Why would he? Brenna shook it off and tried to focus. She couldn’t let Marcos Costa—whatever his agenda—distract her.
She’d worked hard to get this invite to Carlton’s house. She’d spent weeks planning ways to catch his attention, then even more weeks testing those theories, until finally he’d taken the bait. But Carlton hadn’t gotten to where he was by being careless, or being easily distracted by a woman who wanted to trade assets. She knew he didn’t trust her yet. And there was only so far she was willing to go to earn that trust.
But she needed to get close to him, so she could dig up his secrets as thoroughly as she knew he’d tried to look into hers. Because the events of that day eighteen years ago, when the study had gone up in flames around her, still haunted her. And she suspected that Carlton Wayne White, whether he knew it or not, was connected to that day. And that meant he was connected to her. He just didn’t know it yet.
If everything went as planned, he wouldn’t know it until it was far too late.
* * *
THREE HOURS LATER, after a ridiculously heavy five-course meal filled with meaningless small talk, Brenna walked gingerly toward the room Carlton had put her in. Her feet were killing her. The shoes he’d bought her boasted a label she’d never be able to afford, but as good as they looked, they were far from comfortable. Give her tennis shoes over these heels any day of the week. But she’d never tell him that.
Carlton had bought her the dress, too, as well as a necklace that probably cost more than her car. So far, he seemed to be respecting her boundaries: she’d made it clear that she wasn’t interested in being anyone’s mistress. But she’d also dropped hints that she liked the sort of life her job with the state could never give her.
Slowly, over the course of a series of dinner meet-ups where she’d pretended to be naive enough to think he was interested in simple friendship, he’d dropped his own hints about what he could offer her. About what she might offer him in return.
And now here she was, at his mansion, far from help if he discovered her real intentions, being “interviewed” as clearly as Carlton was doing to Marcos.
Marcos. It had been hard to keep her eyes off him during dinner, a fact she was sure Carlton hadn’t missed. Even if Marcos hadn’t been her first childhood crush, he was exactly her type. Or at least, he would have been if he weren’t a drug dealer.
Besides his good looks, the man was charming and funny and interesting. Maybe a little more cocky and entitled than she’d have expected, but then again, never in a million years would she have pegged that he’d grow up and fall into crime.
He’d seemed so well-adjusted those few months she’d known him, doing well in his classes, having a clear bond with two older boys in the house, a brotherhood that went beyond blood. What had happened to him after that fire?
She knew he and his brothers had been torn apart. All six foster kids had been sent to different places. But that was all she knew; she’d thought about looking him up more than once over the years, but she’d never done it. Now, she almost wished she didn’t know the path he’d chosen.
Was it her fault? If she hadn’t walked into the study when she had, if that fire hadn’t started, would he have traveled a different path?
“Brenna.”
The soft voice behind her startled her, and Brenna stepped sideways on her stiletto. She would have fallen except a strong hand grabbed her waist. For a moment, her back was pressed against a ripped, masculine frame she didn’t have to see to instinctively recognize.
She regained her balance, her pulse unsteady as she spun and found Marcos standing inches away from her. This close, she should have seen some imperfection, but the only thing marring those too-handsome features was the furrow between his eyebrows. It sure looked like disappointment.
Her spine stiffened, and she took a small step backward. “Marcos, uh, Marco.” She glanced around, seeing no one, but that didn’t mean much. Carlton was notoriously paranoid. For all she knew, he had cameras inside his house as well as around the perimeter.
Marcos must have had the same thought, because his words were careful as he told her, “I never expected to see you again after that night. And now you’re with Carlton, huh?”
All through dinner, she could see Marcos trying to figure out her relationship with Carlton. The drug kingpin had seen it, too, because he’d made offhand comments that implied she was his, without being so obvious she’d be forced to correct him. But apparently, Marcos had bought it.
She flushed at the idea that he thought she was sleeping with a drug lord for jewelry and cars. But she also heated at the idea of keeping up the ruse that she’d spent a night in Marcos’s bed.
What would that be like? Her thoughts wandered, to the two of them, sweaty, limbs tangled on the huge bed in her room. She shook it off, but it must not have been fast enough, because when she focused on Marcos again, the look he was giving her told her he’d imagined it, too.
“Uh, no. Carlton and I aren’t dating, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“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?”