Marie Ferrarella - Cavanaugh Undercover

The amused, cocky grin widened. “What makes you think I’m not someone in authority?”

“Let’s call it a hunch,” she told him.

He inclined his head. She’d played that hand well. Whatever she was up to—and he was fairly certain she was up to something, something she was keeping to herself right now—she had guts. “Not bad. All right, I’ll take you with me and introduce you to Roland.”

“The man in charge?” she asked.

Brennan laughed shortly. There was very little humor in the sound. “He thinks he is.”

Her eyes never left Wayne’s face. She was looking for a chink in his armor, a tell she could use in her favor. There was nothing. “Is he right?” she asked.

Isaac Roland was far from in charge, although no one who worked directly for him would ever have had the nerve to tell him that to his face. The man in charge had yet to be identified, a fact that kept Brennan playing this charade. They needed a name in order to shut everything down and make their arrests.

“He’s two rungs up the ladder,” Brennan told her.

“What about you?” she asked. How did the man who called himself Wayne actually figure into all this? Was he the cleanup man, the guard at the door of an exclusive club who decided who gained access and who was turned away?

Or—?

“I’m the guy leaning against the ladder,” he told her. The grin on his face made it impossible for her to gauge if he was telling her the truth or pulling her leg. And just what did he mean by that line, anyway? Was he saying that he wasn’t part of the operation but just an interested spectator?

Or was he deliberately belittling his role in all this to gain her confidence and get her to talk to him? If so, to what end?

It was too much of a puzzle for her to solve now. As long as he didn’t pose any sort of an immediate threat—and she remained on her guard—she didn’t care what he was in the scheme of things. Or who he thought he was.

On the surface, she seemed to be winning his trust—as far as it went—and right now that was good enough for her.

“If you’re going back to him, I’ll follow you in my car,” she told him, about to leave the room. The dead man was making her feel claustrophobic.

Brennan caught her by the arm and she looked at him quizzically. She also spared a look at his fingers that were wrapped around her upper arm, her indication clear. The words Let go practically vibrated between them.

But he ignored the silent message and continued holding her forearm for a moment longer. “I think Roland would prefer it if we both used my car. He’s very big on green energy and cutting down on pollution,” he told her, his expression unreadable.

This “Roland” was also big on cutting back on avenues of escape, Tiana couldn’t help thinking. But there was absolutely no way she could allude to that without raising all sorts of suspicions on the part of this man.

First she had to find Janie, then she could plan their escape, she told herself. The idea that, since Wayne was dead, Janie also might be dead, fleetingly visited her thoughts, but Tiana refused to allow it to take root. Janie was alive and she was here. Tiana refused to allow her mind to entertain any other possibility. To believe that her sister might be dead would render her completely inert. She’d be no good to Janie or herself that way.

Still, she knew she couldn’t just docilely allow herself to be led away like some overgrown, directionally challenged lemming.

“What about my car?” she asked. “I can’t just leave it here.”

“Sure you can,” he said. “I’ll bring you back for it after you meet Roland and state the nature of your business to him.”

Tiana knew she had no choice. If she protested, he’d just leave her here. Possibly in the same condition as Wayne was in. For that matter, she still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that this so-called Bruce Wayne wasn’t the one who’d killed Wayne in the first place. The latter had always struck her as being almost too stupid to live, but discovering she was right was of no great consolation to her. He could have at least remained alive long enough to tell her where Janie was.

She struggled to contain her impatience and concern. “All right, have it your way, ‘Bruce,’” she said.

Brennan flashed a quick smile in her direction. “I usually do.” He said it without bragging or bravado. It was just a stated fact. “My car’s right outside,” he told her, finally leading the way out of the room. He paused to look around, as if to make certain that the area was still deserted. It was.

The sunlight seemed extra bright as she walked out of the dingy, dimly illuminated motel room, and she squinted for a moment, trying to acclimate her eyes to the pronounced change. In doing so, she didn’t see the rock right in front of her. Stubbing the toe of her shoe on it, she tripped.

Instinct had Brennan reacting to the faint, telltale noises. He turned around just in time to catch her and keep the supple handful from making direct contact with the ground.

It all happened very fast, less than two beats of an old-fashioned clock, but even so, he was exceptionally aware of the softness of her body as it made contact with his.

As was she. He could tell by the very startled look in her eyes—which had flown wide-open.

“You make more headway if you keep your eyes open,” he told her, amused.

“So they tell me,” Tiana snapped, brushing herself off.

Since he’d caught her before she’d actually had a chance to hit the ground, he could only guess that she was attempting to symbolically brush away any trace of contact with him.

Was the lady protesting too much? he wondered. Or did she find him as compelling and intriguing as he found her?

“Car’s right here,” he pointed out.

Raising his hand, he pressed the security release on his car key. The silver BMW that had been recruited especially for this part he was undertaking softly whispered that its doors were now unlocked.

He waited until she opened the passenger-side door and got in before he followed suit himself on the driver’s side.

She slid onto a seat that would have made butter seem unusually hard and brittle. Without thinking, she feathered her fingertips along the side of the seat appreciatively. “Business is good for you, too, I see.”

The implication wasn’t wasted on him. She was telling him that she was doing well in her chosen field.

“Can’t complain,” he said. He started the car with another press of a button.

“A person can always complain,” she countered.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But nobody likes to hear complaints. Makes them unreceptive to the person. Me, I always believed in counting my blessings.”

She looked at him in disbelief. Was this man for real? She couldn’t decide one way or another. Her immediate gut feeling would have been to say no, but there was something about his tone of voice that told her she was being made privy to the truth, strange as it might sound.

“An optimistic pimp,” she marveled as they left the parking lot behind them. “I don’t think I’ve ever encountered one before.”

“Then you need to broaden your social circles,” he quipped.

Tiana pretended to think it over before she inclined her head. “Maybe,” she allowed.

“And for the record,” he told her matter-of-factly, “I’m not a pimp.”

“A procurer?” she suggested. When he made no answer, she said, “Okay, what would you call yourself if you were filling out a résumé?” she asked loftily. “A matchmaker?” She laughed.

“A businessman,” he corrected in all seriousness. “A pimp is someone who deals with the dregs of society, pushing them into the arms of their destruction for a hefty cut of their earnings.”