaper sent me,” he added, an infuriating twinkle in his eyes.
Of course he fucking did.