“I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it,” Marcos replied softly.
She scowled at him. “We have a business arrangement, and it’s not what you think, so stop looking at me like that. The fact is, my arrangement with him is probably not all that different from yours.”
Except it was. The ruse she was running with Carlton was about access, not drugs. If she really planned to go through with what she’d promised him, though, it was probably worse than dealing drugs.
His eyes narrowed on her, studying her with a too-keen gaze, and she tried not to squirm. He had the look of a lot of criminals who made it long enough to build an empire—or so she’d come to believe in her limited experience. Oddly, it was a similar probing look that cops used.
“So, Brenna, what do you do when you’re not hanging out in Carlton’s mansion, wearing spectacular dresses?” Marcos asked, shifting his weight like he was getting comfortable for a long chat.
The urge to fidget grew stronger. Lying didn’t come naturally to her, as much as she’d tried to convince her superiors that she could do it—that she could do this, come into a drug lord’s home and lie to him over an entire weekend, get him to give her insight and access. She’d actually felt pretty confident—well, a careful balance of confidence and determination—until Marcos had shown up. Now, she just felt off balance.
“I work for the foster care system.” She kept up the story she’d given Carlton. “I grew up in the system,” she added, even though he knew that. But it was more a reminder to herself: always act as though Carlton or one of his thugs was watching. “And I wanted to be on the other side of it, make some changes.”
Marcos tipped his head, his eyes narrowing, like he suspected she was lying, but he wasn’t sure about what.
She longed to tell him the whole truth, but that was beyond foolish, and one more sign that her boss was right. She wasn’t ready for undercover work, wasn’t ready for an assignment like this.
If she told Marcos the truth, she’d be dead by morning.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering what he’d say. The words lodged in her throat, and she held them there.
I’m a cop.
Brenna Hartwell was lying to him.
Marcos didn’t know exactly what she was lying about, but he’d been in law enforcement long enough to see when someone was doing it. And not just to him, but to Carlton, too. He prayed the drug boss didn’t realize it.
“What do you do for the foster care system?” he asked, wondering if even that much was true.
She fidgeted, drawing his attention to the red dress that fit her like a bandage, highlighting every curve. She was in great shape. Probably a runner. Or maybe a boxer, given the surprising muscle tone he’d felt when he’d grabbed her to keep her from stumbling in her shoes.
“Right now, placement,” she said, but something about the way she said it felt rehearsed. “But I’m trying to get them to start a program to help kids transition out of the system.”
It was a notoriously tricky time. Kids who spent their lives in foster care hit eighteen and that was it. They were on their own, and they had to learn to sink or swim without any help pretty fast.
Some—like Marcos’s oldest brother Cole—did whatever it took. Cole had taken on two jobs, built up his bank account until he could afford an apartment big enough for three. Then when Marcos and his other older brother Andre had been kicked out of the system, they’d actually had a home waiting for them.
But Marcos was lucky. And he knew it. Most foster kids didn’t have that. Most kids found themselves suddenly searching for shelter and a job. Tons ended up instantly homeless, and plenty took whatever work they could get, including something criminal.
Had that been what had really happened to Brenna? When she’d shown up on their foster home doorstep that day eighteen years ago, her chin up, blinking back tears, his heart had broken for her. A few months later, she’d been gone. He’d always wondered where she’d ended up, but he’d been too afraid to search for her.
Some kids got lucky, ended up in foster homes with fantastic parents who ultimately adopted them. Others, like him, bounced around from one foster home to the next, from birth until eighteen. He supposed he’d never searched for her because he’d always wanted to believe she’d been one of the lucky ones.
“What about you?” Brenna asked, and he was surprised to hear the wary disappointment in her tone.
She was in Carlton’s house because she could offer him something. If it wasn’t sex, like Carlton had been implying over dinner, then it was some kind of criminal connection. So, who was she to judge his motives?
Still, he felt a little embarrassed as he gave his cover story, the way a real dealer would. “Carlton and I share similar business interests. We’re talking about a transaction, but I need to pass his test first.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “How do you think I’m doing so far?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I think you and I are in similar positions.”
Interesting. So her association with Carlton was relatively new. He wondered if he could get her out of here when he left, convince her to move her life onto a different track. Maybe all she needed was a little help.
It was a thought Marcos knew could get him killed. Doing anything to disrupt Carlton’s life before he committed to the deal and Marcos could slap cuffs on him threatened the whole operation. But the idea hung on, refusing to let go.
For years, he’d had an image of Brenna Hartwell in his mind: a perfect, grown-up version of the little girl who’d made his heart beat faster. And even though she probably couldn’t have lived up to that fantasy even if she weren’t a criminal, he was still drawn to her in a way he couldn’t really explain.
“I should go to bed,” Brenna said, interrupting his thoughts. She stared a minute longer, like she wanted to say something, but finally turned and headed off to her room.
All the while, he longed to call after her, longed to ask her why she’d set that fire eighteen years ago. Instead, he watched her go until the door near the end of the hallway clicked quietly shut behind her.
Then Marcos headed to his own room, down a different hallway. He’d just turned the corner when Carlton pushed away from the wall, out of the shadows, nearly making Marcos jump.
The drug kingpin’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tightened into a thin line. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear at dinner,” Carlton said, his voice low and menacing, almost a snarl. “So, let me be plain. Stay away from Brenna. Or our business here is finished before we get started.”
* * *
“SHE’S A ROOKIE!”
“Sir, she’s determined. She dug all this up on Carlton Wayne White herself. She’s found an angle we never even considered and I think it’s going to work. She—”
“She’s
