Face of Danger (2 page)

“I told you I hate to be called—”

“Cute. I know.”

The air cooled her sweaty head when he took the helmet off. Great. Helmet hair.

His smile deepened and his hazel eyes glinted gold and green. “What else could you call this, other than cute?”

Mortifying?

She stepped back and glared at him. What the hell did she care what Lang thought of her? “This is my Sunday special. I’m off the clock right now, Lang, so what do you want?”

“A good security specialist and investigator is never off the clock,” he said, all condescension and good reason. “I thought you were a little business-owning tigress, working tirelessly to build your new organization into a force in the security industry.”

“Remind me never to confide anything in you again.” Anything. Especially her fantasies.

She eased the longboard between them, desperate to put any kind of barrier between them.

Lang seemed to be getting way too much enjoyment from her disheveled state. Of course he was amused. He’d cruised into her world like a package of perfection—not a chestnut hair out of place, his stupid preppy shirt pressed like it just came off the rack at Bloomingdale’s and fitting so snug over his expansive shoulders. She’d bet her life he was carrying a Glock under that jacket, too.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded.

“You shaved, Lang? On a
Sunday
? What’s wrong with you?”

He brushed his whiskerless face. “It’s the former Boy Scout in me.”

She rolled her eyes. It was the nerd in him. And, God, that nerd did unholy things to her insides.

“Want something to drink?” he asked, putting a casual hand on her shoulder like he owned her. She’d tied her
sweatshirt around her waist after her last run, so no doubt her skin felt damp through the cotton T-shirt he touched. Oh, fabulous. Now he was
sticking
to her. “There’s a refreshment stand over there.”

“I know.” She dropped the board and hopped on, zipping a few feet ahead of him. “I built it.”

Before he could answer, she kicked to the ground and took off ahead of him, rounded a concrete hill, swerved up the side, twisted the board into a perfect one-eighty, then landed hard.

“You built it?” he asked, reaching her just as she toed the board and gave him a cocky look.

“I supervised the fund-raising team that scared up the dollars to build it,” she explained. “Charles River Skate Park is the result of the hard work of a major community volunteer organization. One that I happen to be extremely involved with.”

“Really.” He scrutinized her for a moment, like an art dealer who kind of saw something worthwhile—but then he looked away. Like he’d rather pass.

She hated that his disinterest torqued her.

Disinterest is good, Vivi. He’s a client. Client. Cli-ent
. How often did she need to remind herself of that?

He slipped her helmet back on her head. “Don’t skate without this.”

She took it back off again. “I’m walking, not skating. What do you want from me today, Lang?”

“I just came to tell you I have to cancel our meeting tomorrow. I had a change in my schedule. I can come over to your offices on Wednesday if you have time.”

Like he couldn’t have called to tell her that. Or sent a text, since they seemed to be exchanging plenty of them
on a regular basis. Couldn’t he just leave a message with Chessie? Why did control-freak Lang always need to do business in person?

Was it because he didn’t trust the efficient delivery of an e-mail message, or because he wanted to see her? She squashed the thought, and considered how much to tell him when she replied.

“You’ll have to meet with my brother on Wednesday. I’ll be out of town.”

He gave her an interested look. “Work or fun?”

“Work
is
fun. Maybe not for hardened FBI agents, but we budding security-business owners have a blast.”

“I’m serious.”

That made her laugh. “You were born serious, Lang.”

He almost smiled. But not quite. “Where are you going?”

“Need-to-know basis. And sorry, but you don’t.” He’d just scoff at the whole idea anyway. “You’re not our only client, you know.”

“I’m the only one here.”

Just the way he said it sent warmth rolling through every female corner of her body.

“You can meet with Zach,” she said. “My brother is up to speed on all our open cases. You’ll never miss me.”

His brow twitched upward, ever so imperceptibly. Like… like maybe he
would
miss her. “I was hoping you’d give a full report on the Berkower case I handed over to the Guardian Angelinos last month. That case is in your bailiwick.”

“Bailiwick?” She choked a derisive laugh. “Where do you get these words? Everything’s in my
bailiwick
, but I’m going to be in L.A., so—”

“You’ve got clients in L.A. now?” He sounded surprised, and way too interested. “I didn’t realize your little company was going national.”

Your little company. She should be used to slight put-downs from Lang by now. They were a fact of life, no different from the teasing she took from the cousins she and Zach were raised with. She knew it was just his way of maintaining control. Still, they irked her.

“If you knew why I was going, you wouldn’t be so liberal with your thinly veiled insults.”

“Then tell me.”

Some skaters whizzed by, swerving to miss Lang, who strode down the path like he’d built the place instead of Vivi and her band of volunteers.

“Can’t,” she said simply. “It’s client confidential.” Or it would be. As soon as she got the job.

“So you do have a California client? That’s interesting.”

She almost lied, but her mother’s well-painted image of St. Peter at the pearly gates counting up her lifetime tally stopped her, as it always did. “To be honest, it’s just a pitch for new business, but I think we have a shot.” A very long shot. But that was her favorite kind. “Why is that interesting?”

“Because…” He hesitated, sliding a glance at her. “I may be moving out there.”

Her heart dropped so hard and fast she felt it hit bottom. “Really?”

He shrugged, feigning a casualness that something told her he didn’t feel. “Possibly. There’s an opening for an SAC position out there that I’ve been interviewing for.”

“Whoa, Lang.” She gave him a playful punch in the arm, using the opportunity to let her knuckles enjoy the
hard bump of his bicep. “Big promotion to Special Agent in Charge, losing that pesky ‘assistant’ handle.” A promotion that would put him three thousand miles away. “You’d be running the whole office?”

“God, no. Only the Criminal Programs Division, which is pretty big. There are multiple SACs in an office that size, so it’d still be a move out—er, up.”

And out. “You’re from L.A., aren’t you? Your family’s there?”

“Just my dad, and he’s getting on. I’m the only kid around to help, since my brother lives in Europe and is a complete waste of a human.”

She snorted softly. “Nice.”

“Maybe not, but it’s true.”

He guided her toward the snack shack. “Tell me about the L.A. job.”

“No, thanks. I try to avoid your ridicule whenever possible.”

“I won’t ridicule you.” He walked up to the window. “Want a Coke?”

“Cherry slurpy.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you make fun of me.”

“See? Ridicule because I want a slurpy.”

“Vivi, you’re thirty-one years old.”

“Right. So make it a vodka slurpy and meet me at that table.” She walked to an empty round table with matching cement benches and sat down. There, she positioned herself to watch Lang buy their drinks.

And think about him moving to Los Angeles.

Lang leaving was a good thing, she told herself, but she couldn’t deny the pressure on her heart. She would be able to work with another ASAC, someone who didn’t
wreck her balance and make her freaking heart stutter every time his ID showed up on her phone. Like the man said, she was thirty-one years old and way past the time of teenage crushes.

But look at him.
Even his doofus Izod shirt looked… hot. And as much as she loathed a pair of khaki Dockers, his covered a world-class backside and had just enough of a bulge in the front to send her imagination into overdrive and make her little vibrator seem inadequate.

Sunlight pouring over him, he was all goodness and strength. The gold flecks in his eyes and hair looked like God had dipped him in bronze when he was born. The sun highlighted the sharp angle of his cheekbone and jaw and the fullness of a mouth that rarely smiled, but when it did, stupid things happened in her lower half.

She blew out a shaky breath. So, yeah. L.A. Good move for everyone.

He strolled over with the drinks, his eyes locking on her as if he knew what she was thinking. Thank God that was impossible, because Lord knows if he had even an inkling of the direction her thoughts took when she looked at him he’d laugh himself silly. She was a colleague, a consultant, a friend at best. Nothing more to him. Nothing would be more humiliating than him knowing just how many times she’d fantasized about tearing off that golf shirt. With her teeth.

“Interesting hairstyle,” he said, placing the drinks on the table. “Even for you.”

Yeah. They were most definitely not on the same wavelength.

“Is this your way of sweet-talking information about my new client out of me? So effective.” She took the
slurpy and tore the paper off the top of the straw, turning it around to blow the wrapper in his face.

He snapped it midair with one lightning-fast hand. “You know you want to tell me.” He leaned over the table. “Just give in to it, Vivi.”

Her nether regions took another thrill ride.

“Give me one good reason why I should tell you anything.”

“Because,” he said, lowering his voice to that I-call-the-shots tone she found maddening and sexy and, every once in a while, a little scary, “I want to know.”

And just like that, she capitulated. No man had ever had that effect on her. Ever.

When Vivi Angelino closed her mouth over a wide straw and sucked hard enough to hollow her delicate cheeks, Colton Lang almost got a boner.

Almost.

The state of damn-near-hard was status quo around this woman, so in the few months he’d been sending consulting jobs to her firm, Colt had learned a couple of tricks to ensure that “almost” didn’t become “obvious.”

Like focusing on her outlandish black hair, made even more so today by the helmet and what appeared to be yesterday’s hair gel. Or he’d let his gaze settle on the diamond dot in the side of her nose, concentrating on how much that puncture had to hurt instead of how it would feel to run his tongue over the stone.

Or he’d simply remind himself that this skateboard-riding, sneaker-wearing, guitar-playing tomboy happened to have some of the best investigative instincts around, and if he wanted to keep the Guardian Angelinos in his
back pocket for certain jobs, acting on a mindless surge of blood to his dick would be not only unprofessional, but also foolish.

That was usually enough to quell the erection. Sometimes. Today, finding her in this skate park with a little sheen of perspiration making her pixie-like features glisten and her coffee-brown eyes spark with unexpected interest, the boner might win this battle.

But look at that outfit, Colt
. A long-sleeved cotton T-shirt that dangled off her narrow frame and faded green cargo pants frayed at the cuffs. He could never be attracted to a woman who cared so little about her appearance that she rolled around Boston dressed like she’d shopped at Goodwill.

He preferred a woman who looked like a woman, who wore a little makeup, had hair falling to her shoulders, and maybe strolled—not rolled—through a park in a pretty sundress. He’d bet his bottom dollar she didn’t own a dress.

“All right, I’ll tell you,” she said after swallowing. “But I swear to God, Lang, don’t try to talk me out of it, because I want this job.”

“What job?”

“You’ve heard about the Red Carpet Killer, of course.”

He held his Coke, frozen midway to his mouth. “You don’t buy that malarkey, do you?”

She smiled. “Lang, malarkey hasn’t been sold for forty years. Can you get with this century? And do you really think two Oscar-winning actresses being killed in two consecutive years, weeks after winning, isn’t more than simple coincidence?”

“One was an overdose, one was an accident. No
matching MO, no serial killer. But I do know there’s an FBI task force out of L.A. with an eye on the possibility of a copycat killer.”

“Exactly.” She pointed at him. “I don’t happen to think there’s a serial killer, but I do know there are five women in Hollywood who are scared spitless right now. They are ramping up security like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You think they’re going to hire your firm for protection?” He tried not to scoff, he really did. But it was ludicrous. “A brand-new firm made up of an extended family of renegade Angelinos and Rossi cousins?”

No surprise, her espresso eyes narrowed in disgust. “We are not renegades, for God’s sake. I’m a former investigative journalist, in case you forgot, so getting a PI license was a natural move. Zach is a former Army Ranger. And, yeah, our core employee base happens to be a few cousins my brother and I were raised with—”

“Don’t forget Uncle Nino, providing pasta and daily encouragement.”

“Don’t knock my Nino,” she shot back. “And, for your information, we’re interviewing protection and security specialists, including some highly qualified bodyguards. The Guardian Angelinos are experiencing a growth spurt.”

He angled his head in acknowledgment. “I know that, Vivi, especially since I keep throwing FBI consulting jobs at you. I just think the actresses who are worried about being victims of a curse or a killer will hire the biggest and best in the protection industry.”

“Maybe.” She took another drink, her eyes dancing with some untold secret. “What do you think of Cara Ferrari?”

“I think I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”

She looked skyward with a loud tsk. “I meant of her chances to win.”

“I don’t follow Hollywood too closely, but I did see that remake of
Now, Voyager
. My opinion? She was too melodramatic.”