Public Enemy, Undercover Lover

Prologue

ISAAC

Duke Ellington’s “Mood Indigo” played over the record player—a real player—as Isaac Ford sat beside a glittering Christmas tree, sipping wine from what had to be old family crystal since there had only been one like it in the cabinet.

Not the most seasonally appropriate song choice, but when he found the player, throwing on some Christmas medley hadn’t appealed as much as good old Duke.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, and Isaac was waiting for an old friend.

“Thanks, Candace,” Andrew Wen sighed into his cell phone as he entered the quaint little home, throwing down his messenger bag and turning on the lights.

He didn’t yet notice he had a guest or that music was playing.

“I’m not sad. I’m angry. Yes, I know it isn’t good to be angry at Christmas.

It isn’t good to be working at Christmas either. Take a break for once.

“Yeah, I might still fly down to see my dad, but I don’t think Steve can make it anymore with this prison—” He cut off as he pivoted and finally saw Isaac, who offered him a playful wave.

Andrew was third-generation Chinese American and gorgeous, bright and boyish with a clean-shaven face, dark eyes, and short, black hair that was always the right amount of tousled.

He looked even more gorgeous when his eyes hardened.

“Sorry, Candace. Something’s come up. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The phone dropped at the same time he rushed Isaac, moving so fast, he was practically a blur, but Isaac didn’t fight when Andrew wrenched him from the chair and slammed him back into the fireplace. Thankfully, he’d set the glass down or there may have been an unfortunate crash.

“Ford,” Andrew growled, gripping the lapels of the jacket Isaac had stolen to hide his jumpsuit, “are you out of your mind—”

“I’ll accept your gratitude for this house call,” Isaac interrupted, “in the form of not turning me over to the authorities until you’ve heard me out.”

“Gratitude?” Andrew scoffed.

Isaac didn’t struggle but stared back, unflinching, at the younger man.

He wasn’t quite twice Andrew’s age but old enough to miss being in his prime, forty now, though his platinum hair meant the few silvers sneaking in were easily hidden.

He liked Andrew’s youth and deceptively thin body that held an impressive strength, like one of those strong men at a Cirque du Soleil show who could lift another’s weight in one hand without trembling.

The trembling one tonight was Isaac, feeling a tingle travel up his spine at the manhandling, just like the last time Andrew had him pressed up against a hard surface.

Although that had been to arrest him.

“Were you paying attention to who broke out tonight?” Isaac asked. “Hardened criminals, like Jareth Boyega, even worse than his brother who skipped town last year.”

“You’re here to warn me? I already know Boyega and the others escaped—with you. That’s not getting you out of going back to prison. Theft, property damage—”

“Yet not a single assault and still no thank you.”

“There were assaults tonight from that prison break,” Andrew barked.

“Not from me,” Isaac said seriously.

Andrew crowded closer to his body, staring him down.

The fire between them had always been palpable, leaving Isaac wondering what might tip the balance toward a different sort of sparring match, not that he thought he’d ever get the chance to find out since Andrew had a girlfriend, the elusive reporter, Olivia Park, which was so cliché—the detective and his reporter girlfriend—that it churned Isaac’s stomach.

From the novelty, definitely not jealousy.

“I know where they’re holding up,” Isaac spoke over Andrew’s anger before it could escalate.

“I had nothing to do with that prison break. Just got dragged along for the ride. I came here for help. I was almost at my release date, Detective, which you should know since you’re the one who put me away.

Get me out of this, and I’ll tell you everything. ”

The fury stayed on Andrew’s face another moment, but then it crumbled, and he stepped back, slowly uncurling his fingers from Isaac’s jacket. “I’m not a detective anymore.”

“I’m gone eighteen months, and you quit? Must have been boring without me.”

“Well, the papers sure have missed raving about Artifice.”

Back when there were dozens of unsolved thefts throughout the city, Artifice was indeed what they called Isaac, like some infamous supervillain.

Not that Andrew had been able to prove he and Artifice were one and the same.

He’d cracked Isaac’s code for using the classifieds to contact his buyers—ingenious in the digital age, all coded messages, and only in physical papers—but none of it could be verified.

Andrew only caught him by showing up at one of his drop sites.

“You’re really a civilian now?”

“Security.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Business consulting. But my brother’s still on the force.”

Steven Wen. Not nearly as entertaining.

“If you really mean this, Ford, if it’s not some trick, I’ll call him.”

“No trick.” Isaac raised his hands, easing away from the fireplace.

“I did my time. I just had bad luck.” Not that he planned to turn a new leaf completely, but he had no desire to add to his sentence for something he hadn’t wanted to be a part of.

The target he’d put on his back by turning the others in wouldn’t be anything he wasn’t used to.

“Give me the details. I’ll call Steve. I’ll make sure he cuts you a deal if the intel pans out and you turn yourself in tomorrow morning. Until then, you’re staying right here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Here? Think of all we might get up to, Dete—Andrew,” he corrected, curling his lips into a smirk.

A faint flush of color touched Andrew’s cheeks, like he was still steaming mad, but Isaac knew the real reason.

Andrew was strong and resourceful and didn’t let anyone push him around, but only a handful of flirtatious taunts could have him turning beet-red in seconds.

One of Isaac’s favorite pastimes had been seeing how dark he could make that fair complexion blush.

“I’m exhausted,” Andrew deflected. “I don’t want to deal with bringing you down to the station tonight. They’ll have enough to worry about rounding up the other escapees.”

Isaac returned to the armchair and retrieved the glass of wine from the end table. “I gave them the slip, but the others were headed for the old Santucci Warehouse. You have plenty of time to call in the cavalry. Lovely glassware, by the way. Why just the one?”

Andrew twitched watching him sip from the crystal. “It was my mother’s. From my parents’ wedding. Steve has the other one.”

“Apologies.” Isaac set the glass down with a more delicate touch. “She passed? If she picked out the set, she had good taste.”

“Yeah…” Andrew glanced away. “Look—”

A ringtone erupted in the foyer.

Scowling, Andrew stomped back over to pluck it from the floor. Isaac saw the screen blinking brightly: Olivia.

“The girlfriend,” he sneered. “You go ahead and answer. I won’t give away your curious houseguest.”

But Andrew hit decline and forced the call to voicemail. “I need to call Steve. You want me to follow through on this deal, pour me some of that wine. And can you change the record to something else? I hate this crap.”

He went upstairs with angry plods, which Isaac was fairly certain had nothing to do with him. It had been eighteen months. Isaac figured Andrew and Olivia could be married by now, or at least engaged, but as he looked under the Christmas tree, there were no presents with her name on them.

The blasphemy of Andrew hating this music, however, made him purse his lips as he searched for another record. He decided on Joni Mitchell’s Blue, since “River” counted as a Christmas song.

Isaac hadn’t known before when Andrew might return home, but now he could relax and take his time looking around.

He got the wine from the kitchen and a Santa-shaped mug he couldn’t resist snagging from the cabinets, keeping the crystal for himself.

He’d treat it with respect, but he was still a scoundrel.

Throughout the small house, Andrew’s Christmas decorations were minimal; no lights outside, just a wreath on the door, the tree in the corner, and some tinsel over the mantelpiece.

His home’s main decor seemed to be bookcases filled with comics, novels, his records, and DVDs, with some shelves covered in action figures and model sets.

He had an array of memorabilia that fit his age group—the comics, anime, sci-fi movies and fantasy novels—but a good amount of it was classic, high-quality storytelling with subtext and surprise endings that Isaac felt both didn’t fit a detective, but also would only benefit how a good detective figured out cases.

No wonder Andrew had caught him if he grew up consuming content like Watchmen from a young age.

“Really?” Andrew deadpanned when Isaac passed him the mug of wine, having returned in sweats and a T-shirt, and bringing down a similar ensemble for him. “That’s for cocoa.”

“And you asked for wine. I couldn’t find anything else clean.”

“It’s been a long few days, okay?” Andrew took a hearty swig from the mug before passing Isaac the extra clothes. “Steve doesn’t like me letting you stay here, but he agreed to work with the DA if you go in tomorrow.”

“Much appreciated.” Sliding off his jacket, Isaac started to undo his jumpsuit.

“There’s a bathroom right—”

“I spent a year and a half taking group showers. I don’t have much modesty.” Isaac kicked his shoes away and stripped the jumpsuit down his legs, leaving him in simple but hugging underwear with the lights of the Christmas tree reflecting new colors off his tattoos.

Isaac was covered almost everywhere below the neck. He’d always liked the contrast of dark ink to his light hair and pale blue eyes.

Andrew’s gaze said he did too.

“Trouble in paradise?”