One Wrong Move (17 page)

“Why don’t you let me fix you something to eat?” Camden asked.

“Thought you said you weren’t cooking.”

“For you I will.”

Rayma held up her hands to deflect his approach, although he didn’t even try. No matter how potent his touch, she wasn’t about to succumb to his charm again. “If you think we can pick up where we left off—”

“Dex is here,” he said. “We can invite him for dinner. Look, I won’t touch you, I won’t even look at you. I won’t put on any sexy music or ask you to dance with me. I’m hungry. I’m going to my house to fix something to eat, and I just thought you might be hungry too.”

Rayma considered her options. She could go with him and fight off her urges to sleep with him, or she could go with him and seduce him, really get that story she craved. Or how about a memoir about a woman in a safe house who falls for one of the agents? She was still just mad enough to make him out as the asshole she sometimes accused him of being.

Or she could stay here and figure out what she’d eat, then go to her bedroom and toss and turn all night.

Her decision made, she squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t sleep with him, but having dinner wouldn’t hurt. Just another addition to the story she’d write.

She followed him outside and into his detached apartment. She’d been in his apartment before, but it was a quick peek and she hadn’t paid that much attention. This time she studied it, trying to get a glimpse into the person who stayed there, the kind of person he was.

It was small but cozy, full of bright colors and chic statements, but also masculine to the point of sexiness. One door led to the bathroom, and the rest of the apartment was open. A small kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances, was attached the living room by a bar. The living room held a flat panel TV and a tan suede couch, with several green plants.

The bed filled the space to the right of the living area and although it was marked off by wooden beams, it was still one room. All she could think about was that bed, about being in it with Camden. Her skin flushed at the thought.

He uncorked a bottle of wine and snatched two glasses from the freezer, then cut up cheese and sausage, placed them on a plate with crackers, and handed them to her.

She sat at the bar and accepted the wine, but when she tried to clink her glass with his, he’d already turned away to the pantry.

She took a sip. “Yum,” she murmured as she piled a piece of cheese and sausage on a cracker. “I’m not usually a white wine fan, but this is good.”

“It’s a Chenin Blanc from the Hill Country. No, not of France, of Texas.” He smiled, and she watched as he arranged shrimp and cocktail sauce on a plate and placed it on the bar.

“Is this how you seduce all your women?” Rayma asked. “Feed them wine and cheese? Hand feed them some shrimp?”

“Do you
want
me to hand feed you shrimp?”

“No.” She dunked one in cocktail sauce and chomped down, very unladylike.

As long as she kept it lighthearted, she was having a good time. As long as she remembered he kept two glasses in the freezer for a reason, she could continue to enjoy herself.

As long as she didn’t think about his fingers being inside her, she could remember this was all an act, all for a story.

“Did you have this planned?”

“No. I actually planned on using that shrimp in a stir-fry, but I’ll get more. A benefit of being on the Gulf Coast.”

“Why not make it now?”

Camden studied her, topped off her wine, and said, “Okay.”

She watched as he tossed some shrimp in olive oil, took out cut-up veggies, and tossed them together. He stole some of the sausage from her plate, added seasonings she couldn’t see, and performed magic around the stove.

Just as he promised, he stayed away from her. He turned on the stereo, and she sat on the barstool while he returned to preparing the meal. He treated her as if she were any guest in his home and not a woman he’d had his hands on moments—more like in—earlier.

“It’s ready.” Camden carried the plate to the bar table. He topped off her wine again—had she drank that much already?—and sat beside her.

“Thank you. It looks delicious, though the crackers and cheese would have been plenty.” She laughed at his mock scowl. “Hey, you said you were going to cook. I don’t count cutting up cheese as cooking.”

She grabbed a cracker, scooped up some of the stir-fry on it, and munched down.

“What do you like to eat?”

“Well, I love pasta and chocolate.”

“Together?” Camden’s eyebrows raised a notch.

Rayma laughed, feeling lighthearted after the wine, comfortable after his smile, and easygoing after the mood music set just the right tone. Not too sexy, nothing romantic, but nothing hard-hitting either. Like a sunset on the beach, relaxing piano intertwined with acoustic guitar. “If you could somehow make the two work, I’d consider trying it.”

“Penne pasta with chocolate sauce.” Camden held up his fork as he mimicked a commercial. “Full of carbs, fat, and taste.”

“Speaking of taste,” she said, “this is excellent.”

Before Camden, food was okay and wine was just another way to get a buzz. She’d always thought pairing the two was overrated, but with his cooking, sipping on a glass of wine specifically chosen for the meal brought out the flavors of both, and sent her taste buds to roaring.

She could get spoiled to this.

“Tell me about your family.” Rayma knew it wasn’t the best conversation to have, especially because she had no intention of sharing her family history with him, but she was curious about him. Although she was having a good time, she needed to know about him. For her memoir, after all. Now was a good time to break the camaraderie, before she ended up in his bed.

“My father’s retired military. My mom used to knit, crochet, and hold workshops for military wives. They’re in their seventies.”

“What does she do now?”

“About the same. I used to move around a lot when I was young because of the military. They’ve finally settled down in Colorado.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“I have a sister.”

It sounded almost rehearsed, and Rayma normally wouldn’t pry. But she was on her second, make that second and a half, glass of wine, so she said, “If we’re supposed to trust each other so much, if we’re supposed to be such great friends, why don’t you tell me about your real family?”

“I just told you about my family.”

“No. I mean your real family. Not the fake one you had to create for your undercover op.”

He looked up at her in unguarded surprise, and she thought
gotcha
.

***

Camden

Camden’s food congealed in his gut. He pushed away from the table, grabbed his plate, and fed the remainder to the trash. Talking about his family was off-limits, even with Rayma.

His mother
did
knit and help with military functions, up until she died of cancer at forty-two. He’d been only eight years old, and just one year earlier his brother had died of a drug overdose. Camden often wondered if his mom really did die of cancer, or of a broken heart.

He
did
have a sister who was now married to a man who seemed like a nice guy, though Camden couldn’t judge because he barely had a chance to know him. He had a niece who probably wouldn’t remember him, a nephew he longed to see, and his father was in his seventies.

His father had been in the military, a single dad who moved around and moved his children around with him, who barely had time for his kids and hired military wives to take care of them.

But he loved his father. He was a good man who thought working hard was the right thing to do for his kids. A busy man who tried to give his children, the two left, as much love as he could muster despite his twice broken heart.

One of those military wives had taught Camden to cook. Until he was wrenched away from her, too.

“My mom’s dead,” he finally said. Why not tell her about his family? It’s not like he’d go back to his job with Dare tomorrow and forget his pretense.

Her gasp echoed in his head. “I’m sorry,” she said, her face somber. “That must have been hard for you.”

“Whatever. I don’t think much about it anymore,” he lied, then continued. “My father still works. I have a brother who died of a drug overdose. Anything else you want to know?”

He regretted that the evening had taken this turn. It was one of the things he hated about dating. Why did all dates eventually to come around to talking about family?

And why did it still hurt him so much to talk about his?

“What about your family?” Camden asked, and saw the light immediately leave her eyes.

“Don’t you already know everything there is to know about my family?”

“Not everything,” he said. It was true that when Rayma came into their custody, the agency did their research. He’d read some of her files, but not all, and Moore had assured him there was nothing that should concern their safety. As curious as Camden was about her past, if it didn’t concern his investigation, he had no right to pry.

She stood, grabbed their plates, and took them to the sink. He followed.

“Don’t worry about the dishes,” he said. “I’ll take care of them later.”

The mood had changed. She had withdrawn at the mention of family, and he understood all too clearly that dreaded subject could bring out the worst in a person. He wanted to make up for the fact he’d touched her, risked his career, possibly his life. He wanted to at least be friends.

Hah
. A guy wanting to be friends? What was wrong with him? That was out of the question.

“Thanks for dinner. It was lovely, but it’s time I leave.”

Camden didn’t argue. He’d already done way more than he should have with her out on the beach earlier, and his fingers twitched with the temptation for more. He still tasted her, his body longed to finish what they’d started. It was best that she leave, and he’d take a cold shower in that tiny bathroom.

He walked her to the house, and Dex took over guard duty from there. Her mouth thinned, and she didn’t speak to him when she went upstairs calling for her cat.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rayma

Rayma spent the next day with the informant’s documents spread on the kitchen table, going through names on a report to see which ones she recognized. None so far. Camden grumbled about her help before he left for work for the evening. She wanted to call out to him, tell him to be careful, give him some kind of comfort, even if he’d only rebuff it. Instead she watched him walk out of the house, a slight sense of panic making her numb.

Moore brought by her mail, but she didn’t read it until after she retired to bed for the evening. The heap of bills and junk shrunk in significance when she noticed the letter.

She recognized her father’s penmanship and wondered if Moore had noticed the letter’s return address was a Texas prison. Undoubtedly, he already knew everything there was to know about her, including her father being in prison, even though Camden had never admitted to it when she’d mentioned it last night.

Her father rarely wrote, and on the times he did, she always sent the letters back unopened. This time she used a nail file to tear into the heavy, inked envelope. Better to open it than to make a big deal of returning it, or leaving it for someone to find and read. Besides, she was bored and could use help getting to sleep.

As she read, her pulse throbbed, a slight vibration under her skin.

Dear Rayma, I’m being released on the 26
th
, it read.
I’d like to see you, and will be sitting near Fisherman’s Pier and Catfish Barge. I’ll come for seven days at 11 a.m. and will stay until 2. Might even try some fishing while I’m there. If I don’t see you in seven days, I’ll go on about my life. If you choose not to come, know that I’m sorry for everything. I’ve done my penance, and I’m a changed man. In order for me to begin my life anew, I have to seek pardon for all those I’ve wronged. I never meant to hurt you. Please come.

Today was the twenty-ninth.

It wasn’t signed, but she wouldn’t have expected a heartfelt closing.

Her hands shook as she slipped the letter back into the envelope.

Fisherman’s Pier was downtown, on the boardwalk, a wide-open space of several little shops, food trucks, picnic tables, where fishing and other events occurred throughout the year. A mile of road, decks, and wharfs ran along the flat shoreline. It was close to Vin Doux, close to everything in this town, and about a mile and a half from the safe house.

A gasp escaped her, her throat clenching and burning with unshed tears. Tears she’d never been able to cry when it came to her father, and tears she wasn’t about to cry now. Beacon butted his forehead against hers. She curled into him and wondered what in the hell she’d done in life to deserve all this.

Her dad was being released from prison. Had already been released. She didn’t want to see him. She never wanted to see him again.

But another part of her wanted to tell him all the terrible horrible things she thought about him, the things she’d never had a chance to say before. The things she’d never have a chance to say again.

***

Camden

Camden blinked away the burning tears from his eyes, initiated by the robust onions he chopped.

“How’s your lover girl?” Darrell asked as he approached behind him.

“Who’s that?” Camden knew exactly who he meant, knew that his boss’ interest in Rayma hadn’t waned. Dare had told him to woo her, but he’d never ordered him to kill her and didn’t know that Camden knew that he’d sent others to kill her. He hoped playing dumb would belittle her importance, or make Dare show his hand.

“Your lover girl. That newswoman, what was her name?”

So he was going to play dumb, too. No chance in hell he’d forgotten Rayma’s name.

“Oh, her. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her? What happened to her?”

“The newsgirl? Who knows?” Camden tossed his veggies in olive oil and tried to mask his apprehension. He didn’t want him to think Rayma was still with him in case Dare wanted him to bring her in, but he should have planned a better story.

“What about the drugs you had to keep her quiet?”

“She up and left one day,” he continued. “She got fired from her job, and she doesn’t live at her apartment anymore, I don’t think. I’ve looked around, but she hasn’t surfaced. I think she moved away, and she took the damn drugs with her. I don’t know. I figured she had some other boyfriend or something.”

Camden turned the heat on low to let the veggies cook and eyed the boss, who suddenly looked as if the world had just crashed down around him. His mustache fluttered as he chewed his lip.

“I need to find her.”

“Why?” Camden couldn’t fight back the fear in his chest, but it was vital he play his role and not look suspicious.

“She has something of mine.”

“Shit,” he said. “I’d also like to find her. She’s got something of mine, too.”

“What does she have of yours?”

“She stole some money. Whined about how she was fired and had nowhere to go, then stole my money when I was at work one day.” He flipped his veggies to cook the other side then poured them over a dish of pasta as he waited for Darrell’s next words. He hoped he wouldn’t have to draw it out of him.

He glanced at the food order, aware that if he was going to do his job as chef he didn’t have time to talk, but if he was going to do his job as agent he’d have to make the time.

Damn, he was tired of playing cook. Tired of playing this game. Although Dare was starting to trust him more, he still wasn’t privy to all the inside secrets, still hadn’t been invited to the party. It’d be a lot easier to bust the shindig if he was on the inside, a lot easier to make sure Dare spent the rest of his life in prison if he had more than a bag of information and more evidence than one drug run to bring him down.

“Remember that bag that you got from her, which you brought me?” Dare asked.

Camden nodded, holding his breath.

“There’s something missing. I need it.”

“What is it?”

“A database of recipes, videos, that sort of thing. It’s vital to this operation.”

What operation?
He wanted to ask.
Your drug manufacturing, or your restaurant?

“How did you know anything’s missing? Where did it come from?”

“Someone stole some very important stuff from my office one day, and it’s the only copy I had of those recipes.”

Camden topped the pasta with parmesan cheese and set it on the warmer. “Damn. I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t know where she went. I thought I got everything from her.”

Dare grabbed him and pushed him up against a shelf of pans, holding him by the front of his jacket. Stainless steel cookware wobbled, one crashed to the ground and barely missed his head.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Camden slowly breathed, his eyelids fluttering. He had to show fear. No man in his right mind wouldn’t fear Dare right now. And right now, he feared being exposed and blowing the operation, not to mention getting killed.

Rayma just up and left one day, huh? How obvious was that? Shit, he had to pull it together.

“I’ve been here longer than a lot of these guys, Dare. I know what you do. Hell, I wish I could help. I get damned sick of cooking for ungrateful people, but I continue to do my job, work for you, and leave your other business the hell alone. This is what I get?”

Darrell released him and stepped back, but remained close enough to consume his space so he couldn’t move, could barely breathe. His back remained straight, grazing the shelf of pans, which could fall on top of him at any moment.

“Mike swears to me that Rayma would never do drugs.”

“How much do you think Mike really knew about her, huh? How do you know she wasn’t using him for information for her blog? Maybe she took those drugs not to take them, but to test them, or hand them over to law enforcement. I don’t know, all I know is that she took them when I was with her, and she was pretty down on her luck at the time.”

“How do I know she wasn’t using you?”

“She obviously was,” Camden said. “And I was foolish enough to think I was the one playing her. Believe me, I’m not happy about it either.”

Darrell stepped back, every inch of his face remaining impassive except for his mustache, which still twitched. “There’s a way for you to help.”

Camden fought to remain composed, to remain alert to his surroundings. Darrell could pull out a gun, shoot him in the head, but he couldn’t blow his cover, not if there was a chance this man didn’t have a clue.

“I’m listening.”

“There’s a price on that woman’s head. You find her, you determine that price. Leave it to someone else, and they get the deal. Either way, she’s a dead woman.”