The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense
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Authors: Kate Kelly
The Art Of Deception
By
Kate Kelly
Kindle Edition
The Art Of Deception - Copyright 2011 - Kathryn J Kelly
Kindle Edition License Notes
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This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The whole damned set-up was wrong. FBI Agent Vince Gage paused at the bottom of the stairs to inspect the discreetly lit bar. The smell of wine, expensive Scotch and Friday night anticipation hung over the dark, cave-like room.
Why hadn’t his partner, Spencer, arranged to meet the woman at the office instead of here? It wasn’t right. If you thought someone was guilty, you hauled them in and grilled them. Inviting folks to the imposing building that currently housed the FBI tended to put a good scare into them, and in his experience, a scared suspect was a talkative suspect.
His gaze skimmed over the cool, slim blond sitting alone at the bar, moved on to the crowded tables of men and women, the usual Boston fare, all looking much the same in their suits, their slim laptop bags resting by their feet. He shifted his attention to the darkest corner of the room where a woman’s smoky laugh mingled with the rowdy guffaws and snickers of her companions.
He tightened his mouth in resignation. A laughing, disheveled woman perched herself on her boyfriend’s knee and planted a noisy kiss on the guy’s mouth. Sophia Pascotto, Spencer’s suspect. His suspect, as of an hour ago.
His gaze drifted to the blond at the bar. Six months ago, he would have taken a few minutes to chat with her, maybe get a phone number.
Another roar of laughter rose from Pascotto’s table. Her boyfriend had dumped her on the floor where she sprawled, laughing and waving her arms in the air.
Spencer owed him big time for this one. It was bad enough having to put his Friday night plans on hold at the last minute, but to take over someone else’s case–-especially Spencer’s.
Gage strode to the back of the room, stopping short of trampling on the giggling woman. “Sophia Pascotto?”
She grabbed his hand to pull herself up. His fingers, suddenly thick and clumsy, fumbled for her wrist. Her bones felt as delicate and insubstantial as the small bird’s skeleton he’d once discovered in his back yard.
“Sophie. Only my mother calls me Sophia." She plowed a hand through her short, dark hair, flattening the right side while the left stood at erratic attention. “You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Her gaze traveled slowly up his body and stopped at his face. A mischievous glint sparkled in her rich brown eyes. “FBI, I presume?”
“FBI? What’s this about?” The rangy, long-haired man who had dumped her on the floor tugged on her arm.
She yanked her arm free, her eyes glued to Gage’s face. “Chance Spencer? You sounded much better looking on the phone.”
Gage tried not to wince. That would be Spencer. There wasn’t a female around he couldn’t charm. “Spencer’s wife decided to have their baby tonight. He asked me to meet you. My name is Vince Gage.”
She tilted her head to one side as she checked him out again. “Vince sounds too tame. I’ll call you Gage.”
“Most people do." He bit back the beginning of a smile. She reminded him of the scruffy terrier he’d owned as a child, playful until someone threatened those close to him. Scrapper hadn’t lasted long in his house.
Cut her loose from her friends and get on with it. If he made this fast, he just might get home before the ball game finished. “Can we can find a quieter place to talk? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Would someone care to tell me what’s going on?” Sophie’s boyfriend unwound from his chair and inserted himself between Sophia and Gage. “Cool suit, dude. Do they issue the threads with your badge and gun? These guys all look the same." He tossed the last comment over his shoulder to the three men and the woman who sat at the table watching with rapt attention.
Just what he needed to polish off his week–a crackerjack. Gage undid the button on his suit jacket and slid his hands into his pants pockets, pushing his jacket back far enough to display the FBI badge clipped to his inside pocket as well as the gun nestled in his shoulder holster. Before he could deliver his nothing-to-get-excited-about speech, Sophia tugged her boyfriend back.
“Quit it, Ciro. He wants to ask me a few questions about the supplies I buy from The Palette. It’s nothing. Since when did you do the big brother trip?”
Big brother trip? Gage didn’t think so. Sophia’s amused look indicated either Ciro hadn’t staked his claim yet, or Sophia–Sophie–Pascotto was adept at deflecting men’s advances. Gage gave an inward nod of acknowledgment. He liked women who could take care of themselves.
“I buy supplies at The Palette, too. Are you going to question me?” The woman at the table behind Ciro stared at his gun before slowly raising her gaze to his as she pushed her full bottom lip into a pout. Her straight black hair fell to her shoulders, grazing a poppy red top that clung to her generous curves.
“Just Ms. Pascotto tonight." He tried to grin, but his face felt stiff as if he’d forgotten how to smile at a sexy lady. Man, his life sucked.
He turned his attention back to Sophie. She couldn’t be five feet tall, if that. Her faded orange sweatshirt slid off one shoulder revealing the delicate line of her collarbone and the thin white strap of her T-shirt.
A vague ache gnawed at his gut. He ignored it, nodded toward the stairs. “I saw a coffee shop across the street. This will only take a half hour or so."
Without looking away from him, Sophie reached behind her and groped for Ciro’s wine glass. Agent Vince Gage had incredible eyes. Cerulean blue was the closest she could come to naming the color. They were as depthless and changeable as the sky. His broken nose and the scar above his right eye saved him from being poster-boy perfect.
Bad choice of words. There wasn’t an ounce of boyishness packed into FBI Agent Gage’s muscled frame. Everything about him was too much. His hair was too short, his eyes too blue. He stood well over six feet tall, and she bet his suit concealed muscles hardened from too many hours of working out.
Slow Burn
. If she ever painted a portrait of this man that’s what she’d call it. There was a stillness about him that suggested an unnerving control. God help whoever was around when he lost it.
“What are you doing?” Ciro’s snarl pulled her attention away from the FBI agent.
“Drinking your wine." She raised the glass and managed to drink half of it before Ciro clamped his hand around her wrist.
“You’re asking for trouble, chickie. You’ve already had two of those." He exerted pressure on her arm until she set the half-finished wine on the table.
She kept her fingers around the stem of the glass, pushed his hand away, then picked up the wine and downed the rest of it. “Don’t call me chickie." She shoved the empty glass on the table and grabbed her heavy leather satchel.
Ciro snorted and turned to Gage. “Booze and Sophie don’t mix well. Maybe I should come with you.”
Ignoring both men in front of her, she sketched a wave to her friends at the table and headed for the stairs. She stumbled once, righted herself, and continued toward the exit, certain Mr. FBI would follow. The heat of the alcohol rushed through her, and she started humming a dirty little ditty her brother had taught her years ago.
Her brother.
She spun around and collided with a solid wall of male flesh. Huge, capable hands caught her as she slowly tipped sideways. All those man smells, cologne, shaving cream, the underlying scent of maleness surrounded her as she gripped hard, muscular arms. Agent Gage smelled delicious.
She looked up. “Either I’m going to have to get stilts or we sit down to talk. My neck’ll get a crick in it if I have to look up at you.”
The stern line of his mouth softened, and she thought he was going to smile, but he didn’t. “Are you really drunk?”
“Not yet." She peeked around his solid body, back toward her friends and shouted the length of the bar. “Ciro, if Raphael turns up, tell him I’ll be home later.
“Okay. Let’s go." On the third stair, Gage’s hand engulfed her elbow as if to steady her. She thought of pulling away, but decided against it. Ciro was right. She was a stupid chickie. Alcohol turned her into a chatterbox, which was not the best state to be in while being questioned by the FBI. But, oh how she hated people telling her how to behave.
