Conning For Keeps (An Agents of TRAIT Novella) (Entangled Flaunt) (12 page)

Wait. What?

“I—uh…you want me to do what? Threaten them? Play whore for you?” The urge to bolt was replaced by the need to get the gun away from him…just in case. A handful of strides, and she joined him at the desk.

“Not exactly, but we can discuss details later. In the meantime, I believe I have a promise to keep.” He fiddled in the drawer and, over the mantle, a section of shelving swung open.

Marissa spun and collapsed against the edge of the desk, the gun inches from her hand but almost forgotten in the moment.

There it was.
Certain Laughter.
The damn painting that had haunted her all this time. Canalis strode over and gazed up at it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. With the desire in his eyes, she almost felt bad for the damn painting.
Creeper mafia don is creepy.

Not taking her eyes off the art, she reached behind her. There was still a play here that didn’t involve dead bodies, but she had to be smart—cautious. Discarding her knife for a second, she picked up the gun and thumbed the magazine release. The sound barely registered over the crackling fire.

She eased a bobby pin from her hair and bent it over the top of the clip before sliding the whole thing back into place. Letting out a slow exhale, she replaced the gun on the desk. Odds were he wouldn’t check the magazine, and it would at least give her a few seconds if she needed them.

With the blade back in her hand, she let her gaze return to the art. The painting was smaller than she’d anticipated, ornate frame included. It was less than a yard long and maybe two feet wide. No matting to keep it safe. No glass either. Weird.

Without realizing she’d moved, she stood next to Canalis. Leaning against a leather armchair, she stared up at her dream and shuddered. Obsession, not dream, not anymore. Closure or not, she still needed the piece if she wanted to protect her job and prove to Trevor that she was one of the good guys. The government wanted it out of Canalis’s hands, and she had the ability to take it.

Right now.

She stashed the knife between the chair’s cushion and arm. “Can I hold it?”

He shrugged and pulled one of the book ladders over, keeping it steady as she climbed. “Be careful with it. I’d hate for you to cut yourself. You know where the name comes from, right?”

“I know in Italian the title of the piece is
Sicura Rido
. Basically means the same thing—Sure I Laugh—which sounds stupider than
Certain Laughter
.”

“Ah, but
Sicura Rido
doesn’t mean what people think. It’s an anagram. Rearrange the letters and it becomes
Ira di Orcus
, Wrath of Orcus. Orcus, god of the underworld and punisher of oath-breakers.”

Standing atop the ladder, she turned and batted her eyelashes at him. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m honest as the day is long. So I’m not too worried.”

“Perhaps you should still be cautious.”

Snorting, she gripped the edges of the frame and lifted it off the hangers. “Nice try, but I only believe in the art, not the curse. So can we stop with the games now?”

“Last time I checked, you didn’t need to believe in a gun for it to kill you.” Actual worry lined his face. Her eyes flicked to the semi-automatic on the desk, but then the truth hit her.

Holy shitburgers, he actually buys into the legend.

That was a twist Marissa hadn’t expected.

She set the painting on the floor, angling it toward him as the next steps in this dance revealed themselves. “No, but there is a school of thought in horror movies that if you don’t believe in the ghost, it can’t hurt you. The painting isn’t a gun, and I’d hazard to say it’s not even a ghost. It does have a certain haunted and tortured beauty, though.” She leaned against the side of the armchair.

“That it does.” He stepped in front of her, his eyes hungry. “I should put it back before we get down to negotiations.”

One chance.

She knew that was all she had.

She yanked the knife from its hiding place and wrapped her arms around him, the blade pressing against his jugular. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You see, it’s not going back on that wall, and this is pretty much the sum of our negotiations right here.”

“You duplicitous bitch.” He tried to twist in her embrace, but she held the knife tight and blood welled in the shallow cut on his throat.

“Uh uh uh. I might not believe in the curse, but you sure as hell do. All it’d take is a flick of my wrist, and it’s all over but the eulogies.” She could do it. Get out of here with her sanity and the painting. Go back to TRAIT and live the damn life she’d earned.

Canalis didn’t move against her blade, but she caught his smile out of the corner of her eye. “You forgot one thing.
Certain Laughter
belongs to me. It offers me protection. You can’t kill me, and
it
certainly won’t.”

Holy crap on a Rembrandt. His devotion to that piece of canvas knew no bounds.

Her gaze flicked to the painting, and the urge to test his theory made her tighten her grip on the blade. Bluff time. “You don’t know much about mythology, do you? Items like that have built-in fail-safes. They can’t protect you against their own magic.” Then the trump card flashed in her mind. “Besides, it isn’t yours anymore.”

“What?”

“You willingly let me take it off the wall. I was the last person to hold it in my hands, not you.”

His pulse jumped against her wrist. She could practically hear him sorting out the options in his head and realizing there weren’t nearly as many as he was used to.

Marissa leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “The painting’s mine now, and here’s how this is going to work…”

Locked.
The damn doors were locked.

No more playing it safe. Marissa was in there with Canalis and the stupid cursed painting. It was time for back up. Trevor pressed the emergency call button on his phone and leveled his Glock right below the handle. He was willing to call in reinforcements, but he sure as hell wasn’t waiting for them.

The gunshot echoed down the hall and rang in his ears, but everything that mattered was behind these two pieces of wood. He raced toward it, bending low to ram his shoulder against the injured wood. The doors flew open, and he tucked into a ball, twisting up to one knee.

“Goddamn it, Trevor!” Marissa screeched from an armchair to his left.

But he had his gaze locked on Canalis and the gun in his hand. Before the man pulled the trigger, Trevor dove for cover behind the couch. “What the hell?”

“I had him until you busted the damn door down!”

Trevor cursed himself in every language he could think of. She’d told him to trust her—over and over again, she’d told him. “I thought he was going to kill you.”

“More like offer me the keys to his personal Playboy mansion where I was supposed to be bunny number one.”

He would beat the life out of Canalis with his bare hands.

“I was going for the consolation prize of the painting before you barged in.”

Canalis growled from behind the desk, “You two know you won’t get out of here alive. I have a dozen men in the building who are probably racing upstairs as we speak.”

And there were at least a dozen agents storming after them. Along with a few hundred innocent bystanders. The faster they ended this standoff, the better. “Marissa, what are you working with over there?”

“A five inch blade and a cursed painting. You?” The flippant tone in her voice did nothing to hide her nerves. She was a sitting duck against whatever gun Canalis had. The only thing protecting her was probably the damn artwork.

Which meant it was up to him and whatever element of surprise he could cook up. He tensed his muscles, getting ready.

Marissa blurted out, “I also have an idea…”

But it was too late, Trevor had launched himself over the couch, rolling toward Canalis. He never made it. The gunshot deafened him to everything but the agony burning through his shoulder as he staggered back toward Marissa and the stupid painting he recognized from the night Delray died. The Glock tumbled from his grip and went spinning.

No. No! No!

The blazing log scorched her fingers, but she held it tight to the painting.

Too much of the blood from her knife had soaked into the rug. She tried cutting the painting with the blade, but she didn’t believe in the stupid curse…until Trevor’s blood had hit the side of her face and the painting. One minute, it had been there, crimson dripping down the lines of the woman’s face, and then it was gone, like the canvas sucked it up.

Suddenly it didn’t matter if she believed or not. If there was the slightest chance it was true, she had to put a stop to it. The man she loved had bled on the damn painting, and she refused to let it be his death sentence.

Screw the art. It was
not
worth more to her than Trevor.

The intensity of the heat had her instincts screaming to drop the log, and she had to dig her nails into the wood to keep from letting go. Her pink nail polish curled and smoked, but no matter how the flames licked it, the painting refused to light. “Damn you to Hell!” she screamed, plunging the wood into the center of the piece, right over the spot where Trevor’s blood had been.

A scream erupted from the other side of the room as the canvas caught at last. Canalis rushed her, but her bobby pin had done its job—inhibiting the magazine’s ability to feed into the gun.

Canalis pulled the trigger over and over as he raced toward her and was still trying to fire the empty weapon when he stopped two feet away. He tossed it and grabbed her by the neck, squeezing and pushing her to her knees. The log fell from her grip. “You’ll pay for that.”

She clawed at Canalis’s hands, arms, face…anything she could reach, but he just pressed his fingers into her skin, cutting off the air to her lungs. Frantic, she searched for an idea. Toward the door, Trevor struggled to reach his gun, but he’d never make it. The damn thing had gone spinning, and he’d bleed out before he crawled to it.

She’d known when she started this con she had to do it on her own. That meant getting them out of it alive now, too. The lack of oxygen made focusing impossible, and snippets of the weekend flashed through her brain like a manic slide show as darkness danced at the edges of her vision.

Trevor’s body on hers.

Evangeline’s evil smile.

The ring slipping onto her finger.

Canalis threatening her by pressing the corkscrew into her gut.

Leaving the trail of breadcrumbs for Trevor to find her.

The knife!

The blackness closed in, and she blindly searched the space around her. It had to be close, but her eyes were already rolling back. She’d lose consciousness in a second, and it would be all over. She’d failed. TRAIT. Trevor. Herself. Everyone.

They’d both die before she told him she chose him, that she would always choose him.

“This is what happens to people who don’t know their place, Marissa. Traitors go straight to hell.”

With his last words, her numbing fingers hit something that wasn’t rug or wood. She caught the metal with her fingernails and dragged it close enough to grab. Then, gathering strength she’d been sure she didn’t have left, Marissa shoved her hands between his wrists and forced them wide, breaking his grip. Without fear, without remorse, she plunged the blade into his gut and yanked it to the left, blood spraying and spattering over the painting.

It didn’t soak in like Trevor’s had. It didn’t need to. Terror shone on Leo Canalis’s face and kept him immobile. No matter. In seconds, he’d be dead.

“You first,” she croaked.

As quickly as she could manage, she crawled to Trevor, wincing as she heard the body fall behind them. As long as the man in front of her lived, she would feel nothing for Canalis. She’d done what she had to.

“Nice work, baby girl,” Trevor grunted, his fingers half a yard from his Glock. She grabbed it and dragged it to them. “Though I kind of wanted to take the bastard out myself.”

Still alive. Still alive…

“He shot you.” She wadded up her dress, pressing it against his shoulder, but the tulle was useless. Blood kept seeping through. He couldn’t die.
Couldn’t
. Her heart pounded in her ears as impending loss squeezed her heart in a death grip.

“And you killed him.” Trevor reached up and twined his fingers in her hair, tugging her toward him. He winced, but he didn’t let go until she was close enough to kiss. His mouth was right there, but he didn’t lean in. “He would have happily murdered us both. You saved us.”

She was about to close the distance between them when a commotion in the hall brought her up into a shooting stance, Trevor’s fallen Glock in her throbbing hands. The faces that rushed in belonged to agents, though, and she let the gun sag, returning her attention to Trevor’s wound.

“Oh fuck me sideways.”

The familiar voice made Marissa’s head jerk up.

Evangeline stood there, the skirt of her wedding gown torn down the front, silver Beretta in her grip. “The paperwork on this is
so
going to suck.”

Chapter Ten

T
hank You For Loving Me

T
he medics had come and gone, but not soon enough for Marissa. Now that they were back in their room, she wanted to wrap herself up in Trevor and disappear.

Evangeline was sticking around, though, and TRAIT’s helicopter had touched down mere minutes before. Debriefing sounded like less fun than usual.

Not Evangeline. Evelyn. That would take some getting used to. She totally didn’t fit Marissa’s image of an “Evelyn.” At least not until she tucked her feet beneath her on the couch, making herself small…much smaller than the person Marissa had gotten to know. Frankie Canalis strode in and passed her a cup of tea. His hand brushed over her shoulder as he leaned down and kissed the top of her head. Evelyn smiled and let out a tiny sigh. As he left, she caught Marissa’s gaze and cocked an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Franco… I don’t know what parts of you are real and what isn’t.”

Trevor grunted assent from where he lay propped up on the bed.

With a quiet smile, Evelyn glanced toward the door. “We’re real. Frankie and me. We planned for me to spill about the whole jumping ship thing to get me in tighter with his dad. Leo suspected, of course, but I was supposed to be the thing that would make his son—”

The door swung wide, and a chill settled over the room, silencing the discussion. Josh stood there. Veins popped out on his neck, which was already turning a brilliant shade of red, and his fist clenched around a sheet of paper. “What the hell happened here?”

Evelyn unfolded from the chair, setting down her tea, and practically snapped to attention. “I think I might be able to explain. I’m special agent Evelyn Buchanan and, for the last two years, I’ve been deep cover with the Canalis family. Frankie came to the FBI, wanting to turn evidence against his father, but we didn’t have enough so he agreed to help someone get in his father’s pocket. That’s where I came in. I had no idea another agency was running a sting during the wedding, though. Quite frankly, I’ve never heard of TRAIT. My boss, however, assures me you’re the real deal.”

“That’s all well and good, but I want to know where the damn painting is and when Marissa became Marissa again.” The cloud shadowing his brown eyes meant he knew way more than he should.

Shit.

Marissa sucked in a deep breath, holding it until she had to let go. “
Certain Laughter
is gone. There was an incident with Canalis, and I burned it.”

“What kind of incident?”

“The kind where Trevor’s life was in danger.”
Because of a gunshot wound and a curse. One I don’t believe in…at all.
She squirmed under Josh’s gaze. Like when he’d first come to see her in juvie, it was as if the guy could see right into the deepest, darkest corner of her soul, making out the monsters in the blackness there. No one should be able to do that.

“And the other part of my question?”

She had no intention of throwing Trevor or anyone else under the bus here, and she knew Josh wouldn’t—couldn’t—blame her for anything that happened when she was under. With her lips tightly zipped, she looked at the bundle of blankets that was Trevor.

The bundle moved as he shifted, sitting up straighter. “That’s my fault, sir. There was an incident, and I broke protocol and brought Marissa out early.”

Josh eyed them both, only speaking when Marissa turned away. “You two are awfully fond of that word today. The nature of the incident?”

Oh, hell no. They were not going to talk about this officially. It was the entire point of keeping it quiet through the mission. Marissa straightened. “Does it matter? The painting is gone. Canalis is dead. Who I was at what moment in time seems kind of a stupid point to poke at.”

A storm raged in Josh’s eyes, and his lips pressed into a tight line while his hands smoothed out the paper he’d been clutching. “It matters when both of you idiots signed the marriage license with your real names.”

They did
what
?

Marissa shot off the bed and snatched the paper from his fingers. She couldn’t hear Trevor talking past the blood rushing through her brain. There, in crisp, clean script was her signature. Marissa A. Joens.

Shit.

And then the sharp points and harsh slants that read Trevor J. Harris. Her lips quirked.

“Trevor, you have the handwriting of a serial killer.”

“Is that really how you plan to talk to me, Mrs. Harris? I will write terribly naughty things all over your body.”

It was only then she noticed Josh and the others had deserted the room, leaving them alone. “Where is everyone?”

“While you were gaping at the license, our boss kindly decided we needed a few minutes to talk. Plus, my painkillers are starting to kick in. So, about that love letter on your skin…”

She laid the marriage license on the table and smoothed it out with trembling hands before turning. “Love? You’re not even acting upset. It makes me kind of nervous. This isn’t a joke to me.” She didn’t know how to feel about the whole situation, and his response wasn’t helping any.

“Come here.” He patted the bed next to him.

Oh…this had trap written all over it. He’d had an excuse for signing the wrong name with how worried he’d been—how worried
she’d
made him. What was her justification? That she hadn’t figured out which side of the law she wanted to land on? That he’d been the person she’d really been conning with her whole made-up Valjean thing? That wouldn’t go over well, regardless of the fact she had chosen TRAIT…and him in the end.

“Baby girl,” he said, somehow managing to make bandaged up gimp look sexy, “do not make me get up and come get you. I have a hole in my shoulder and bruises from someone trying to crush the blood out of it.”

She ducked her head, trying to hide her blush. Hadn’t he brought up a few minutes ago that she’d saved his life? This was stupid. She
wanted
to be with him, so she stepped over to the bed and sat down, relaxing against his uninjured shoulder. “So you aren’t mad?”

“About being married to an amazing con artist? Or about being married to a beautiful arsonist?”

Giving a laugh, she jabbed him lightly in the stomach.

His deep chuckle echoed hers, and he turned her head to brush a blazing hot kiss over her lips. “Considering how many things went wrong this week, this is the best possible messed-up outcome as far as I’m concerned.”

“Really?” Marissa’s heart started fluttering, the kind of thing she read about in novels but had never experienced first hand. It was a sensation she’d been certain didn’t exist.

“Really.” He kissed her again, lingering a bit longer this time. When she tried to take things deeper though, he nipped at her bottom lip. “We’ll have to file the annulment papers eventually, but…”

“What?” But he said… How could he…?

A deep growl rumbled through Trevor, making his chest vibrate. “Woman. If and when I marry your ass, we’re going to do it before God and all our friends. This…is a fun story for when we’re old and gray and stuck in some home for retired spies. That’s it.”

“You think I’m actually going to be able to put up with you that long? You kind of snore.”

“And you drool in your sleep. Everyone has issues.” He nuzzled her neck, trailing kisses up before he whispered in her ear, “I think I can put up with yours. And I dare you to put up with mine.”

“Dare me? I don’t get the option for truth?” She ran her fingers down his chest and below the blankets to tuck them under his waistband.

He shifted against the pillows and scowled at her. “There’s not going to be an option besides truth between us from now on,
Valjean
. So all I have left to challenge you with is dare.”

“Fair enough.” She palmed his length, rubbing gently, and he let out a hissed curse. “Truth is, you’re my husband right now, and there are certain responsibilities…” She shimmied down the bed, taking the blankets with her.

“I’d love to. You have no idea how much I’d love to. But the doctor advised me not to move my shoulder around or exert myself a lot today. Plus…pain killers.” He groaned as she gave his erection a squeeze.

“Perfect. I’ll take care of everything.” In seconds, she had his pants undone and his cock free. She ran her tongue around the head, and he hissed a breath between his teeth. “I promise it won’t hurt, but I dare you to not move.”

“Woman, you are the devil!”

Marissa took him in her mouth as deep as she could and drew back slowly, watching his face the whole time. With the way his hands twitched, he wanted to touch her, but they were more alike than he’d ever admit.

Too stubborn to fail at the ridiculous dare.

She loved that about him.

Hell, she loved everything about him, including his quiet snores and bouts of silence. Her tongue circled the head of his cock until he lay back against the headboard and closed his eyes, his breathing becoming more desperate.

“Not today I’m not, but if you’re into the whole role-play thing, I’m more than happy to dive headfirst into whatever part you want me to.”

“Only you,” he breathed. “Everything I’ve ever feared and all I ever wanted.”

Just Marissa. The woman she hadn’t been sure she could be until she was left alone with him. The one she’d been too terrified to let loose. But he brought her out and showed Marissa she could do amazing things all on her own.

The fear that she’d built for so long…it was the biggest con of all.

All it took to destroy it was someone who wanted to see what lay beneath.

The End