Against the Dark

SHE’S AN EX-SAFECRACKER FORCED INTO ONE LAST HEIST

Angel Ramirez left the safecracking game five years ago, and she’s worked hard to make amends and build an honest life. But when a beloved aunt is kidnapped, she must reunite with her girl gang to acquire the unique ransom: Walter Borgola’s prized diamonds. It’s a simple job that turns into a nightmare, thanks to a surprisingly clever—and searingly sexy—security guard named Cole Hawkins.

HE’S AN UNDERCOVER AGENT WITH BIG PLANS FOR HIS GORGEOUS THIEF

Cole is one of the Association’s most brilliant agents, under deep cover investigating a ruthless killer. He’s also running out of time: hundreds will die if he doesn’t stop the plan Borgola’s set into motion. Catching Angel is the break he needed—he promises not to turn her in if she poses as his lover and uses her unique talents to unlock the sociopath’s dungeon vaults.

But as pretend passions turn real, Cole regrets drawing Angel into his deadly game…and danger is closer than either of them could ever imagine.

Copyright ©2013 by Carolyn Crane

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this ebook only, or sharing as permitted by your ebook vendor.

Cover art: Earthly Charms

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9883131-1-8

ISBN: 0988313111

Angel Ramirez sipped her club soda and lime, a stand-in for a gin and tonic, and carried on a mindless conversation with her old friend Macy. It was the kind of babble that let them devote their attention to potential threats in their surroundings. They were posing as party girls—hookers paid by Borgola to have sex with the party guests. They’d been propositioned a few times, but they’d put the guys off by pretending to be waiting for somebody.

So far so good.

Nobody was paying much attention to them anyway. Unless you counted the guy in the corner, leaning against a fountain, looking perfectly at home at a party full of men who would never do the right thing.

He had sandy brown hair and a scruff of a beard, and his tux fit just a little tight across his muscular shoulders, but what she mostly noticed was his gaze—it burned intense and gem-like behind his thick-rimmed glasses. Brainy and brawny, like a fair-haired Clark Kent.

Something told her he wasn’t watching her for security reasons. And that’s not why she was watching him.

Don’t look,
she told herself.

Of course it didn’t help to look away, either. His relentless gaze made her feel excited and melty inside. Even standing on the periphery, he was the center of the room, like the human equivalent of a bonfire. And he riveted her. Which told her everything she needed to know about him.

Do this job and get out,
she told herself.

She kept her back to the action on the couches in the sunken living room. Beyond was the Grecian pool where couples outright fucked. Everything was gilded gold and velvet, and the walls were hung with disturbing pin-up style paintings of women being fondled by monsters. Borgola would’ve commissioned them. Angel thought she recognized the artist, though he’d never sign such obscene work.

But it was the massive bunches of white roses that truly offended her.

Their beauty and innocence was all wrong here. If she were designing this home, she would get rid of them, or else she’d go in the other direction and do something perverse. To match the mood of the place.

But of course, she’d never take a client like Walter Borgola, the owner of this vulgar mansion and thrower of this disturbing party.

Macy lifted a glass of champagne off a tray carried by a waiter, who disappeared into the crowd around the sunken living room. “I always did love that dress on you, Angel,” she said.

Angel smiled. “Thanks.” The vintage pink empire waist dress was one of her favorites from her former life of crime—it was sexy and also good for concealing a handgun in a thigh holster along with her old safecracking tool. The tool was disguised as an mp3 player; she hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw it away for sentimental reasons. She never thought she’d use it again.

For five years now she’d walked the straight and narrow, building a nice little business as an interior designer. She’d been proud of her honest new life, and she even felt like she was starting to repair some of the damage she’d done to the people she loved. And now here she was, buzzing with adrenaline, all geared up to hit a place.

She hated how good it still felt.

Macy wore a designer gown Angel didn’t recognize—a slinky silver affair that popped against her skin. Angel used to know all of Macy’s clothes, but of course her old gang would have moved ahead without her. At least Macy’s hair was still the same, shorn close and dyed white-blonde, all in kinky little nubs the size of thimbles. Some bejeweled.

“Should we be worrying about this guy?” Nothing escaped Macy’s notice. “He looks too brainy for Borgola security, don’t you think? But if he wants a go with you, he’d come over and request it.”

Angel tried to keep her face neutral. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“Oh my God.” Macy smiled. “You think he’s hot.”

“Don’t,” Angel said.

“Doot doot doot,” Macy made a radar sound. “We have detected a bad boyfriend.”

“Stop it,” Angel said.

“Dangerously self-destructive man at oh-four-hundred hours. Angel, start your engines.”

“It’s not funny. At all.”

They used to joke about it back in the day—if they wanted to know if a guy was troubled and self-destructive in some way, they just needed to check if Angel thought he was hot.

Bad boyfriend radar, they called it.

Because if Angel was attracted to a guy, it meant he was probably wounded or feral, a doomed thug or a tough guy with a hurricane for a heart. It meant she could love him, but never save him. Being past the anyone-saving-him point was a central feature of her boyfriend choices.

Which was why she didn’t date men she was attracted to anymore, a policy that made for a shitty sex life, but the new and reformed Angel was all about avoiding trouble. Anyway, she rarely met her type anymore. You had to come to parties like this to meet the really bad seeds.

So yeah, this one looked all brainy and in control, but Angel knew better; no man fooled her bad boyfriend radar. Angel wondered cynically how far this guy had gotten along on his personal yellow brick road of self-destruction.

Not that she needed to care.

“It’s a problem if he’s Borgola security,” Macy said.

“He’s not the sadistic type,” Angel said. She could tell everything about a guy like this. “His fury doesn’t turn outward, it turns inward.”

Macy smiled. “So says the Jane Goodall of the self-destructive man.”

“Not funny.”

Yelps and screams sounded from the direction of the pool. Macy shot a dark gaze that way. “Tell me you’re not just a little happy about ripping Walter Borgola off. Tell me your adrenaline isn’t pumping.”

“My adrenaline is pumping to see Aunt Aggie safe.”

“Come on. I’m talking about the job. Not just a little of the old rush? You always loved the high wire.”

“I like sleeping at night,” Angel said.

Macy glared silently at the pool. “You are such a little liar, Angel. That’s okay.”

“I’m here for Aunt Aggie, that’s all.”

“Yeah, we’re all here for Aunt Aggie. Doesn’t mean you have to lie to yourself about the thrill of the job. About grabbing the rocks.”

Macy was right, of course. Angel didn’t really care about sleeping at night. And yes, her blood was racing with the need to melt into the shadows, to steal through forbidden spaces and unlock what nobody else could. Her friends had no idea how much she missed it. And yes, yes, yes, she wanted that guy in the corner with a kind of fever.

Do this job and get out,
she told herself.

Because she valued her legit life. And stealing hurt people. And she cared that her parents and
abuela
were on the road to forgiving her for the shame she’d brought to the family—they’d even invited her back home for a Thanksgiving dinner of pumpkin and sweet potato tamales this past year. She’d felt almost like a decent woman, and it made her want to scream to be pulled back in like this. But she’d do anything to save Macy’s Aunt Aggie, who had been like a second mother to her. The Flesh Boys had nabbed the old woman. They’d demanded Borgola’s diamonds in ransom. Only a few people in the world could crack that rare Fenton Furst model safe up in Borgola’s bedroom.

“Act natural.” Macy stared at one of the oil paintings. “What does the interior designer say about this art?”

Angel pasted on a vacant smile. “I think the décor is brilliant,” she said. “An interior should reflect the passion and personality of the homeowner. So, for the biggest pimp-scumbag and God knows what else in L.A., I think it really expresses his inner grossness, don’t you? I would make it even more horrible in here if I were his designer.”

Macy’s cheekbones broadened in a wide smile. “Oh Angel. I missed you. You always had such a dramatic imagination.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Macy snapped. “You know we would’ve used Rhonda if she had the skills. I get that you like being out.” Meaning out of the life, the gang. “Rhonda’s good. But you know, a Fenton Furst…”

“I know,” Angel said.

Macy said, “The only way I’m going out is feet first.”

Exactly what Angel used to say.

She still felt the heat of the man’s gaze. No way did he recognize her from her new life—the species of troubled badass she was attracted to weren’t typically seen in upscale furniture stores or suburban L.A. dream homes. Their main habitat was exactly where they shouldn’t be, and eventually their habitat became a slab in the morgue. Anyway, she looked completely different for this job tonight, what with her fake boobs and big makeup. And she’d remember if she’d ever met him.

No, he didn’t fool her for a second.

White Jenny walked up and put her arms around Angel and Macy. “Still just two guards circling the grounds. Twelve to fifteen minute intervals going out there.” White Jenny had creamy white skin and blonde-white hair; she was a pale and voluptuous milkmaid compared to Angel and Macy. They were all trying to look like whores, but White Jenny came by it naturally. She always had, ever since middle school, when the three of them had become best friends, three smart, precocious poor girls, united by dreams of a life beyond the hardscrabble housing around the Willow Farms Poultry plant.

“The guards walk separately?” Macy asked. “They never meet?”

“Never meeting,” White Jenny said. “The north side of the house is for sure clear five minutes at a time. But only that.”

“These fuckers can’t be more consistent than that?” Macy blinked her brown eyes in total annoyance.

White Jenny and Macy discussed the external security. Angel snuck a look at him again and her heart
thalumped
when she locked into his gray eyes—the kind that managed to look icy and blazing at the same time, like pain mixed with fire. Her skin felt hot, and she looked away. He galvanized her. There was no other word for it.

“Have you spotted bad boyfriend material?” White Jenny asked. “Imagine that. At a party like this!”

Angel closed her eyes. “Let’s just do this.”

“Your libido always was infallible,” White Jenny said. “Have you even gone on any dates at all in the last five years?”

“Let’s focus on the job, not my personal life,” Angel said, though it kind of broke her heart to be with these girls again. The way they clicked and how well they knew her. She missed them badly, but she couldn’t be around the life.

“Just say,” White Jenny said.

“No good dates,” Angel said.

“Have you even been laid?” White Jenny asked.

“Let’s stick to the job,” Angel said.

“Noooo!” White Jenny said. “You haven’t. Poor baby!”

“Borgola’s at two o’clock,” Macy muttered. That stopped the laughing.

Walter Borgola himself, owner of the mansion, was moving in their direction. Angel snuck a glance. Borgola was a wiry, athletic man with gray-flecked brown hair, a red nose, and watery hazel eyes. His shirt was half tucked in and two of the three women with him had wet cum glistening on their dresses. A guy like Borgola would see his spunk as a precious gift.

He and his women stopped at every group like royals greeting the minions.

Angel’s stomach turned as they strolled up. Borgola ran a finger down White Jenny’s cheek. This would be one of the risky parts of the night; if Borgola decided he wanted any one of them, they’d be lucky to get out of there without trouble. They never fucked for a job. That had been their rule since juvie.