Chapter 8 #3
A figure stands by the window, back turned, one hand resting on the windowpane that looks more ornamental than functional.
He’s tall, wearing a crisp black suit. As we enter, he turns, a slow smile curving across his lips.
His eyes move from Lincoln to me, and I feel pinned in place by the sheer weight of his attention.
“Welcome,” he says, voice a warm baritone that somehow conveys a subtle warning. “I’m Devereaux.”
Lincoln inclines his head. “I’m Lincoln Zane, and this is Isabel. We appreciate the invitation.”
Devereaux’s gaze lingers on me for a moment. “I couldn’t help but notice you two downstairs, asking about someone… special.”
“Morris Rolfe,” I say, stepping forward. My voice comes out more confident than I feel. “We heard he hosts parties here.”
Devereaux chuckles. “Indeed he does. And you want to attend, I assume?”
A spike of hope mingles with anxiety. “Yes,” Lincoln answers for us both. “We were told it’s invite-only.”
Devereaux nods, strolling to one of the velvet sofas and sitting gracefully.
He gestures for us to join him. “I like to keep certain gatherings… exclusive. Rolfe is a valuable member. He has his own circle of friends and acquaintances.” Then Devereaux stares at me, almost like he’s studying me.
“You look very familiar. What’s your last name? ”
I blink, wondering if I should let him know I’m Dean’s sister. I know Dean knows him. It would be so simple to tell him of our connection and secure an invite instantly. However, I don’t want to clue Dean in on what we’re doing here.
He wouldn’t understand. At all. Overprotective brother vibe and all that.
I quickly shift, looking him directly in the eyes. “Zane.”
We move to the sofa across from him, my thigh brushing Lincoln’s as we settle. I notice the tension in Lincoln’s shoulders, the way he’s prepared to move at any second if things turn south.
“So,” Devereaux says, “I asked you up here because I take this club’s privacy seriously.
A while back we had a rough time at people getting in and murdering my staff.
I have many walks of life that are members here, and when a new couple comes in asking a lot of questions it makes me curious.
I see my wife vouched for you. How do you know her? ”
I swallow. Hard. “Through a friend of a friend. I don’t personally know your wife, but am good friends with somebody on the force.”
Devereaux smiles, but it never reaches his eyes. “Ah, I see. You both seem like a nice couple, but I’m not sure if Morris Rolfe’s parties are your type of pleasure.”
Lincoln clears his throat. “We’re exploring.”
Devereaux nods. “Right. So, Morris Rolfe is a good way to explore?”
My mind races. I recall the text message about a password: Angelus. But is it enough? “We want to do business with him,” I say carefully. “Word around town is he’s… resourceful.”
Devereaux’s lips twitch. “Resourceful indeed. And what sort of business would that be?”
I swallow, feeling Lincoln’s steady presence at my side. “Information,” I say, picking my words slowly. “We have certain… security needs that require someone with his talents.”
Devereaux studies me, then Lincoln. “And you think dropping by unannounced will endear you to him?”
“We hoped a password might help,” I say, heart pounding. “Angelus.”
The temperature in the room seems to shift. Devereaux’s eyebrows lift, and he tilts his head. Then, unexpectedly, he bursts into a laugh—low and rich, like he finds the whole thing amusing. “So you do have friends in high places.”
I clamp my hands together in my lap to keep them from trembling. “We know people,” I manage.
Devereaux’s laughter fades, replaced by a contemplative expression. “Very well. I’ll see to it that Rolfe hears of your interest. If he wishes, you’ll get your invite.”
Lincoln’s shoulders relax a fraction. “Thank you.”
Devereaux waves a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. Morris is… particular. He might not trust you right away. You’ll have to prove yourselves worthy. Until then, enjoy my club, spend money, indulge a bit.” He flashes a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s what Club Greed is for, after all.”
I try to keep my breathing steady as we stand. We exchange polite farewells, and Devereaux’s man in the charcoal suit shows us out. My mind reels—this is a major breakthrough, but it also puts us squarely on Rolfe’s radar. We won’t be able to sneak up on him so easily now.
Back in the hallway, I feel Lincoln’s hand on my arm, steadying me. I’m not sure if it’s from the adrenaline or the lingering effect of dancing with him earlier, but my knees feel wobbly.
He leans in. “You all right?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just… it’s a lot.”
His fingers tighten reassuringly. “It was smart not to mention your real last name. Dean would have heard about what we’re doing here in an instant and forced us back to the safe house.” He steps closer. “I’m all for this plan, Isabel, but I also want you to know that we need to be safe.”
I nod. “Right, of course.”
We descend the marble staircase, returning to the pulsing chaos of the club. This time, the music feels louder, the lights more disorienting. My dress clings to my body, and my skin still tingles where Lincoln’s hands touched me on the dance floor.
We find our way back to the bar, half out of necessity—the crowd below is too dense to talk strategy without shouting.
By the time we reach the mirrored counter, my heart has finally stopped racing like a runaway train.
The same platinum-haired bartender meets our gaze, and I wave her off politely.
I’ve had enough sugar and alcohol for one night.
Lincoln checks his phone, though it’s doubtful we’ll get any reception in here. “We should call it a night,” he says quietly, leaning close so only I can hear. “Devereaux’s making contact with Rolfe. We wait for word.”
I glance around, part of me not wanting to leave just yet. The club’s heady atmosphere has wound me up, and a raw, frustrated energy still buzzes through my veins. But I know he’s right. We’ve done everything we can for now.
“Okay,” I say, turning to face him. “Let’s go.”
He rests a hand at my waist, guiding me through the throng of dancing bodies.
I feel oddly grateful for his solid presence—without it, I might be swept away by the crush of people.
As we near the entrance, I catch one last glimpse of the roped-off area, the shadowy booths behind the curtains.
My imagination swirls with questions: Could Rolfe be in there right now, watching us? Or is he still on his way?
We push open the heavy doors, stepping into the cool night air. The sudden contrast makes me shiver, and Lincoln, ever the gentleman, drapes his jacket over my shoulders. My heart does a little flip at the gesture.
“You did good in there,” he says quietly as we walk to the SUV which is waiting for us as the valet stands by the driver’s door. “Quick on your feet.”
I smirk, grateful for the praise. “You too, Lincoln.”
He slips the valet some cash, and we climb into the SUV.
The engine purrs to life. As he pulls away from Club Greed, I find myself casting one last glance at the ominous building.
A part of me wants to dive right back inside, to feel the pulsing music under my skin and the press of Lincoln’s body against mine on the dance floor.
But that’s not who I am—at least, not usually.
I breathe in, letting the tension slowly leave my body.
The mission isn’t finished, not by a long shot.
We’re just getting started, and we’ve set something in motion that might lead us straight to Morris Rolfe.
Yet I can’t shake the lingering desire between me and Lincoln.
Every time his eyes flick over to me while he navigates the dark streets, my nerves buzz like a live wire.
“So…” he says, voice a low murmur. “You still okay?”
I rest my head against the seat, meeting his gaze in the dim glow of passing streetlights. “Yeah,” I answer, a small smile playing on my lips. “More than okay. That was… unexpected.”
He nods, his attention flicking back to the road. “We’ll probably hear from Devereaux soon, if Rolfe’s interested.”
“Right,” I say, suddenly aware of how my hands keep clenching in my lap, craving some sort of outlet for all the adrenaline still coursing through me.
Silence falls, thick with unspoken thoughts. We’ve just waded into a world of secret parties, clandestine deals, and raw desire. I can’t deny the thrill, the rush of walking that edge. But there’s another edge I’m dancing on too—the one between me and Lincoln.
I close my eyes, the memory of his hand on my thigh, his breath against my ear, flickering behind my eyelids. The line between pretense and reality is blurring, and I’m not sure how much longer we can pretend it’s all for the mission.
Yet for tonight, at least, I’ll let the hum of the engine and the soft hush of the tires on the road lull me into a momentary calm. Tomorrow, we’ll face whatever comes next—together.