Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3) Read online

  Bowen escorted Sera to a chair before standing guard in front of her like a rough-edged version of a sentry. The details Austin had gleaned about their story were murky, as he never wanted to appear interested, but he knew the highlights. Sera, a freshly minted NYPD cop, had gone undercover to find a way to put her brother’s murderer behind bars, all while Bowen—a criminal in his own right—had been working with the NYPD to keep her alive, unbeknownst to Sera. There had been quite a patch of turbulence toward the end of the case, but obviously it had ended well, since one didn’t cross the street without the other now.

  Austin had a contentious relationship with Bowen, the former Brooklyn gang leader, but more of it stemmed from jealousy than anything else. Not over his looks, obviously. Austin had everyone beat in that department, thank you very much. No, his envy stemmed from Bowen’s inability to hide his thoughts or emotions. They flashed in his face one by one. Humor, vexation, anger. What that must be like. Not bothering to expend energy on keeping your hand hidden to the other players.

  Underneath the jealousy of having such freedom, however, was a worry that kept him awake at night, when he wasn’t thinking about Polly.

  What if he dropped his mask and nothing lay on the other side?

  Connor Bannon, the ex-SEAL who was usually first to arrive at every squad meeting, strode into the room, stone-faced, as was his custom. Riding on Connor’s back was Erin O’Dea, the blond pyromaniac and escape artist who was rarely seen out of Connor’s company. Their first mission as a squad six months ago had coincided with Erin’s uncle attempting to institutionalize her and steal her trust fund, but uncle had ended up with a bullet in his head instead, the details of which were still sketchy, but Austin suspected Connor had fired the kill shot. As he was a dishonored SEAL who had turned to violent street-enforcing back in New York, Austin doubted there would have been any hesitation on Connor’s end. Especially not with Erin trapped in a cage, teetering over a lake as she’d been at the time.

  Leading up to those events, Austin had developed somewhat of a soft spot for Erin, sort of a half-crazed sister who didn’t judge him for being a cheat. He’d liked her loony, but seeing her settled made him feel…good. As a result, his animosity toward Connor had thinned out somewhat. Not that they’d be attending some ghastly baseball game together or something anytime soon.

  “Who’s the pig?” Erin asked, dropping down off Connor’s back.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Austin said, disgusted.

  “Come on, guys.” Sera stood and tried to sidestep Bowen, but he blocked her. She sighed. “Derek will make introductions when he gets here. Try to resist alienating him right off the bat.”

  “Alienation has worked like a charm for me so far,” Austin commented, sending a tight smile around the room. Yeah, he was the resident prick among the group, and the title suited him just fine. He cast a glance at Polly over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t moved from behind the protection of his body. She lifted an eyebrow as if to say, take a picture, asshole. Well. Being the resident prick suited him most of the time. He’d made a right bollocks out of the tea bag idea, hadn’t he? It had been meant to soften her up, not harden her even further toward him. For the millionth time, Austin wondered why his wits failed him only around Polly. Normally, he rose to a challenge, but the one she presented was proving far more difficult than he would have imagined.

  His lack of finesse where Ms. Banks was concerned made up only a small portion of his confusion. In the past, he’d been required to seduce marks. He’d done it fast and he’d done it well, if the nail marks on his back were any indication. Perhaps he’d still had an ounce of conscience remaining, however, because he’d begun to feel guilt following the act. Swampy, inconvenient guilt. So he’d shut himself off during sex, moved on autopilot in a way that would achieve his goal, while blocking out the subsequent emotion that came along afterward. By Austin’s count, it had been nearly a decade since he’d enjoyed sex. Pitiful, that. But true. So why this attraction to Polly? If he succeeded in getting her into bed, who would she even encounter there? What if she looked up at him and saw what he suspected he’d become? Another soulless con beyond redemption.

  “Since our illustrious leader is running late,” Polly started, “shall we piece together what we already know? He’s an ex-cop—”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” said the new man.

  Austin flexed his right hand. “Don’t talk to her like I’m not here.”

  “My apologies.” Polly came to stand beside Austin, giving him a curious look, before returning her attention to the man. “You’re an ex-cop, but you’re here with us in convict hell, so you’ve done something to earn it.”

  Erin trudged across the floor in the man’s direction. When she stood within five feet, she leaned close and sniffed him. “Peanut butter.” She turned and looked at Connor, who clearly wanted to haul her back, but respected the escape artist’s need to be untethered, able to gain freedom at the drop of a hat. “Connor, he smells like peanut butter.”

  “I heard you,” came the ex-SEAL-turned-street-enforcer’s rumble. “That means he’s harmless?”

  “No, it means he’s dangerous.” Erin waved a hand to indicate the room. “Any one of us could have had a nut allergy.”

  Connor nodded, as if Erin’s reasoning made perfect sense.

  Bowen scratched the back of his neck, looking restless until Sera settled a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. “Five more minutes. If the captain is a no-show, I’m taking Sera home.” He eyeballed the newcomer. “I’m not exactly aflutter with anticipation to make your acquaintance, man.”

  “Yeah?” The guy’s jaw hardened. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled to find out a group of criminals and cons have been running free in my city.”

  Austin gave a slow clap, unable to contain the laughter that escaped him. “You are aware this is Chicago, are you not? Home of the Chicago White Sox—or Black Sox as history will remember them for fixing your precious World Series?” He looked around the room for support, which didn’t come. “The phrase ‘vote early and vote often’ originated in your city, good man. Rest assured that Chicago’s reputation is already too black for a handful of criminals to tarnish it further.”

  Polly sniffed. “I hate when we agree.”

  Austin swept her tempting body with a look. “I know one thing we’d agree on if you’d only let me play.”

  He had the satisfaction of watching her cheeks redden—just a touch. “And wake up fleeced of my possessions? No, thank you.”

  His stomach knotted, but he grinned through the discomfort. “I’d leave you the essentials.”

  “Drop dead, Shaw.”

  Captain Derek Tyler chose that moment to enter the meeting space, shoving a box of doughnuts in Erin’s general direction. “Never again, O’Dea,” he growled. “You want doughnuts at these meetings, pick them up yourself.”

  “Captain,” Erin responded, her voice muffled inside the pink box. “Do you have a nut allergy? If you die, I’d rather it were of natural causes.”

  Derek threw an exhale at the ceiling, then looked at Sera—the only cop in the undercover squad and probably the one with the largest reserve of patience—who responded with, “New guy smells like peanut butter. The men are all a little touchy and it didn’t help when Austin dissed the almighty Series. We all knew he was a cop on sight, because, hello. Probably best to lead with introductions. I’ll pick up the doughnuts next time. You never pick anything with frosting.”

  Bowen rolled his shoulders. “That’s my wife.” He looked at the new guy. “Who I’d like to point out is neither criminal nor con, as you put it.”

  “Then what’s she doing here?” New guy rubbed his chin and leaned forward, considering an already-bristling Bowen. “I’ve earned a guess since you’ve all taken turns pegging me for a lowlife.” He swept Bowen with a discerning look. “Dragged her down with you, huh?”

  Connor just managed to intercept Bowen in time on his cha
rge toward the newcomer. Big as Connor was, Bowen knew every trick in the book and was more than capable of getting the drop on Connor, so Austin heaved a dramatic sigh and went to step in. “Now, Driscol. You’re upsetting your missus.” A fair amount of struggle went out of Bowen, even though murder still existed in his eyes. Thankfully, Austin knew exactly how to defuse the bomb, having started as a chiller when joining up with his partner. The one who calms the mark when he realizes he’s been had. “All right. If you insist on fighting…” Austin said for Bowen’s ears alone. “He’s got a limp on his right side, the pathetic fuck. I’d go right for his knee if I were you. Exploit his weakness.”

  As expected, Bowen’s irritation was handily transferred to Austin. “I don’t need to fight dirty to win.”

  “It was merely a suggestion.” When Bowen shrugged off Connor’s restraining grip and returned to Sera, Austin lifted an eyebrow at the new guy. “Congratulations, you’re the new heat merchant in the group. Up until five minutes ago, it was me they hated most.”

  “Don’t worry,” Polly said, perching at the edge of a chair and crossing her legs. “That hasn’t changed for me.”

  “If you’re all finished ruining my morning, I’d like to get this meeting started.” Derek’s voice demanded everyone’s attention, even though he sounded flat-out bored as he studied the contents of a manila folder. “I don’t have a case to assign just yet, but I’ve got something brewing. So stay close and keep your phones on.”

  “Don’t tell me you brought us down here for a meet-and-greet,” Austin muttered. “I could have made plans.”

  Derek didn’t look up from his file. “Oh yeah? To do what?”

  “Criminal type things. Clandestine meetings, hatching nefarious plots—”

  “As I was saying.” Derek finally tossed down the file. “We’ve made it a policy to be honest with one another. Since day one, we’ve been open about our strengths, and it will be no different with our new addition, Henrik.”

  Bowen snorted. “Henrik?”

  “My mother was Dutch,” Henrik drawled without taking his eyes off Derek. “And I never agreed to this little trust exercise.”

  “When you chose the squad over jail time, that’s exactly what you did.” The captain let that statement settle in the quiet room. “We’re already dealing with a lack of trust, but curiosity will pull even more focus.” Derek leaned back against the battered metal desk. “Henrik Vance worked under me in homicide before I was promoted. He was a good cop who made some grave mistakes and—”

  “—and this is my punishment,” Henrik finished, spreading his arms wide. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But I’ll do my job and do it well. That’s all you need to worry about.”

  Erin walked over to Henrik with the doughnut box and held it out. “Touch the bear claw and I’ll set you on fire. It belongs to my man.” She smiled, looking more like a Girl Scout than a convicted arsonist. “Welcome to the family.”

  Chapter Three

  Polly swirled the blue liquid in her martini glass while discreetly checking her blond wig in the nightclub’s mirrored wall. Disguises weren’t her thing, to say the least, but now that one of Reitman’s associates had peeped her—and been choked out on her watch—she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Austin could have helped her with the disguise. The thought flitted through her head before she could stop it, making her grimace into the martini. He’d gotten way too close that afternoon. So close, she could still feel the imprint of his sturdy frame, his hard thighs. Powerful thighs. Thighs that had likely shoved open the legs of so many duped women, he’d lost count. She didn’t want to recall the way they’d flexed and rubbed against her, but her third martini was eroding the mental block she’d erected.

  Erected…yeah he’d done that, too. In spectacular fashion.

  Polly drained the contents of her glass and set it down on the high-top table, resolving to focus on why she’d come to Tossed, a nightclub on Chicago’s Near North Side where Reitman had used his credit card several times on his last trip into town. The tabs were always criminally low, as she suspected he talked his way into free drinks like the savvy grifter he was. Hell, the research she’d done over the years suggested he could sell someone the Willis Tower.

  Reitman had started as a friend to her fathers, but after he’d made off with their “investment” money, they’d confided in her the subtle ways Reitman had earned their trust. He’d bought them lunch on occasion, giving them a false sense of his financial security. He’d given them nicknames. Called them to discuss personal problems that didn’t exist, to gain their sympathy. At a time when her fathers’ relationship had only begun to be accepted in their suburban community, their raising of an adopted daughter still relatively taboo, Reitman’s friendship had been a confidence booster. Given them a sense of hope. It was a long con that had lasted almost a full year. But in the end, her fathers were ashamed to admit, they didn’t even know where their “friend” lived, how he took his coffee, or if Charles Reitman was his real name. All they had left to show for the year of opening themselves up to a stranger was an empty bank account and crushed dreams.

  These bitter memories—consoling the men who’d given her a home—were what she needed to remember next time Austin tried to run game on her. She’d think of sharing a Subway sandwich among the three of them while sleeping in cheap motels. The broken disillusionment on their faces when they couldn’t get Reitman to return their calls. The shame when they couldn’t afford to send her on field trips with her class. Yeah. Austin was cut from the same cloth, and nothing could repair those rough edges. Edges that were deceptively smooth and inviting.

  Lies. All lies.

  Polly ran a hand over her wig and turned from the mirror, intending to perform another casual sweep of the bar. Then she saw him.

  Charles Reitman.

  He’d aged since the last picture she’d managed to get her hands on, but was still attractive in a way that would carry him to a ripe old age. If she didn’t plan to kill him, that is. His black hair was threaded with silver, a complement to the laugh lines around his mouth and corners of his eyes. He wore gray suit pants and a starched white dress shirt, the image of a financial mogul out for some fun. His skin told of a recent tropical holiday, but Polly knew he used tanning beds on a regular basis. Around him, women were already taking notice of the masculine laugh, the confidence radiating from him.

  A hint of what appeared to be awareness broke over his features…and then he turned and looked right at Polly. Later, she would say it was shock that rooted her to the spot, holding her legs hostage. Shock that he could feel one woman staring at him from fifty yards away, when others were watching him from a separation of mere feet. Perhaps it was her anger he felt. Whatever the reason, Polly froze. When two girls in metallic minidresses swirled past, a voice spoke up in the back of her mind. You’re the only one not moving on the dance floor. Dance. Do something. But the fear of failure was too great. Years of preparation and she’d lost her nerve. It couldn’t be happening.

  Her line of vision was blocked when a man slid into her personal space. She only caught a glimpse of his tight black T-shirt and throat tattoo before he leaned in to speak beside her ear. “In my country, women such as yourself don’t stand alone for long when there is a dance floor nearby.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing we’re in Chicago,” she returned, trying for a subtle peek over his shoulder toward the bar, but he was too large. A presence. Especially when he moved closer, obscuring her view completely. Polly lifted her right hand to shove the roadblock away, but his fingers closed around her wrist.

  Slowly, the fingertips of his opposite hand brushed down the inside of her arm, stimulating the sensitive skin with such ease, she sucked in a breath. “Whoever this man is that makes you frown, he cannot do what I do.”

  The arrogant words, spoken in heavily accented Russian, should have made her scoff, to tell her new admirer to get lost. But there was a hint of warmth
in his tone that drew her up short. It lit up some receptor in the back of her mind that relaxed her tense body. Not a danger. He’d cut through the hypnotic state she’d been in, wrapping her in undesired heat. So much heat, its potency startled her. Why didn’t she feel alarmed by his proximity when they’d never met? Allowing people into her personal space had never been easy for her. Only one man had managed to chip away at the invisible wall a day at a time over six months—but she wasn’t thinking about him right now. She was in the nightclub to get eyes on Reitman, and this tattooed distraction could blow her chance, if she let it. “I don’t…I won’t be finding out what you can do. Please move.”

  He laughed against her forehead, the sound dark and sensual. It bathed her face in mint, mingling with his fresh-smelling cologne. Warm rainwater. He was so warm, moving in front of her like they were already in bed, swaying in an almost imperceptible fashion, wetting his lips. Effortless seduction.

  Her physical reaction was disconcerting, but not unfamiliar. Hadn’t she felt this way just this morning? That lingering yen for rough, pulse-pounding sex with her con-man squad mate was never too far from the surface, but perhaps it was being heightened by the liquor. Perhaps a need to get Austin out of her system? Close as this man stood, in the darkness of the dance floor, she couldn’t get a good look at his face. Five o’clock shadow. A nose that appeared slightly crooked, as if it had been broken once or twice. Pointless observations. After years of abstaining, this was the worst possible time to change course. She needed to get away and regroup, watch Reitman at a safe distance until she got her head together. “Excuse me.”

  The stranger’s firm hand pressed to the small of her back, easing her forward against his body. He groaned in his throat when her breasts made contact with his stomach, the sound reverberating right down to her toes. “Dance with me, zolotse.”

  Polly started to decline. Dance? No. She had a job to do…but that note of something in his voice was awakening a familiar craving down deep in her bones. Finally, she succeeded in glancing over the stranger’s shoulder and saw that Reitman was still watching her curiously. Whether the Russian’s forward behavior was inappropriate or not, he’d done her a favor. If he hadn’t shown up, she might be staring at the bar like a jackass. A dance floor would be the perfect place to observe Reitman until the time came to follow him from the club. It had nothing to do with wanting the stranger’s hands on her or the odd surety that he could pinpoint where desire had built the strongest inside her. How? How did she know that? Why was she so sure? “I haven’t danced since middle school, so—”