During the Storm (Brookhaven Lake #3)

Chapter 1 Alessia

The sign on the front door says Private Event. I walk right past it, ignoring it the same way that I ignored months of warning signs that my ex-husband was cheating on me because I didn’t want to believe it was true.

Inside the restaurant, it's warm and loud and exactly the kind of bar that keeps mistletoe hanging past Christmas Day out of sheer laziness. I clock it immediately, a dusty little sprig near the men's restroom, and file that away for later. I’m certain I can use it to my advantage.

I slide onto a barstool near the back, away from the loud voices and celebration, shrug off my coat, and let it drape over the back of the chair.

A quick tug of my off-the-shoulder top a little lower, a toss of my loose, dark curls over one shoulder, and I'm ready to work.

There are at least a hundred people in here tonight and most of them are staring curiously at me which means I need to pretend to belong.

The single bartender's name tag says Cody. I turn up all the charm I can muster and lean forward on my elbows, being sure my full chest is visible without giving too much away.

"Cody," I say, hitting him with my best smile and a bat of my dark, mascara-covered lashes. "How's McKayla's daughter? Back from Europe yet?"

His brows furrow. "Um, she’s doing well. I'm sorry, have we met before?"

We haven't. But the cab ride into Manhattan gave me plenty of time to research the bar manager, and her daughter's glamorous European trip was all over her social media. She should really make those posts private. It’s a safety concern and I would know.

I use that kind of information to do research before each case.

Unfortunately for me, my target tonight doesn’t have a social media presence or really any online presence at all unless you consider his recent feature in Property Today which talked about how he’s been ranked in the top ten billionaires under forty category.

I keep my expression easy, my hand covering his on the bar top like we’re old friends catching up and not complete strangers.

"Yes, I was in here with McKayla a few months ago. I'm an old friend of hers, silly."

His face clears like that makes sense. It shouldn’t.

"Sure… yes… I remember you…?"

"Christina," I say, and hold out my hand for a shake.

Rule number one: never give your real name when you're working. The last thing I need is my new kindergarteners finding out their teacher works as some knockoff Kim Possible on the weekends because she’s trying to pay off her divorce debt.

"Christina," he repeats, his eyes dropping straight to my chest before he places his hand in mine and squeezes.

Predictable. Completely and utterly predictable. This is why I never do surveillance on women. They can’t be distracted this easily by a nice pair of tits.

"Drinks are on the house tonight, Tina."

Christina was fine.

I slap my palm on the cool, wooden surface. "Great! I'll take a martini then."

He heads off to make it and I spin on my stool to observe the room. The space is packed, warm, and loud, mostly male employees who look like they just came from the job site. Many are still wearing their dirty clothes and a few hard hats.

I notice the single woman in the crowd. She catches my eye with a look that says she knows I don't belong here at their holiday company party, drinking on her boss’s dime. I smile anyway. She gives a small nod and waves like she’s decided I’m okay to stay.

The group is loud and just big enough for me to blend in but not too large that I’ll miss my target. And as if I manifested his presence, the front door opens, and in walks Roman Carpenter. It’s a name fit for a soldier. And he looks like one, too.

Dark shirt buttoned all the way up except those two crucial ones at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that scream I do my own heavy lifting. Jet-black hair that’s longer, in that way guys are styling it these days. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a nice, dark bit of scruffy beard.

He moves through his employees with the easy confidence of a man who's never once questioned whether he belongs somewhere, accepting high-fives and knocking knuckles while a group of extra drunk employee’s holler ‘big boss man!’ at him from across the room.

I roll my eyes and spin back to face the bar and take a deep breath.

Men like him make me sick. All muscle and confidence, tall and capable of succeeding at anything they try.

It’s like they’ve had the world handed to them and rarely have to think about the future.

He’s the kind of man who knows he could have almost any woman he wants with little effort, and they do exactly that.

They win the genetic lottery and spend the rest of their lives cashing in on it, exploiting the women who fall for them without realizing the trap.

Guys who think trust is just a word and that it’s their mission to put their dicks in as many women as possible and gaslight you into feeling like you’re the crazy one all while they lie and manipulate.

Sometimes they cheat. And sometimes they don’t. But they always plant insecurities, nurture them, and convince you that they are the prize in the relationship. Until one day you wake up and remember it was always you.

I know this type. I married this type, more or less, and I have the divorce debt and the five years of failed IVF to prove it.

Not that any of that matters tonight. Tonight, Roman is just a job.

Nothing more. Sure, I don’t know Kacey, the woman who paid for tonight’s case personally, but I know enough.

There’s a reason she’s feeling vulnerable in her relationship with him, and it starts and ends with her dating a guy like that.

But no amount of disgust for the male race is going to stop me from doing what I came here to do.

I’m going to have to lure him away from his holiday party, tempt him to make a move on me, and then get the footage I need before running.

Which means I need to turn up the sexy, just enough to catch his attention and convince him to prove exactly what kind of man he is. A cheater and a liar.

Shouldn’t be difficult.

I smooth my expression and get ready to reel him over to where I’m seated.

Except I don't even have to try because before I turn, he’s right there, claiming the seat beside me at the bar.

His warm and heady scent surrounds my chilled body.

It’s expensive cologne, I’m certain, and when he speaks, I feel it in my core.

"You're not one of my employees." His voice is lower than I expected. A deep, rumbling timbre that I feel somewhere in my chest, like a bass note through a speaker.

I take my time turning to face him. And holy hell.

Up close, this man doesn’t just ooze sex appeal, he’s drowning in it.

His hazel eyes are the color of roasted chestnuts, warm and rich, yet sharp enough to cut through a lie.

A thick, dark beard hugs his strong jawline, trimmed with precision but rugged enough to remind you he’s all man and probably spends more time working on the jobsite than keeping up with his appearance.

And that chest, broad and solid, looks like it could crush me flat if he laid on top of me like a weighted blanket.

My ex-husband Brian wasn’t this big, and I can guarantee if he’d laid on me, I’d still be able to breathe.

But this guy looks like he’d suffocate me in the most delicious way possible.

Too bad he’s an absolute piece of shit who’s never getting the chance to touch me beyond what I decide is necessary for Kacey’s case.

"You're right," I say, lifting my martini for an exaggerated sip. "I'm not."

His hands flex against the bar top and that’s when I notice the tattoos, the veins, how they look like the size of a catcher’s mitt.

"Then what are you doing here? Didn’t you see the sign? It's a private event."

"I'm aware."

One brow lifts and he waits. I stay quiet, letting the silence do the work for me. Men like this always crack first. And when they do, they usually say something they regret which will do my job for me.

He does.

"What are you drinking tonight?"

I suppress a smile. "A martini."

He leans past me to catch the bartender's eye. "Hey, Cody, get the lady another martini. On my tab. Please."

"Sure thing, boss," Cody replies.

"So," I say, letting my voice drop just enough to cause him to lean forward, "you're the boss then?"

"I own this bar." He settles onto the stool beside me, angling his whole body in my direction like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at despite his entire company being behind him now. His knee nudges mine and I know it’s not accidental.

I hope the camera planted in my shirt caught that connection.

"And the building next door that we're renovating, too. "

"Impressive." I give him a slow smile and watch him practically glow under it. "Maybe you could show me the building sometime."

He hums like he's considering it. "It's a bit of a mess right now. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt."

A bit of a mess? I was inside that building an hour ago in a hardhat and thigh-high boots, creeping through the darkened tenth floor to make sure he was actually working and not pre-cheating on Kacey before heading here.

Unfortunately for me, it was just him and another employee talking about pendant lights and paint colors, nothing more scandalous than a disagreement over interior design and some discussion around how they desperately need to hire a designer, or they’ll continue to be behind on their plans to open sometime next year.

The bartender returns with my second drink, setting it in front of me. “Here you go, Christina.”

I watch as Roman turns my name over in his mind.

“Thank you.” I smile. The microphone tucked discreetly into my shirt is live, the camera rolling. Time to get things moving.