Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(60)

Cautiously exiting the town house, I leave the door unlocked and make my way to my car. I drive a few blocks to a store, pull into the parking lot, then reach under my seat. Removing a disposable phone, I punch in a number. When the recording comes on, I say, “Ace112759934. Code 22.” There’s clicking and then silence before I hear, “What service do you require?”

“I need cleanup.” I give him the address. “This is unrelated to the current mark. It needs to look like a robbery gone wrong, which it was, but without my involvement.”

“Understood,” the person says. While he might understand, there are others who won’t, but I can’t think about that right now.

“Two men. One’s dead.”

Silence. A beat. Then two. “Understood.”

The line goes dead and I destroy the chip in the phone, then dig through the box and remove the Baggie with the poker chip. I consider the dilemma of needing to help Skye, yet also to keep my nose clean, and make a decision. I drop the Baggie back in the box and reach under my seat, removing another phone and dialing.

After three rings I hear a gruff, “At this hour, this call better be worth money.”

“Hey, Buddha,” I say, using his famed albeit ridiculous nickname.

“Oh, f*ck. Ella. I know this ain’t about money.”

“Nope. It’s about that favor you owe me. I’m headed to Vegas, and I need Vegas muscle to do a job I can’t.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’m an innocent schoolteacher, remember?”

“Then why are you coming?”

“To introduce you as my father’s buddy, who will save the day so I don’t have to.”

“Fuck. How much am I getting paid?”

“Favor, Buddha. Remember? I’ll see you around lunchtime.”

I end the call. It’s all fun and games until the games turn dangerous. And this one has.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


Skye

I BLINK AWAKE TO the beam of sunlight and the ache of a body with too little sleep, made better by the hard perfection of Jason’s body wrapped around me from behind. And somehow, he still smells good, like spice and, hmmm . . . rum? Not rum. I don’t know what. It’s just delicious. He’s delicious. My cell phone buzzes on the nightstand and I resist reaching for it, clinging to the warm, wonderful cocoon of male perfection surrounding me.

“That will be my parents,” Jason murmurs, easing over me and grabbing my phone, which I suddenly realize is his phone. “Yep,” he confirms, shifting away from me to sit up and answer. “They call me after every tournament.”

I roll to my back to take in the sight of his naked chest and mussed-up light brown hair. “I’m going to brush my damn teeth and make coffee before I call them back, because my father will have to analyze every move I made at the table last night.” He throws off the covers. “It’s a tradition.”

I grab my phone and look at the caller ID and text log. “It’s early, baby,” Jason says. “Only seven in the morning. We talked to Ella around two thirty. She probably isn’t even out of bed.”

I glance up and nod. “Yes. You’re right.”

“And considering we don’t have to be downstairs until ten, we shouldn’t be out of bed, either. But my pops loves these damn calls.” He motions to the bathroom and heads that way, and I get the feeling he looks forward to the calls as well, which makes him all the more sexy.

Climbing out of bed, I join him at the double sinks in the bathroom where I set my stuff out last night. Jason grabs his toothbrush and I grab mine. “Toothpaste?” he asks, offering me the tube.

“Yes, please,” I say, accepting it, and when we look at each other, there is this funny flutter in my belly that remains as we both freshen up.

And when I would exit the bathroom, he snags my fingers. “I haven’t brushed my teeth with a woman since college,” he confesses, then cups my head and plants a quick, sexy kiss on me before he smiles and says, “Minty fresh,” at the same time I say, “Cinnamon.” We erupt in laughter at our different reactions to one taste and he motions me to the other room. “Let’s go make coffee. I have about ten minutes before my father calls back.”

“How can you be sure?” I ask, following him into the bedroom and then the hallway.

“The first call is always my wake-up call,” he says, as we enter the kitchen. “The second is the talk.”

“It sounds like you have a really special relationship with your father,” I comment, while we both look through a selection of coffee pods in the drawer by the pot.

“I’m close to both of my parents.” He sets two cups on the counter. “Ladies first,” he says, his lips curving with the reminder of what he’d said to me last night.

“This time, I’ll agree,” I say, popping my pod in the machine. “I’m not used to this little sleep.”

“You can hang out here and sleep while I’m at the charity event, if you want.”

“Oh gosh no,” I say. “I want to be there. I’m not wasting a moment we have here.”

“We can come back, Skye,” he says, his tone serious, his eyes warm with affection and this growing bond between us, which both frightens and excites me.