Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I swallow hard. “Yeah, I—I know.”
We stand there in silence, the electricity between us so strong I could practically light a lamp with it. It’s stupid, and reckless, and yet part of me wants to step forward just a little more, see what would happen. But then my phone buzzes, snapping me out of my trance. I jump, fumbling to check the screen.
“It’s my contact,” I say, scanning the message. “He confirmed Rolfe’s been in Saint Pierce. There’s a rumor he’s been making deals at Club Greed with the Russian bratva.”
Lincoln’s eyes flick to the phone. “Looks like we have our target, then.”
I nod, letting out a shaky breath. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” he confirms, that familiar determination glowing behind his eyes.
My stomach flutters again. This is happening, and I’m both excited and nervous—about the club, about confronting Rolfe, and about being so close to Lincoln in a situation that demands we stay in character. We’re about to blend into a world of flashy indulgence and hidden agendas. It feels like we’re stepping into the lion’s den—and part of me can’t wait.
As I slip my phone back into my pocket, I force a confident smile. “All right, let’s do it. Just… don’t cramp my style,” I tease.
His lips twitch. “You might be the one cramping mine.”
I huff a laugh, crossing my arms. “Oh, please. You don’t have any style.”
He takes a measured breath, stepping back with that same coiled grace he always moves with. “Guess you’ll find out tonight.”
And with that, he slings the duffel bag over his shoulder, leaving me with my heart thundering and my mind spinning at a thousand miles per hour. Whatever happens at Club Greed, I have a feeling it’s going to change everything—for better or for worse.
Chapter 7
Lincoln
I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that we’re going undercover in a place called Club Greed, or that I somehow let Isabel convince me to go shopping for an outfit with her. A dress for her, a suit for me. The plan seemed straightforward enough when she first suggested it—get in, grab something off the rack, get out. But I neglected to factor in how damn good she’d look in everything she tries on.
We pull into a ritzy shopping plaza on the outskirts of Saint Pierce. It’s got the kind of boutiques that practically reek of money—big windows, crystal chandeliers, mannequins wearing dresses that cost more than my SUV. I’d prefer a simple, off-the-rack approach, but Isabel insisted we do this right. After all, Club Greed is exclusive. No sense drawing suspicion by looking out of place.
She strides ahead of me, her hips swaying in a pair of fitted jeans. I have to remind myself to stay sharp, not to let my gaze wander too obviously. We step inside a boutique where a saleswoman with a slicked-back bun greets us politely, then promptly ushers Isabel to a row of dresses.
I drift toward the suits. It’s not like I’m unaccustomed to wearing one—Dean’s roped me into enough formal events for Maddox Security—but I rarely go high-end. Still, I need something that screams “wealthy and dangerous,” something that fits the vibe we’re going for. My eyes skim the racks, half-distracted by the sound of Isabel’s voice on the other side of the store.
Eventually, I settle on a dark suit made from some ridiculously soft fabric. The saleswoman says it’s “top-of-the-line Italian wool,” and I just nod, not exactly sure what that implies beyond a steep price tag. She bustles off to help another customer. I slide the jacket on, adjusting the collar, and catch a glimpse of Isabel behind me. She’s looking at me with parted lips, like she’s trying to decide whether to compliment or tease me.
“How’s the fit?” she asks, her tone carefully casual.
I turn around. “Fits fine,” I say, though my eyes can’t help but stray to the dress she’s holding. It’s black, slinky, with thin straps that’ll probably expose way too much of her shoulders and back. “What about you?”
She holds the garment against her front, arching a brow. “I’m going to try it on now.”
I swallow. “Good idea.”
She disappears into the dressing room area, leaving me feeling like an awkward teenager. This mission is complicated enough without adding in the fact that every time Isabel so much as looks at me, my pulse ratchets up a notch. I run a hand over my freshly-trimmed hair, wondering how the hell I’m going to pull off tonight—pretending she’s mine in a seedy club, while my own body practically hums whenever she’s near.
After a few minutes, I see her peek out from behind a curtain, a crease between her brows. “Lincoln?” she calls softly.
I cross the store, ignoring the saleswoman’s curious glance, and step into the dressing area. “Yeah?”
She ducks her head, cheeks flushed. “I, um… can you help me with the zipper? It’s stuck.”