Chapter 5 Ben
Ben
Dallas, Texas
Monday night
The alarm spreading through me is shifting into panic. Every worst-case scenario barrels through my brain. Did someone make
us? Has our mission been compromised? My pace quickens as I shove through the stairwell door and round the corner—straight
into a server. With deftness, he quick-steps to the side and manages to keep all the champagne flutes upright on his tray.
I apologize and lift a glass from his tray. I’m not about to drink it, but I need something to keep my hands from clenching
into fists. Heat radiates under my tux, my pulse pounding against the stiff collar. I resist the urge to rip the bow tie from
around my neck. Did James Bond ever have this much trouble with formal wear?
Forcing a tight breath through my lungs, I seamlessly melt into the crowd on the second-floor mezzanine. I need to look natural.
Casual. Like a guy just enjoying the concert, not a guy who nearly got caught by some—what, exactly? Thief? Avid enthusiast
of eighteenth-century literature?
Something doesn’t add up.
An art heist during a gala is brazen, but as far as I know there’s no art inside the Mayer Library. Just books, magazines, and a few of Winston Churchill’s writings. All the valuable pieces are displayed
outside, lining the halls. And if someone wanted those, why trip the motion alarm? Why risk drawing attention to both of us?
I scan the crowd, instincts sharpening. A museum security guard leans against the wall nearby, looking . . . bored. Not like
someone who just got an alert about a silent alarm going off. Another quick sweep of the room confirms it—no tension, no crackling
radios, no urgent chatter. Nothing but casual disinterest.
My confusion sharpens into realization.
The alarm wasn’t triggered—it was a distraction.
I was played.
The truth hits like a sucker punch. Whoever that was, they weren’t after priceless art. They weren’t reaching for the painting
to steal it. It was a distraction. A threat. They weren’t trying to shake the museum security. They were trying to shake me. They knew the painting was protected by a silent alarm and they banked on me reacting exactly the way I did. Like an amateur.
I took the bait and probably left them upstairs, free to do the one thing I needed to do—get inside that library.
My jaw tightens. I check my watch. I need to figure out how to salvage this mission—and fast. I wait until Bart Jennings hits
the chorus, the crowd singing along loud enough to cover my voice, before speaking low into my comms. “We have a problem.”
It takes a second before Ruby responds, her voice tight in my ear. “You see him too.”
Him? The first thing that flashes through my mind is the figure in black. I didn’t have a chance to communicate with Ruby
when it all went sideways, but if anyone could spot a deviation in our mission plan, it’s her. If she saw someone before I
did, maybe it’s the guy who just blew apart my op.
“Who?” I ask, already sweeping the mezzanine for any familiar threat.
“Below. At your nine o’clock.”
My gaze moves around the room, trying to spot where Ruby’s watching me from.
I’ve learned to stop being surprised at Ruby’s ability to see things and yet remain unseen.
When I don’t find her, I shift my focus left, searching the crowd like I’m expecting to see the figure in black from upstairs.
I don’t. The face I do see turns my blood ice cold.
Sammy Pawson.
What’s he doing here?
He’s leaning against a column, popping shrimp into his mouth like he’s tailgating, not crashing a black-tie gala.
“What are the odds,” Ruby says dryly in my ear, “that a man who enjoys firebombing businesses also enjoys two-stepping?”
Her irony jolts me into motion. I hit the stairs fast and weave through guests and servers, heading toward where I saw Pawson
standing. He’s already gone. A discarded shrimp tail glistens in an empty champagne glass nearby—lazy evidence he was ever
here.
I pivot in a full circle, searching the room for the man who once used a tire iron to rearrange the bones in another man’s
face for parking in the wrong spot.
Instead of getting five to ninety-nine, Sammy “The Paws” Pawson walked out of the courthouse a free man. The victim decided
not to testify, and the prosecutor couldn’t prove the coercion. Now Pawson’s back on the street, rumored to be doing contract
work for Lorenzo Ramirez—which likely included killing Agent Danny Morales.
His presence at the gala immediately has me on edge. There’s only one reason a guy like Pawson shows up at a gala like this.
And it means my night has just gone from bad to worse.
“How’d it go upstairs?”
Speaking of bad. “Not good.”
“Meaning?”
“Someone else was there.”
The music’s too loud for anyone nearby to overhear, but I keep moving in the direction of Ramirez’s table, hoping Pawson might
be there too. Then I’ll find out why.
“Who?”
“No idea.”
Now’s not the time to get into the details. When I reach a corner tucked near a marble statue of Lady Godiva, I slow enough to add, “They were trying to break into the library. Took off before I could see who it was.”
“Did they see you?”
“Not well enough, I don’t think.”
“You don’t think?” Ruby’s tone sharpens. “What do you think they were after?”
I hesitate for half a second. As far as I know, there’s nothing valuable inside the library. Nothing except Lorenzo Ramirez’s laptop. Ahead of me, I spot Ramirez and Rook posted at their table, drinks in hand, laughing with the gala hosts. Who else would
be gunning for Ramirez’s laptop? And what happens if they get there before me?
Maybe it’s not too late.
“I need to get back up there.”
“The meeting’s about to start.”
I catch a glimpse of Ramirez and Rook pushing up from their seats. I’m already backtracking toward the stairs leading up to
the third floor.
“I know.” My eyes scan the crowd as I move. It’s pointless because I don’t know who I’m looking for, but I’m convinced the
figure in black is still in the museum. “I just need a few minutes.”
“What about Pawson?”
The man with bricks for fists is nowhere in sight, and apprehension shoots through me. Was it Pawson upstairs? No way. Pawson
would rather bash your face in than run.
“Send a message to tech. See what they can find on the cameras,” I say.
“Got it. Don’t be stupid.”
“Got it.” The rote answer slips from my lips. I learned early on that Ruby’s version of affection is all stickers and thorns—pep
talks sound like death threats, and encouragement comes in the form of exasperated sighs, but after a failed mission in which
her partner almost died three years ago, she doesn’t fool around with chance.
And I won’t either.
I reach the stairwell, relieved to find the door still unattended. I slip inside and take the stairs two at a time, confidence growing with every step. This time, if anyone questions me, I can tell the truth. Or at least my version of it. I’m expected for the meeting with Ramirez.
The gallery lights are brighter now, illuminating all the nooks and corners where someone could hide. My anger at being played
flickers back to life, fueling my pace. I round the corner—and smash straight into a woman. Her purse hits the marble floor
with a clatter as she stumbles backward. I instinctively reach out, steadying her with a hand to her arm.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see—”
The words catch midair. My gaze locks onto a pair of brown eyes.
And for a second, the world tilts. No. It can’t be.
A strange wave of familiarity crashes over me—raw and visceral.
I know those eyes. And I’m absolutely not ready for the impact.
I brace a hand against the wall to steady myself.
Of all the places, all the nights, all the impossible
odds—there’s no way she’d be here.
Yet here she is.
In a blink, I’m back to summers long gone, when those same brown eyes belonged to a girl who stole a piece of my heart—and
maybe shaved a few years off my life. With no thought on my part, the name rips from my mouth. “Cybil Langford?”
Her eyes widen just a fraction. Recognition flickers—and then vanishes behind a wall of ice so fast, I almost doubt I saw
it. Almost.
My gaze sweeps over her. Not in a lewd way, but in a can this woman really be the same girl whose shirt I used to stick worms down? way. When my eyes meet hers again, I realize my mistake.
Was I admiring the way her dress accentuates her curves beautifully? Sure, but I can’t help it. A lot has changed, and the
years have been good to her. But the real mistake—the fatal one—is that I showed I know her. And if I know who she is . . .
she knows who I am. The real me. Not the alias I need to protect at all costs. Me.
“No,” she says sharply.
I blink. “What?”
“No,” she repeats, twisting away from me as she crouches to scoop up her fallen belongings.
No? Confusion churns through me like a slow, heavy fog. A tube of lipstick is next to my foot along with a snack-size bag of
M&M’s. I reach for the lipstick just as she does—and instinct kicks in first. I snatch it up before she can. Her hand freezes
in midair. Honey-brown eyes snap to mine, sharp and clear. And this time there’s no mistaking it.
It’s her. My Cybil. Okay, not mine—but the Cybil of summers spent at her cousin’s ranch in Cypress Creek with my best friend, Rex.
“I need that back and you need to leave,” she says coolly.
The iciness in her voice makes me second-guess everything. I straighten to my full height, handing back the lipstick. “I’m
sorry. You just look . . . familiar?”
“Do I? Must be my chin.”
Her chin? I glance at it automatically—yeah, it’s a nice chin—but that’s not what’s pulling at some deep, frayed memory inside
me. It’s her.
And if it is Cybil, she doesn’t recognize me.
Rather than feeling grateful or relieved that my cover and the last eighteen months of undercover aren’t blown, I feel . . .
offended? Insecurity buzzes under my skin. Sure, I’m older. I’ve let my facial hair grow a little. But—
“This part of the museum is closed off to guests.”
Leave. The smart move would be to walk away. She doesn’t know who I am. Or maybe I’m wrong. It’s been, what—ten, twelve years? I
could be mistaken, but I know I’m not. There’s a familiar tension thrumming in my chest that has only ever occurred around
one woman.
I don’t walk away. I belong here. She does not.
“I’m sorry?”
It takes me a second to realize I spoke the thought out loud. “You said this area is closed to guests. But you’re here.”
She arches a single brow. “I’m working.”
I lift an eyebrow right back. “Here? In this hallway? By this door?”
“You really need to leave.” She pulls out her phone and gives me a dismissive look, twisting away.
Unfortunately, my foot’s on the hem of her dress.
There’s a rip.
Annnd she’s falling.
My timing is good. My execution? Not so much. I lunge for her but misjudge the distance. My hands land at her hips just as
we both collide into the door. My shoulder hits first with a thud, but her head lands safely against my chest.
I’m still trying to rebalance our tangled bodies when the door swings open under our weight. We stumble forward—a graceless,
flailing mess. My gaze drops to the hem of her dress, now ripped past anything PG-13 and heading north.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder. I look up into the chiseled, scowling face of a man who looks like he was carved from anger
and gym memberships. And judging by the bulging tension in his jaw, he’s two seconds from knocking me out cold.
He snarls. An actual snarl. And it makes me the tiniest bit jealous I’ve never been in a snarling situation myself. When I
track his gaze downward, realization slams into me. My hand is still resting on Cybil’s hip, fingers grazing the exposed skin
where her dress tore.
I jerk my hand away fast and straighten, stepping clear of the man’s bruising grip. My gaze slides down the length of the
table—to the older man seated at the end of it. Across from him, Ramirez’s laptop sits, practically glowing like the Holy
Grail of incriminating evidence.
Behind me, the elevator dings—and the stakes grow. Lorenzo Ramirez steps into the room, Rook at his side. Everyone is eyeing
us with suspicion. I need an excuse. Fast.
“Cybil?” the older man at the table says, his voice low and curious.
My attention swings to the woman at my side. She’s glaring at me. Oh, it’s absolutely her.
“I’m sorry for the interruption, sir,” she says smoothly, stepping around me and tugging at her hem with impressive dignity.
“I was coming to see if there was anything you needed before your meeting.”
His meeting?
Her earlier words—“I’m working”—echo in my brain as I watch her move into place beside the older man, all composed professionalism. Meanwhile, my heart is
hammering against my ribs, trying to process why Cybil Langford is working for anyone associated with Lorenzo Ramirez.
The snarling man looks at me and growls, “Who are you?”
“No one,” Cybil answers crisply, before I can even open my mouth. The conviction in her voice stings worse than it should.
“Just some guy I bumped into in the hallway.”
“Looked like a little more than that,” he answers back, and I immediately hate him.
“Please, Sebastian.” Cybil gestures vaguely at me. “Him? Give me some credit.”
My pride is taking hits like I’m in the ring with Mike Tyson. I don’t know why it bothers me that she doesn’t recognize me,
but it does. And the irony of our worlds colliding again, right now, when everything’s at stake? I’ll have to unpack that
later. Right now, if I want to protect my cover and keep Cybil safe, I need to play along.
“My apologies,” I say stiffly, glancing at Ramirez. “She tripped on her dress.”
“You stepped on my dress,” Cybil corrects without missing a beat.
“Semantics.”
She cocks her head, sweetly savage. “Is it?”
The challenge I see in the glare she’s sending excites me. I want nothing more than to accept, but not here. Not in present
company. I glance at Lorenzo Ramirez. “My apologies for the delay, sir.”
“A real knight in shining armor, huh?” I don’t miss the sarcasm or the suspicion in Pug Face’s words. “How about you rejoin
the party, Mr. . . .”
In for a penny . . .
“Craig,” I answer smoothly.
At the edge of my vision, Cybil’s eye twitches. It’s the smallest tell—but I catch it. And my face cuts into a wide smile.
There’s no going back now.
“My name is Craig Miller.”