Chapter Six
It’d been four hours since Melinda had been caught in the lift with Louis and Pierre, but every moment of their encounter had lived on replay in her brain ever since.
She’d dissected it, rehashed it. It’d fueled her fantasies all afternoon.
Erotic fantasies. She’d never experienced such a visceral reaction to a man before. To two men.
She leaned on the kitchen bench, her head in her hands as her jasmine tea steeped. Maybe she needed something stronger. To ease the craving, the need that had her clenching her thighs at the mere sight of one of them on the security feed. Footage she’d checked too damn often to be healthy.
Melinda poured her tea and headed back to her screens.
Work. That would fix this fascination she had with the twins.
Sliding into her chair, she pulled up the tab with her newest client—username JohnnyBeGood.
Johnny hadn’t been good. That was why he needed a new identity.
The women at the refuge couldn’t pay her for her skills, but Melinda was good at what she did so she could charge her other clients a lot of money. Clients like JohnnyBeGood.
On another screen, movement on the security feed caught her eye.
A couple from the eighth floor—Tom and Jacob—stepped from the lift, and she followed them from camera to camera as they passed her door and stopped at apartment thirty-five.
She checked the time. Six-fifty-eight. The door opened and Pierre, in black jeans and collared black shirt, the top few buttons undone to reveal a hint of dark chest hair, appeared.
Melinda leaned closer. Pierre gave the couple a rare smile and beckoned them inside.
He paused in the doorway and looked straight up at the camera. At her.
Melinda gasped and sat back, though she knew it was ridiculous. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t possibly know she was watching. Could he? Pierre stood there, long seconds passing. With a bite of his bottom lip that had her melting into her panties, he retreated inside and closed the door.
Her dark monitor, the one that had flashed its warning of a security breach, taunted her. That bad feeling was back again, stronger than ever. Was it time to warn her client? Send a message to MysticMage?
Melinda logged into her IRC channel, found the thread she was after and typed up a brief message to the woman about a possible compromise to her new identity.
She hovered her fingers over the keys, uncertain.
This was no time to be coy. She typed one last sentence, asking if her client had any connections in France, and if the names Montagne or Wolf Enterprises meant anything to her.
Her finger poised over the enter key, she glanced at the security feed.
The lift opened again, spilling out more guests.
A young lawyer from the floor above, still dressed in her power suit, and an older couple, home on a rare break from cruising the Mediterranean.
This time it was Louis who opened the door, his hair appealingly ruffled and an old lady’s floral apron unashamedly wrapped around his waist.
As with Pierre, after the guests had disappeared inside, he paused and looked directly at the camera. He grinned at her, his trademark smile. She watched the screen, enthralled. Then he winked. Melinda nearly fell off her chair.
They knew. That she was watching them through the security feeds. Who are these men?
There was one sure way to find out. It might be unimaginably stupid, and her mother had always complained she had too much tiger in her, but an invitation into their apartment wasn’t an opportunity she should waste.
She could spend days, weeks—maybe more—digging into Wolf Enterprises, hacking their devices, but one quick snoop through their apartment could give her all the information—and the access—she needed.
Then she’d know exactly why they were here.
Decision made, she hit send on her message, then changed into something more appropriate for a party.
If it was a little more feminine than her day-to-day wear, if she fussed over her hair a little too long, added lip gloss she hadn’t worn in months, it was because she wanted to fit in with the other guests.
Not because she was trying to impress two hot-as-Hades twins.
Melinda slung a purse over her shoulder with her keys, her phone and a thumb drive loaded with a few programs she could use to access any tech she found.
As an afterthought, she grabbed a second thumb drive she’d uploaded with a gorgeous little virus she’d come across a couple of months ago.
If she found anything incriminating, if they were up to something nefarious involving her, she could use it to destroy their operating systems with a few keystrokes.
She would have liked to take a laptop with her, but she doubted she could sneak that in undetected.
With a quick rub on Manchu’s head, she set her alarms then headed down the corridor to apartment thirty-five.
Pierre answered the door, the hint of a smirk on his lips as he led her into the living area. “I’m glad you came, Melinda. Drink? Beer? Wine? A mojito?”
She had no plans to drink too much. She was here for one thing and one thing only, but it would be odd for her not to at least have one. “White wine will be fine, thank you.”
She did a quick scan of the entry. No security system on the door.
Interesting, and a little surprising. They were confident.
Or they had nothing to hide. From the looks of the hideous floral sofa, dusky rose drapes and crocheted doilies, nothing else had changed since Mrs. Bellamy had moved out either.
“Interesting décor,” she said. “Not what I expected.”
Pierre handed her a glass of wine. “Louis and I haven’t come to a consensus on that yet.”
Or they didn’t plan to stay long.
Louis extricated himself from the attentions of the lawyer and headed her way, snatching up a tray with dip, crisps, olives, figs and roasted walnuts.
“Salut, Melinda. You came.” He held the tray out to her. “You must try my roasted nuts. I added a little extra spice. Just for you. You like it spicy, no?”
The challenge in his eyes was too much to resist. She took a couple of walnuts and slipped one in her mouth, making a show of biting down on it. Louis’ nostrils flared, Pierre edged a little closer.
Flavor burst on her tongue. Oh, my God. It was amazing. The crunch of the walnut, the sweetness of the honey, and the bite of heat from the chili. Melinda popped another one into her mouth, forgetting herself for a moment, closing her eyes and letting out a little moan.
“Is good, no?”
Melinda snapped her eyes open to Louis’ intense focus on her mouth. She took a sip of wine, hiding her flush and nodded. “Yes. They’re good.”
Louis beamed. “I knew you would like my nuts.” He nudged his brother. “She likes my nuts, Pierre.”
She tossed a few more into her mouth. This time, she kept her eyes open, and it was the fierce intensity, the held breaths of both twins that had her wanting to moan. She swallowed and licked her lips. They tracked the motion.
“Louis, Pierre.” Tom from the floor below broke their little bubble. “Please tell me you’re going to do something with this apartment. Change the drapes, maybe burn that sofa. I know of a good designer, if you’re interested.”
Melinda seized the opportunity to move away, mingling with the other guests.
She circled, smiling and chatting, scoping out the room.
No laptops, no phones. Nothing. Not a single personal item, nor anything that might hint at what they did for work.
What Wolf Enterprises specialized in. The whole time, the burn of twin gazes followed her.
She ducked into the kitchen. A quick glance told her she wouldn’t find what she was searching for here. When she returned to the living area, both Louis and Pierre were watching, waiting for her. Because they were hoping for something from her later, or because they were suspicious?
Melinda mingled, spending more time on small talk with her neighbors than she had in all the years she’d lived in her building.
After Joe from across the hall had regaled her with tales of his successes in the advertising world for far too long, Melinda set her glass down on the coffee table, made her excuses and headed down the hall to the bathroom.
In case anyone—Pierre or Louis specifically—happened to be watching, she did use the bathroom.
She checked the vanity cupboard, not expecting to find anything out of the ordinary.
Rolls of toilet paper, some shaving gear, a tube of toothpaste and toothbrushes—one neat and trim, the other shaggy.
Pierre and Louis. Twins they may be, but their personalities shone through.
She eased open the door and peeked out. Down the corridor, in the living area, people chatted.
Louis had his back to her, deep in animated conversation with Mr. Patel.
His hands moved as he talked, his whole body invested, as boisterous as his personality.
Pierre stood with a guy from the floor above, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other cradling a glass of red wine, a brief nod of agreement at something the guy said.
With light steps, Melinda ducked out of the bathroom and into the second bedroom.
She sucked in the hint of aftershave, and something else, something musky but not unpleasant.
It had her nipples pebbling and her panties dampening.
As her eyes adjusted to the meager light of the numerals on an old alarm clock, she could make out the unmade bed still bearing the imprint of a large male body, the floral duvet thrust back.
Louis? An image of him naked, sheets twisted about his calves, his hand wrapped around his cock, flashed into her mind. Heat suffused her face.
She should turn around. Retreat to the safety of the living room.
No. These men are up to something, and I need to know what it is.
She slammed a lid on her imagination and her libido, pulled out her phone, switched on the flashlight and turned to the open closet.
An overnight bag sat in the bottom, open, clothes spewing out.
She riffled through it, her hand lingering on a pair of soft black boxer briefs.
Louis would fill these out nicely. She thrust them aside and rooted through the rest of the clothes, mostly black.
What was it with these men and black? Was it some kind of uniform?
A reflection of their work? Black Ops? She checked the pockets of the bag.
Nothing. She ran her hands along the top shelf of the closet. No laptop.
Putting everything back as she’d found it, she abandoned the closet and checked the rest of the room.
Nothing. She peered out into the hallway.
No one was looking her way. She slipped into the other bedroom, the main bedroom.
Oh, this one definitely belonged to Pierre.
The bed was made, the closet was empty except for a neatly stored overnight bag, and his clothes—again almost all black—he’d folded neatly in the dresser.
She sucked in a breath. No boxer briefs.
No underwear of any kind. The man went commando.
All buttoned up on the outside, free underneath.
She pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants.
Commando and gray sweatpants.
She slammed the drawer shut. For goodness’ sake, she was almost panting.
Melinda checked the remaining drawers. No sign of a laptop or a phone.
She checked under the bed, under the pillows, under the mattress, careful to smooth out the duvet.
Nothing in the drawers of the bedside tables.
It stood to reason they would have their phones on them, but they’d both arrived with laptop bags, so where was their tech? And why were they hiding it?
“Melinda?”
Shit.
She shoved her phone back in her purse and slowly turned around. Pierre leaned against the door frame, silhouetted by the light in the hall. By his side, Louis.