One Wrong Move Read online

Several men advanced on them at once. Where the hell had they come from?

  “Police.”

  “Freeze.”

  “Drop your weapons.”

  Camden was faced with a dilemma. Run and get shot? Stay and get arrested and blow his cover?

  Before he had a chance to think about any other options, a gunshot rang out. One of the men on the jet skis splashed into the water. Camden grabbed the backpack and dove through the marshy grass, rolling like a ball through the brush until he found his footing. Gunfire still sprayed. He ran until thorns struck him, and kept running.

  Or had he been shot?

  He briefly thought of Mike, but Mike would take care of himself. He’d have to.

  Rage and fear kept him mobile and quick on his feet. Adrenaline kept him from feeling the scrapes and tears of the brush he was bashing through. The police? He knew it wasn’t his guys. Moore would never do this without running it by him. Another undercover op, possibly local, was his best guess, but Camden wondered how they’d executed it since most of them were in Dare’s pocket.

  He tumbled and fell on something hard. It could have been a rock, it could have been a dead body for all he knew, but he jumped up and continued to run.

  He grabbed his phone, dropped it, and had to dig along the ground to find it. He kept his breathing stable, crouching down to hide. His ears rang so loudly, he couldn’t hear anything from the area he’d fled. No sirens, no more gunfire. He swiped his finger across the phone and dialed Moore.

  “This is Moore.”

  “Shit, Moore, things are bad here,” he whispered, explaining the situation. “I can’t risk going back to my car. I have no idea where Mike is.” Mike could be close by, listening to his conversation. His cover could be blown. No matter, they had enough evidence on Darrell, even without the party. He might not get the hefty prison sentence he deserved, but anything was better than nothing at all.

  ***

  Rayma

  Rayma’s knees buckled when Camden walked through the door, covered in mud, brush, thorns, and no telling what else. She’d been mopping the floor—what else would she do as she waited? He reeked of cow manure, but she didn’t complain when he tracked it across her clean tile.

  “Gonna take a shower in the master bath,” he muttered. He had his own shower, and although Rayma had never seen it, she knew he didn’t care for it. She’d heard him complain once about how it’d been built for dwarfs, but that could be because anything average would feel shrunken to him, with his massive size.

  “Would you mind taking your shoes off first?” Rayma asked. She didn’t want to have to clean the entire house.

  He stopped, turning to look at her, his eyes roving over her body. He looked tired, weary, and edgy. Her mouth flooded with moisture, and she repressed the urge to lick her lips and reveal any kind of sexual attraction. She’d like to wash his body, scrub his back, and make him forget the horrors he’d experienced today.

  He nodded, kicked off his shoes, and disappeared. She let out a sigh, threw his shoes in the mudroom, and mopped the kitchen again.

  As Camden showered and she mopped, Moore gave her the rundown of what happened. A cold vise gripped her. He’d gone into a dangerous operation, exchanging drugs for money and trying to be the good agent, and he’d nearly been killed. Every day he risked his life going to work for that criminal.

  She was putting up the mop when Camden stormed in.

  “I feel like a million knives are poking me.” He plopped down on the kitchen chair and started plucking thorns from his legs. He wore black shorts and a dark red T-shirt. He was barefoot, and his thighs and calves were covered in scratches. His wet hair darkened his eyes and the scowl line between his brows. His clean, fresh scent rumbled low in her core.

  Rayma took a cup from the cabinet and set it on the table for him to toss in the thorns. She kneeled and studied his legs. “Some of these thorns are embedded in your skin,” she said as she grabbed his tweezers.

  “I fell a few times.”

  “A few?” She plucked, losing count after a dozen. “You were wearing jeans.”

  “You ever try crawling through a pasture full of cacti and cow manure?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Well in this case, it was mostly cacti and mesquite thorns. I think I only crawled through cow manure once.”

  Rayma crinkled her nose and continued plucking. “Your arm is bleeding. You look like you’ve been shot.”

  “I feel like I’ve been shot.”

  “Take off your shirt.”

  “Whoa. I’ve been waiting a long time to hear that but—”

  “Camden,” Moore cautioned from across the room as he searched through the cabinets for something.

  “Don’t be foolish,” Rayma told Camden, ignoring Moore’s warning. If he only knew how close they’d been to falling into bed, he wouldn’t ever let them alone again. “If you were shot—”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t ever been shot before. I checked in the shower.”

  Rayma blinked. He acted like being shot wasn’t a big deal, and in his case, maybe it wasn’t. Her nerves strummed along her skin, insecurity heating her body. Probably best he kept his shirt on. Her senses were aggravated enough, and she didn’t want to do anything foolish, like slide her fingers around his neck and bring his head down for a kiss. That kiss would erupt into a fire she wouldn’t be able to contain.

  Moore handed him a glass of whiskey, straight up, no ice. “You look like you could use this.”

  Camden took it and nodded his thanks, growling when Rayma yanked out a particularly deep thorn.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, unable to hide her grin. She had a feeling most of his squirming had little to do with her ministrations and more to do with his inability to relax. It gave her something to take her frustrations out on.

  “Any news on who those bastards were?” he asked Moore as he sipped his whiskey. Rayma perked up, dying to know the answer to that question.

  “Not yet. We’re still investigating,” Moore replied.

  “Dare will likely be looking for me. Probably thinks I stole his drugs.”

  “You need to call him.”

  “Not tonight. I’m going to lay low.” His gaze skated over Rayma. “We’ll talk strategy later.”

  “You can’t just waltz into work tomorrow morning like nothing happened,” Rayma said, offended by the fact he didn’t want to discuss their plans in front of her.

  “Sure I can.”

  She grabbed his hands to search for thorns, her body reacting to his touch. His thick, bulky fingers curled, gripping hers. Her spine tingled.

  “I’ve already dug all the thorns out of my palms,” he said.

  She jerked away. “Okay, well, if you missed any it won’t be my problem.”

  His grin widened.

  “While you two are fighting over cacti thorns, I’ve got to go check on our investigation and make a few phone calls,” Moore said, leaving Rayma and Camden in the kitchen by themselves.

  Camden’s eyes glittered as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She’d seen his naked chest before, but her belly fluttered every time. She was glad to see the intensity back in his eyes, but did it have to be at the expense of her hormones?

  She stood to grab the first aid kit on the table.

  “I kinda liked you down on the floor like that,” Camden said, winking at her, “tending to my wounds.”

  “It’ll be the only time.”

  “Ah, come on.”

  As she turned with the first aid kit in hand, she saw superficial wounds on his shoulder and dropped the kit. It crashed to the floor. “Holy hell, what happened here?”

  “Just a few cuts.”

  She bent over and grabbed the container, then opened an alcohol swab. He yelped when she applied it to his skin, but his shoulders shook from holding back his
laughter and she was sure he was being overdramatic.

  “I think you’ll live,” she muttered, but concern for him softened her ministrations.

  “Aren’t you going to check my upper body for cuts and thorns?”

  Her hands tightened around the tweezers, but she rubbed her palms over the warmth of his chest to check for prickles. His breath hitched, a solid syllable of sound that coursed through her.

  She dropped the tweezers on the table. “I think you can handle checking yourself.”

  He grasped her hand. The angle of his body to hers, the way she had to stare down at him, tempted her to crawl into his lap and give in to her fascinations.

  “Oh, come on. You know how hard it is to pick thorns out of your own chest?” he asked.

  Do you know how hard it is to keep from touching you?

  “I’m no nurse,” she said, swallowing her thoughts.

  “You were doing fine.”

  She pulled away and grabbed his empty tumbler. “Looks like you need more whiskey.”

  He chuckled as she walked to the cabinet and grabbed herself a glass. She added ice to hers and gave them both a hefty pour. His eyes smoldered when she handed him the drink.

  “Every man’s fantasy,” he commented.

  “What’s that?” She sat on the other side of the table, putting distance between them, and dreaded his explanation. She was having a hard enough time as it was hiding her attraction.

  “Having a beautiful woman tend to his wounds, then bring him whiskey and drink one with him.” He held up his tumbler. “Cheers.”

  She nodded, but didn’t toast. He was charming, way too charming for her sensibilities, and she fought the urge to succumb to the desires teeming through her body. Of all the stupid decisions she’d made in her life, falling for an undercover agent topped the list.

  Ice clunked against the glass as she took a swig. Her throat burned, nose flaring with a fiery heat. Stifling a cough, she took another sip.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She didn’t normally favor the stuff, but it wasn’t like she’d never had a drink of whiskey before. She’d handle it if it killed her.

  Camden shot down the rest of his, closing his eyes to savor it. She studied him, trying to avoid his chest, the way it rippled and bulged with his movement, and his shoulders, tensing and relaxing.

  He set his glass down with a thump. “I don’t know what happened to Mike tonight,” Camden stated as he looked at her.

  Rayma grimaced. “I don’t care,” she said, not really meaning it. She wasn’t a big fan of Mike, but she hoped he was okay.

  “He could be dead.”

  Rayma’s heart constricted. She felt sorry for her ex, but he was just as guilty as Darrell. “Mike got himself in that predicament.”

  “We could probably cut him a deal,” Camden said, “if he’s alive. If he’ll turn on Darrell and testify against him. Otherwise he’ll likely be going to prison himself.”

  “Good. He needs to.” Mike was working with the devil. He needed to be put away, to have time to think of all the wrongs he’d done.

  “You’re harsh.”

  “He’s a bad person, working with a dangerous man. He’s just as dangerous as Darrell. Just as culpable.”

  “What if I hadn’t come home tonight?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  She brushed her hand across her forehead to move a piece of hair. Her biggest fear was Camden not coming home, but she couldn’t explain that reasoning to him when she didn’t understand it herself. “This is your job. You’re doing your job.” Her voice constricted. She hated his job, hated that it put him in danger every day of his life. Just going to work, cooking for other people, was a risk. If Dare found out he was undercover, he’d send someone to kill him, just as he’d sent someone to kill her, all because of a stupid article. To keep her quiet. What would he do to Camden if he found out his chef was betraying him?

  She didn’t ever want to know the answer to that question.

  Camden slid forward in his chair, arms resting on the table. His scent, a soapy clean, was nothing like his earlier grime. “Dare confronted me today. He’s looking for something he said was in that bag. Did you take something out?”

  Rayma thought of the bag and everything in it, imagined her going through the papers at home. Everything she’d removed, she’d put back in. “I didn’t take anything out. Maybe your agents lost something when they were making copies.”

  “No,” Camden said, denying her unspoken accusation.

  “Of course not. You people don’t make mistakes. It must have been me.” She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice. Staying locked up in this house day after day and worrying about Camden was beginning to get to her.

  “It’s important to him, whatever it is, and it could be important to us. Think back. He indicated it was a thumb drive or something.”

  A drive? Chills erupted on her arms, spiraling down her spine. She slapped herself on the forehead. “Oh my God, I completely forgot about that.”

  “Forgot about what?”

  “When I bought that information from that guy, he took out a thumb drive when I wouldn’t agree to pay his full asking price.”

  “How much did you pay?”

  “A hundred and fifty dollars. It was all I had on me.”

  “How much did he want?”

  “Two hundred.” Rayma shrugged, but she knew this was a big deal. She would have handed over the cash if she’d had it.

  “And you thought the thumb drive wasn’t important?”

  Moore breezed in, the papers he carried flurrying as one fell to the floor and he kneeled to retrieve it. “Found out who the men were,” he announced, waving the papers. “Undercover cops, not on Darrell’s payroll.”

  “Motherfucker,” Camden cursed, then turned sheepish as he looked at her. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Rayma said, but she doubted any of them heard her as they started talking about cowboys interfering in their long-term investigation. Camden kept glancing over at her, like he didn’t want her to be a part of his conversation.

  They peered over the pictures and papers Moore had brought in, and muttered things about the investigation that Rayma had a hard time keeping up with. She considered taking notes, but she simply didn’t have the energy at the moment.

  “Mike’s been arrested,” Moore said.

  “I should probably call Darrell.” Camden stood and brushed his palms down his shorts. “So he doesn’t suspect me.”

  “You go on to work tomorrow, give him the drugs, and explain your situation. You were lying low, you didn’t know if Mike had survived, and you didn’t want anyone to follow you back to him.”

  “We’ve got to find Rayma’s informant, get that extra thumb drive.” Camden explained the situation to Moore, and suddenly it was Rayma who felt sheepish. Moore didn’t chastise her, but Camden unintentionally made her feel stupid. He was intimidating when he was frustrated, even though that frustration had little to do with her.

  She considered their options. She had no way to trace the informant and ask for the information, and the email had bounced back when she tried to reply.

  “Let me have my blog again. I’ll post something and see if he emails me.”

  “No,” Camden and Moore said in unison.

  “Why not?”

  “Darrell thinks you’ve disappeared, so you’re staying quiet.” Camden said. “We’ll figure something else out.”

  Rayma blew out an exasperated breath. Of course they would figure it out. She bit back the urge to tell them they should have left this to her a long time ago and it would have already been figured out. She could still be blogging, still be getting information, and risk nobody else’s life. Even if hers at been at risk, she was in a safe house now, and well protected.

  Her heart was still in danger, but that was beside the point.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Camden

&n
bsp; Camden walked into Darrell’s office at Vin Doux carrying the backpack full of drugs—already field tested by his agents—and didn’t say a word. Darrell sat at his desk, holding a drink and swiveling his chair from side to side. He jumped up and dropped his glass when Camden walked in. Scotch sloshed across his desk. He loped forward, pushed his forearm in Camden’s chest, and shoved him against the wall.

  The backpack struck the floor. Camden grunted as his back hit the wall. He cringed, still hurting from last night’s escapade.

  “Where the hell did you go last night?”

  “I didn’t want to risk coming back here,” he explained, “in case someone was following me. I didn’t want to lead anyone back here. I couldn’t call you because I had no idea what was going on or who might be listening. So I hid out.”

  “Mike’s in jail.”

  “That’s better than dead.”

  Camden hated to see that faint shade of distrust clouding over Darrell’s eyes.

  “I don’t know about that. If he talks…”

  “What is he going to talk about? They couldn’t have found anything on him. I had the drugs, so they’ll have nothing to pin on him. Who the hell were those people?”

  “Undercover cops, not on my payroll.” Dare released his grip on Camden. “They weren’t investigating us, they were investigating Sammy.”

  Sammy. Was that the name of the woman with the drugs last night?

  Camden continued to play dumb. Since he hadn’t contacted Dare last night to try to make things right, he had to make the man believe he was on the up and up about what had happened.

  Darrell bent over and retrieved the backpack. “All the goods still here?”

  “Everything they gave me.”

  “I thought you were involved in this raid.” Dare took the pack to his desk and opened it. “When you didn’t show up, I thought you must have taken off with the drugs or the money.”

  “I told you, I didn’t want to risk coming over last night. I thought it’d be best if I just showed up for work the next day, like nothing ever happened. I don’t know, they might have seen my face, but it was pretty dark.”

  “Smart thinking. I’m glad to have you on my team. Now I just have to figure out what to do with Mike.”