One Wrong Move (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Rayma

Rayma O’Riley sighed, forked a piece of crispy chicken from her otherwise healthy salad, and chewed. Might as well enjoy the twenty-five dollar meal, if nothing else.

Mike fingered the tip of the rose in a vase on the table. For one horrifying moment, she feared he planned to propose.

No. No way. They’d only been dating three months, which was one reason why she suffered through his idle chatter at this stuffy restaurant. What better place to break it off with him than here—the reason they were dating in the first place?

Besides the fact she worked for News 12, she owned a popular blog about the city of Hammer Bay, highlighting features of the Texas coastal town and its businesses. As a newcomer with unbiased opinions, she had a growing readership. A few months ago, she’d received an anonymous email about Vin Doux, stating that the restaurant was a cover for illegal activities. She’d meticulously arranged to meet its CPA and they’d started dating, but it hadn’t gained her any insight. And he made her miserable. But she put up with him for the chance to expose the restaurant for what she suspected it was: a cover for drug manufacturing.

Even though she controlled her blogging, she had to be careful what she posted because of her job. News 12 would fire her in a heartbeat if she wrote such a damning post based on a source she couldn’t trace, but she believed the email and everything it had alleged about this restaurant. One picture shouldn’t have convinced her, but meeting the owner had launched instincts that’d been firing on all cylinders since.

She hadn’t been this excited about a self-imposed assignment in a long time.

“Mike,” she said, interrupting her date’s spiel—something about their going away to a fishing cabin for a few days to celebrate their anniversary. Wasn’t going to happen.

“It’s a good idea, right?” he asked, and she repressed the urge to roll her eyes. No telling what he considered a good idea, seeing as how she wasn’t listening.

“Things aren’t working out for me,” she blurted.

“What do you mean?” He sipped Chardonnay, his pinkie pointing straight out. “You don’t like it here?”

“I don’t mean here. I mean us.”

He swabbed his lips and chin like some men would wax their cars—careful, controlled, meticulous. She didn’t tell him cream stuck to his otherwise immaculate mustache.

His steel-gray eyes flashed, the only emotion he showed. “Is this a breakup?”

She nodded and swallowed, regretful that dating him hadn’t helped her learn anything other than what not to look for in a guy. “Don’t take it personally.”

“How can things not be working out after only three months?” Mike clutched the stem of his wineglass, his forehead scrunched into a frown. “Is there someone else?”

God, she wished. But Rayma needed to be alone for a while, stop dating and enjoy life. If only she could let go of this morbid obsession with Vin Doux.

She hadn’t been biking in months, or taken time to do other things she loved, hobbies she couldn’t even remember right now. Ever since that stupid email, her only focus had been to investigate Vin Doux, bust the owner, and write a piece that would propel her to stardom.

Mike’s lips curled as he continued to blink at her, but all that changed when someone approached behind her. His posture straightened, eyelids fluttering as if in shock of an event that hadn’t yet happened.

Only one man could cause such a reaction in Mike…maybe in damn near anyone. She pasted on her best smile and turned to greet Darrell Weberley. The sizeable man stopped at their table and took her hand, his large one engulfing hers.

“Mike. So glad you could bring your lady to dinner.” He held her hand too long, and she swallowed her trembles.

“It’s the best place in town,” Mike said.

“Of course it is.” Darrell turned his coal-tarred eyes on her and flashed a white-toothed smile. “I hope you’re enjoying your meal.”

“Of course.” Even better now that she could study the man who was responsible for putting drugs on the streets of this town. Those who loved her would warn her to call the cops or run fast and far away, but she could do neither. Most of the cops were in his pocket, and running had never been her strong suit.

“Can I offer you a glass of wine?” He held up a bottle, and as Rayma’s gaze flickered toward the vintage looking label, he added, “My treat.”

“Oh, sure. I’d love one. Thank you.” She knew how to be amicable when necessary. “Do you have time to sit a minute?” she asked.

“Not really. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen.”

“But don’t you have chefs to do all the cooking?”

The man’s large lips pursed. He wasn’t overweight, but big-boned, and everything about him was king-size. Intimidating. She could see why he was successful with his drug business. He was well known for his charity work, but that didn’t make him any less of a bad person in Rayma’s eyes.

He nodded. “I do. Some very good ones.”

“The best,” she praised. “If you recall, I work for News 12, but I also manage a blog. I’d love to do a piece about your restaurant.”

Before he could reply, a loud
thwack
behind her made everyone at the table jump. She knocked over her newly filled glass of very expensive wine in her effort to check out the commotion. Two chefs in double-breasted jackets, their toques askew, faced off near the kitchen door. Although their voices were low, it appeared they were arguing.

Darrell cursed. “Excuse me,” he muttered. He sped off toward the chefs like his ass was a jet engine full of hot air, his jacket vents flapping behind him.

Rayma grabbed her phone and fired up the video. If chefs were going to fight in the middle of a semi-famous restaurant, she must get it on camera. An interview with the owner would be a nice addition.

Not everyone noticed the argument, but Rayma zoomed in on her phone and remained transfixed. One man—a tall, burly thing with massive shoulders—challenged a small, wiry blond.

Mike pulled bills from his suit pocket and slapped them on the table. “Screw this,” he said and stood. “Are you coming?”

“No.”

“Guess that’s it then.” He left without a chaste kiss on the cheek or a backward glance. Fine with her. Made things easier.

The blond hurled forward to punch Mr. Burly, but the massive chef’s steps were smooth and polished, graceful. He stepped aside, and the chef took a tumble.

Darrell marched over and only had to say one thing before the wiry blond turned on his heel and stormed out. Darrell rushed after him, then stopped to talk with some patrons and offer his most cordial smile. Rayma rushed to the chef remaining and held her phone up to him, video rolling.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m Rayma with News 12. Can you tell me what just happened?”

The chef turned. His hat had fallen off his head, exposing thick locks of mussed hair. Hair she itched to run her fingers though. His eyes, the same dark color as those strands she longed to touch, penetrated hers, and for a moment, she was lost. She licked her lips, which were suddenly dry, as she imagined a deep bowl of melted chocolate. How could anyone turn away? Rich and creamy and something she wanted to indulge in until she consumed every bit.

And his shoulders. From a distance, even zooming in on her phone, she could discern how his muscles fought to rip out of his uniform.

She lowered the phone as her breath caught in her throat. Dump one, find another?

She gulped back the urge to lean closer to him and sample that mouth, then remembered the phone now recording the floor. She brought it up to him again.

“Can you tell me why you and the other chef were fighting in the middle of the restaurant?”

He glared at her a moment before he turned and walked away. She watched his retreating back, still lost in the power of his gaze. Why did she always fall for decadent men? Why couldn’t she find someone like James—her friend for years, harmless to her hormones, and uncorrupt. A man who opened doors for women, who didn’t start fights in bars and restaurants.

Boring.

She turned to Darrell but fought for words. Where was her mind? Oh yeah, still lost in that bowl of chocolate.

“Do you have any comments on what happened here?” she asked.

He smiled into her phone as if the fight was a setup. “I want to apologize to the patrons and offer this meal free for compensation.”

She flicked off her video and lowered her phone. “Mr. Weberley—”

“It’s still Darrell.” He smiled, but it looked like his face was about to crack. His complexion now matched the gray of his suit.

“Darrell,” she continued. “I think now would be great timing for that interview.”

He nodded, his mouth opening, closing, then opening again, reminding her of a fish taking its last breath. “Get in touch with me sometime next week,” he said, then stalked away. She stood there, observing his manners as he stopped to talk to other patrons. Yet, all the while, her mind was still on that chef and his chocolate brown eyes.

***

Camden

Darrell paced to within a whisper of where Camden stood. The heat from his anger could have grilled the Bordelaise steak and mushrooms he’d been preparing when the fight began. “What in the hell was that about?” Dare asked.

“Shawn needed an ass kicking.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, washed his hands, and went back to work.

“Why?” Dare didn’t leave. He fisted his hands, his face contorted into a spasm of fury—eyebrows fluttering up and down, his mouth shaking at the corners as he clenched his jaw. Camden continued to season meat as if nothing had happened.

He had a feeling that only pissed him off more.

“He was saying shit that didn’t need saying.”

Dare’s pinched face said he wanted to throw his own punches. He stopped in front of Camden, who got a perverse pleasure from the fact the man had to lift his gaze—albeit only slightly—to meet his. Dare was built like a bull, Camden like a race horse. Dare tried to intimidate people, and did a good job most of the time, if not with his solid body, then the dangerous glint in his eye. Most people groveled at his feet. Camden never groveled at anybody’s feet.

Shawn was a young punk who had gotten angry at Darrell over something—Camden didn’t know what, but he’d made a bold move, going out there to retaliate. Most of Darrell’s employees were ruled by a mix of fear and respect, but not Shawn. Darrell had taken him on when he was barely fourteen, giving him a job and a stable income, and he’d quickly found his calling as a chef. He’d grown too comfortable in his position, thinking he was immune to the forceful and sometimes dangerous methods of his boss.

His mutterings in the kitchen had grown louder as he continued to be ignored, and Camden had finally interfered when he worried Shawn might go out there and get himself killed. He tried to steer him out the back and away from the front of the house. He didn’t need a punk kid destroying this investigation.

He wasn’t supposed to know about the business Dare ran on the side. Which wasn’t a stretch—he’d been a chef for nine months and still hadn’t learned anything concrete.

Fletcher’s grotesque body flashed in his mind as he flipped the steaks on the grill. He’d died by Dare’s command if not by his hands, and Camden couldn’t do anything about it yet. He couldn’t even attend the funeral without blowing his cover. Sometimes, his job sucked.

Fletcher had worked directly with Dare, but had lived in his own safe house. As Dare’s driver, he’d gotten closer to the operation than any other agent, and Camden had to pretend he didn’t know him and go on with his business.

The Houston Division wanted to shut down the investigation after Fletcher’s death, but Dare’s upcoming annual event was a huge opportunity, and their mission was to infiltrate it. He had to gain Darrell’s trust, and Shawn had inadvertently given him a good opportunity.

“What was he saying?”

“Shit that doesn’t bear repeating.” Camden dropped the knife to the counter lest he be tempted to plunge it somewhere he shouldn’t. He oiled the pan, added onions and mushrooms, and stirred.

He could tell him everything, get closer and earn the man’s trust. He knew it would put Shawn in the target hairs, but Dare would find out anyway, so it might as well be from him. The agency could protect Shawn, and hopefully gain some valuable information while he was in their custody. He couldn’t stop what he was doing to call Moore, and only prayed his backup, Casey, had already done so. Undercover as a busboy, he’d disappeared after the squabble; Camden assumed it was to call other agents to watch out for Shawn and take him in.

“Get your stuff and get out,” Dare said.

Camden poured the onions and mushrooms over the steak and set down the pan. “Shawn was saying shit about you, about this business—the restaurant and other things going on. He walked out of this kitchen with the intention of exposing you to all the patrons in this restaurant. I tried to stop him. We got in an argument, and you know what happened from there.”