One Wrong Move Read online

  The man’s large lips pursed. He wasn’t overweight, but big-boned, and everything about him was king-size. Intimidating. She could see why he was successful with his drug business. He was well known for his charity work, but that didn’t make him any less of a bad person in Rayma’s eyes.

  He nodded. “I do. Some very good ones.”

  “The best,” she praised. “If you recall, I work for News 12, but I also manage a blog. I’d love to do a piece about your restaurant.”

  Before he could reply, a loud thwack behind her made everyone at the table jump. She knocked over her newly filled glass of very expensive wine in her effort to check out the commotion. Two chefs in double-breasted jackets, their toques askew, faced off near the kitchen door. Although their voices were low, it appeared they were arguing.

  Darrell cursed. “Excuse me,” he muttered. He sped off toward the chefs like his ass was a jet engine full of hot air, his jacket vents flapping behind him.

  Rayma grabbed her phone and fired up the video. If chefs were going to fight in the middle of a semi-famous restaurant, she must get it on camera. An interview with the owner would be a nice addition.

  Not everyone noticed the argument, but Rayma zoomed in on her phone and remained transfixed. One man—a tall, burly thing with massive shoulders—challenged a small, wiry blond.

  Mike pulled bills from his suit pocket and slapped them on the table. “Screw this,” he said and stood. “Are you coming?”

  “No.”

  “Guess that’s it then.” He left without a chaste kiss on the cheek or a backward glance. Fine with her. Made things easier.

  The blond hurled forward to punch Mr. Burly, but the massive chef’s steps were smooth and polished, graceful. He stepped aside, and the chef took a tumble.

  Darrell marched over and only had to say one thing before the wiry blond turned on his heel and stormed out. Darrell rushed after him, then stopped to talk with some patrons and offer his most cordial smile. Rayma rushed to the chef remaining and held her phone up to him, video rolling.

  “Excuse me, sir, I’m Rayma with News 12. Can you tell me what just happened?”

  The chef turned. His hat had fallen off his head, exposing thick locks of mussed hair. Hair she itched to run her fingers though. His eyes, the same dark color as those strands she longed to touch, penetrated hers, and for a moment, she was lost. She licked her lips, which were suddenly dry, as she imagined a deep bowl of melted chocolate. How could anyone turn away? Rich and creamy and something she wanted to indulge in until she consumed every bit.

  And his shoulders. From a distance, even zooming in on her phone, she could discern how his muscles fought to rip out of his uniform.

  She lowered the phone as her breath caught in her throat. Dump one, find another?

  She gulped back the urge to lean closer to him and sample that mouth, then remembered the phone now recording the floor. She brought it up to him again.

  “Can you tell me why you and the other chef were fighting in the middle of the restaurant?”

  He glared at her a moment before he turned and walked away. She watched his retreating back, still lost in the power of his gaze. Why did she always fall for decadent men? Why couldn’t she find someone like James—her friend for years, harmless to her hormones, and uncorrupt. A man who opened doors for women, who didn’t start fights in bars and restaurants.

  Boring.

  She turned to Darrell but fought for words. Where was her mind? Oh yeah, still lost in that bowl of chocolate.

  “Do you have any comments on what happened here?” she asked.

  He smiled into her phone as if the fight was a setup. “I want to apologize to the patrons and offer this meal free for compensation.”

  She flicked off her video and lowered her phone. “Mr. Weberley—”

  “It’s still Darrell.” He smiled, but it looked like his face was about to crack. His complexion now matched the gray of his suit.

  “Darrell,” she continued. “I think now would be great timing for that interview.”

  He nodded, his mouth opening, closing, then opening again, reminding her of a fish taking its last breath. “Get in touch with me sometime next week,” he said, then stalked away. She stood there, observing his manners as he stopped to talk to other patrons. Yet, all the while, her mind was still on that chef and his chocolate brown eyes.

  ***

  Camden

  Darrell paced to within a whisper of where Camden stood. The heat from his anger could have grilled the Bordelaise steak and mushrooms he’d been preparing when the fight began. “What in the hell was that about?” Dare asked.

  “Shawn needed an ass kicking.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, washed his hands, and went back to work.

  “Why?” Dare didn’t leave. He fisted his hands, his face contorted into a spasm of fury—eyebrows fluttering up and down, his mouth shaking at the corners as he clenched his jaw. Camden continued to season meat as if nothing had happened.

  He had a feeling that only pissed him off more.

  “He was saying shit that didn’t need saying.”

  Dare’s pinched face said he wanted to throw his own punches. He stopped in front of Camden, who got a perverse pleasure from the fact the man had to lift his gaze—albeit only slightly—to meet his. Dare was built like a bull, Camden like a race horse. Dare tried to intimidate people, and did a good job most of the time, if not with his solid body, then the dangerous glint in his eye. Most people groveled at his feet. Camden never groveled at anybody’s feet.

  Shawn was a young punk who had gotten angry at Darrell over something—Camden didn’t know what, but he’d made a bold move, going out there to retaliate. Most of Darrell’s employees were ruled by a mix of fear and respect, but not Shawn. Darrell had taken him on when he was barely fourteen, giving him a job and a stable income, and he’d quickly found his calling as a chef. He’d grown too comfortable in his position, thinking he was immune to the forceful and sometimes dangerous methods of his boss.

  His mutterings in the kitchen had grown louder as he continued to be ignored, and Camden had finally interfered when he worried Shawn might go out there and get himself killed. He tried to steer him out the back and away from the front of the house. He didn’t need a punk kid destroying this investigation.

  He wasn’t supposed to know about the business Dare ran on the side. Which wasn’t a stretch—he’d been a chef for nine months and still hadn’t learned anything concrete.

  Fletcher’s grotesque body flashed in his mind as he flipped the steaks on the grill. He’d died by Dare’s command if not by his hands, and Camden couldn’t do anything about it yet. He couldn’t even attend the funeral without blowing his cover. Sometimes, his job sucked.

  Fletcher had worked directly with Dare, but had lived in his own safe house. As Dare’s driver, he’d gotten closer to the operation than any other agent, and Camden had to pretend he didn’t know him and go on with his business.

  The Houston Division wanted to shut down the investigation after Fletcher’s death, but Dare’s upcoming annual event was a huge opportunity, and their mission was to infiltrate it. He had to gain Darrell’s trust, and Shawn had inadvertently given him a good opportunity.

  “What was he saying?”

  “Shit that doesn’t bear repeating.” Camden dropped the knife to the counter lest he be tempted to plunge it somewhere he shouldn’t. He oiled the pan, added onions and mushrooms, and stirred.

  He could tell him everything, get closer and earn the man’s trust. He knew it would put Shawn in the target hairs, but Dare would find out anyway, so it might as well be from him. The agency could protect Shawn, and hopefully gain some valuable information while he was in their custody. He couldn’t stop what he was doing to call Moore, and only prayed his backup, Casey, had already done so. Undercover as a busboy, he’d disappeared after the squabble; Camden assumed it was to call other agents to watch out for Shawn and take him in.

  “G
et your stuff and get out,” Dare said.

  Camden poured the onions and mushrooms over the steak and set down the pan. “Shawn was saying shit about you, about this business—the restaurant and other things going on. He walked out of this kitchen with the intention of exposing you to all the patrons in this restaurant. I tried to stop him. We got in an argument, and you know what happened from there.”

  “Expose me for what?”

  Camden turned away from the heat of the stove and ignored the meat as he stared directly into Dare’s eyes. He had to trust that Casey had done his job and Moore’s team was taking Shawn into custody right now. He didn’t want to put the boy’s life at risk but he didn’t want to miss this opportunity.

  “Drug smuggling. Money laundering. Things like that.”

  Dare laughed, a cruel animal sound. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Camden shrugged and glanced away.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Dare boomed again, stepping closer so Camden could smell what he ate for dinner—the lamb curry with brown rice and vegetables, bypassing his favorite fish for the night. Not only was he the chef for Dare’s restaurant, he might as well have been his personal chef, since the man ate at the restaurant every night and when he didn’t, he would request something be brought to his home.

  “That’s exactly what I thought. That’s why we fought over it. Now you see why I couldn’t let him go around saying that shit and ruining our reputation.”

  “Get your stuff and get out.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rayma

  Rayma woke to incessant meowing and pawing. When she pushed Beacon away, he used his next trick: chewing on the headboard beside her ear to get her attention.

  Everyone should have a cat, especially people with difficulties getting out of bed in the morning.

  “I know, I know,” she muttered. She cracked open an eyelid and glanced at the time. Three a.m.

  What had ever possessed her to work for the morning news?

  The spotted brown tabby jumped to the floor as she pushed aside the covers and headed for the coffeepot. “Youch,” she hollered as Beacon nipped her ankle then turned and dashed to the kitchen.

  He had been nearly dead when she rescued him—too young to be on his own, covered in ringworms. She’d fed and doctored him until he overcame some rough days. He almost had a concussion because of the kids next door, who knocked him around as if he were a soccer ball.

  She’d found him steps from the beach the day after she moved into the small condo on the bay. She considered the cat a sign she was in the right place at the right time. Though she often doubted the sanity of her move from Austin, Beacon reminded her she was doing the right thing.

  Rayma anticipated work in a whole new way that morning. Last night she’d emailed her video to her boss Tony, then posted a short blog with the video. She was anxious to see what Tony thought of it and if they’d take the story any further. But when she got to the studio, her boss was waiting for her with a scowl on his face.

  “I need to see you in my office.”

  He turned and stalked away, expecting her to follow.

  “Uh-oh,” she told Nicole as she dropped her bag at the cubicle across from her friend. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “If I’m not, someone else is. But this isn’t good. He wants to see me before I go on air.” Her nerves drummed against her ribcage.

  “I’m sure it’s to tell you how wonderful of a job you’re doing, and to keep it up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She marched toward Tony’s office, her steps slogging through doubt and confusion. She thought the blog post was damn good. Entertaining. Something worth a million views. Didn’t hurt that the man on the video looked like a carved Norse god. She’d watched it over and over again last night just to make absolutely sure.

  Tony was waiting for her at the door to his office, still wearing a scowl, which wouldn’t have concerned her if not for the timing. He always had a scowl on his face despite being an attractive older man with graying hair, three kids, and a fantastic wife who knew how to spoil him. Though he devoted most days to pissing someone off, Rayma admitted he was a good guy. He cared about family and would consider anything his employees had to say.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked as he shut the door behind her.

  “No, Rayma. It’s not okay.” He marched to his desk, across from where she stood. She didn’t bother sitting. Neither did he. Instead, he fisted his hands on the desk and leaned forward, eyebrows bunched. “You’re lucky you’re not in my office to get your termination notice.”

  She blinked, lost focus on him, and decided to sit before her legs collapsed. “Why? What did I do wrong?”

  “Your blog post about Vin Doux. You need to delete it.”

  “Why? Why should I delete it?”

  Tony sat and steepled his hands, resting his chin on them. “It’s damaging to a very important person in this community. Darrell Weberley supports many organizations in this area, and we can’t afford to have one of our employees post such libel.”

  “It’s not libel. I’ve said nothing bad about his business, and nothing false. There’s a video of the chefs fighting, which is real. He refused to give an interview at the time. I gave a short review on the restaurant. Gave my honest opinion, which is that I think it’s terribly expensive and not worth the money.”

  She’d decided to stop playing nice. Nice had gotten her nowhere so far.

  “I mean, twenty-five dollars for one salad? Really? That doesn’t include the water I drank, which they charged for, too. It’s not like gold is lining the pockets of most of the people in this town.”

  “Your blog isn’t meant for leaving reviews of restaurants or accusing them of unfair or even illegal practices. And you got the salad for free.”

  “I mentioned that, and it’s because of the fight that everyone’s meal was free.” Rayma slid forward in her chair. “I never accused them of anything illegal. Am I picking up on a guilty conscience?”

  “First there’s your post about drugs in the community, then about businesses as covers for criminal operations, then this post. It’s pretty scathing.”

  “They were unrelated.”

  Tony dropped his hands and stood, his face falling. His shoulders hunched, eyebrows gathered low in a regretful frown. He stood and planted his thumbs in his pocket, then turned and glanced out the window to the sea below.

  Rayma approached. She liked her job. She didn’t love it, but she liked it, and she couldn’t afford to lose it. She didn’t want to be fired, but she didn’t want to give up her mission, and she wasn’t ready to tell him about it.

  From here, the bay waters were choppy and disturbed, a good metaphor of her life at the moment. Not near as tranquil as the view from her condo, where the ocean churned into puddles on the beach, wiping away sand and polishing a new layer to an unusual smoothness.

  Sea and sand. Nothing else.

  What more did she need besides this? Good job, nice boss, comfy condo, safe existence.

  Boring.

  “Look, Rayma…”

  “I’ll delete the post.” She hated how her voice hinged on desperation, and as much as she didn’t want to delete the article, she could tell by his words that she wasn’t going to have a choice.

  “I called you in here to try to talk to you, give you another chance—”

  “I told you I’ll delete it.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

  “But…” Rayma sputtered. “You just said you were going to give me another chance.”

  “I told you I called you in here to give you another chance, but I see now that isn’t going to work.”

  “Why not? I told you I’d delete the post. I’ll delete my whole blog.” She hated to beg, but there wasn’t much in the way of job opportunities in this small city. If she lost this one, she’d have to consider moving again. She wasn’t ready to move again
, no matter how much she enjoyed her blog.

  Tony’s forehead bunched, feet shifting. “I’m sorry, Rayma. You can stay until the end of the day, and I’ll get someone to help you gather your belongings.” He took two long lopes to his closet, opened it, and pulled out a small box, handing it to her.

  She snatched the box from him and marched to the door. “I can handle my own belongings, thank you.” She yanked open the door and let it slam behind her, but none of those actions made her feel better.

  It’s not that she loved the job, or even the town, but it was her chance to get away and rediscover her independence. Now what was she going to do?

  ***

  Camden

  “What were you thinking?” Moore chewed on the stump of his unlit cigar, an attempt to quit smoking cigarettes yet again. For some ridiculous reason, he considered cigars healthier.

  “What?” Camden opened cabinets in search of breakfast while he ignored his boss’s temper. He knew exactly what Moore was talking about, but was eager to stretch it out. The news hadn’t aired the footage from the restaurant this morning, but he doubted that upped his chance for reconciliation with Dare.

  The kitchen was Camden’s favorite part of this large but dreary coffin of a house. Wide and open, bright and airy, with a comfortable cheeriness. Besides the command room, it was the preferred area for agents to convene when they had something important to discuss. It was the only place where Camden didn’t feel enclosed in a tight box; here, it was like tiny holes had been poked through the box, admitting sunshine and air, and he could finally breathe.

  Today, though, he couldn’t breathe. Not with Moore’s words suffocating him.

  “Shawn hasn’t been found yet. We were hoping he could give us intel on Dare and his establishment.”

  Camden grabbed the canister of protein powder and slammed the cabinet door closed. “He hasn’t been found?”

  “We’ve got agents looking around the clock.” Moore struggled with a cereal box wrapper. Camden wanted to laugh. A macho DEA agent and he couldn’t even tear open the packaging.