Honey (23 page)

The tug-of-war ended in Marc's favor. Taking possession of the bottle, he bent to pour the liquor into Drew's glass—and doused his lap instead. To any onlooker, it would appear to be an honest accident, only Honey knew it was purely on purpose.

Looking up from his drenched pants front, Drew exploded. “You cock-sucking, ass-rimming piece of shit! I'll make sure you never work another event in this city again.”

“So sorry, sir,” Marc apologized, sounding sincere and lackey-like, though Honey saw the way his mouth tightened and the telltale muscle jumping in his jaw. “I'll get you some club soda,” he added, backing away.

Drew turned to Honey. “I have a spare suit in the suite. Hang out here. I'll be back soon.”

Relieved for the reprieve to gather herself and rethink her strategy now that Marc was here, Honey nodded. “Of course. Don't rush on my account.”

He bent and planted a peck on her lips, his breath stale with booze. Honey forced herself to bear it though she wondered how, and why, she'd chosen to for all those years.

But at least he hadn't suggested she join him in the suite, not yet. That would come later, of course. Watching him hurry toward the nearest exit door, she acknowledged she needed to get him to confess before he either passed out or tried taking her to bed—or both. But first she had to find Marc and convince him to leave. As soon as Drew cleared the ballroom, she popped up from her seat and went in search.

Fortunately his height and clothing, or lack of it, made him easy to spot. She met up with him by the service bar, where he was offloading the dirty glasses he'd collected into a busboy's bin.

Seeing her approach, he finished clearing his tray and, in a carrying voice, asked, “Changed your mind about that champagne after all, ma'am?”

Aware of the two bartenders and several guests and servers nearby, she didn't explain that she wasn't actually drinking. She'd intended to stay sober and clear-headed but, still reeling from the shock of seeing Marc as she was, one real drink might not be so bad.

“Y-yes, I have.”

Marc shook his head. “Dishwasher's backed up, and we ran out of champagne glasses. I'll go into the kitchen and get some,” he added, casting a look to a swiveled side door.

Honey nodded. “Great, thank you. I'll … come back in a bit.”

She waited for him to get a bit ahead and then followed him over. Sliding the empty tray under a brawny arm, he took hold of her elbow and steered her into the kitchen.

Inside, the noise was near deafening, the back-and-forth between servers, busboys, dishwashers, prep people, and line cooks making it hard to find a spot where no one would bump into them. On the plus side, everyone seemed too fraught to bother giving them more than an annoyed look in passing.

Knowing she didn't have much time until Drew returned, Honey started in. “Oh my God, what are you doing here? And dressed like … that?”

Even in the midst of processing her shock, now that they were away from Drew, she felt her body reacting. Just looking at Marc had her nipples peaking and her panties' crotch dampening. Despite having seen him naked on several occasions now, having him here, like this, had her salivating.

Mindful of the wire she wore, she added, “You don't know what you've stepped into the middle of. You need to leave—now.”

He shook his head, adamant. “Not happening.” Dropping his voice, he added, “I know you're wearing a wire and I know why, and I'm telling you flat out I'm not setting foot outside this hotel without you.”

“But Drew's
met
you, remember? Just because he hasn't recognized you yet doesn't mean he won't.”

“He met
Doctor Sandler
. I doubt he'll press pause long enough on his activities to connect the dots from ER doctor to—”

“Male model?”

A deep blush answered. “I was going to say drinks mule, actually. Apparently a few of the investors are gay.”

Trust Drew to cover his bases, in this case expanding the eye candy to include a little beefcake. Marc was a serious serving of both. But there would be plenty of time later for ogling, or so she hoped. For now …

“How long have you known? How did you even find out?”

He blew out a breath. “The postmortem will have to wait until later. Suffice it to say, you're a seriously bad liar. I knew the other day you didn't miss lunch because of any sample sale. Now I know the real reason: you were being interrogated by the feds.”

Honey swallowed. He must have spoken to Liz. Unless he had been tailing her along with Carlson, it was the only explanation. “I believe they prefer ‘interviewed.' It comes off as less confrontational.”

He shrugged. “Semantics. Had you trusted me with the truth, I would have put you in touch with a buddy of mine, a criminal defense attorney, who might have come up with an alternative to sticking your neck out like this. Since you didn't, since we're here, I'm going to make sure you stay safe until you get what the FBI needs to close this case. How close are you?”

“Not very,” she admitted, acutely aware of Carlson and company listening in. “I think he may suspect something. As soon as I started asking questions about the money, he clammed up.”

“Then don't ask anymore, not directly. We have some time. I'll keep the scotch flowing. He may not incriminate himself to you outright, but you might catch him saying something to his partner.”

For a self-avowed straight arrow, he certainly seemed savvy on the subject of sting operations. Wondering about that, Honey asked, “If you knew everything, why'd you deliberately spill scotch on him?”

His gaze shuttered. “What makes you so sure that wasn't an actual accident?”

She tossed him a look.

“Okay, I saw his hands all over you, and I … maybe went a little crazy for a minute.”

Honey felt her heart turn over. A hot hunk with a brain
and
a heart of gold—she couldn't imagine what she'd ever done to deserve him, but whatever it was, she meant to keep doing it. He was the polar opposite of Drew and Frank and all the other users like them. She only hoped that once she came through this,
if
she came through, he'd still be willing to stick around so she could make it all up to him. She opened her mouth to say … something when a canned gong sounded. Together they turned toward the exit.

Marc pitched his voice above the din. “You'd better get back to your table. Sounds like it's showtime.”

*

Seated back at the table with Drew, Honey watched the stage surge with models. Pulled off the floor and temporarily relieved of drinks' duty, they performed a loosely choreographed collective striptease to the tune of the Human League's “Don't You Want Me?” Who knew their sparkly costumes were tear-offs? Tasseled pasties quivered from the tips of bouncing breasts. G-strings bisected gyrating bottoms. Perspiration glistened off spa-sculpted bodies.

Drew lip-synched the lyrics, pantomiming crooning into an invisible microphone. Honey forced a smile and made a show of singing along too, though the kicky eighties pop tune only underscored her regrets. She might not be “working as a waitress in a cocktail bar,” but otherwise the parallels to her former arrangement with Drew weren't lost on her. Drew had indeed picked her out and turned her around—turned her into someone new. Only the person she'd become at his behest wasn't someone she liked terribly much.

Getting him to confess—brag—was proving trickier than she'd thought. What if he didn't? Would Carlson still honor the spirit if not the letter of the deal he made with her?

She couldn't afford to think about that now. Her best bet was to get him alone or in a smaller, more intimate setting of his peers where he'd be more inclined to speak freely. The rub was that the only real peer he had with him today was Frank. Insulting him earlier had felt good at the time, but now she saw it for what it was: a serious tactical error.

The music segued to hip-hop. The sea of spinning females parted, the dancers exiting the stage by way of either set of side stairs. A tall man shrouded in gray hoodie, baggy sweat pants, and wearing white high tops swaggered to center stage. The performer flipped back his hood and Honey's breath caught on a gasp. It was Marc. Pushing drinks in a skimpy uniform was one thing but this—stripping on stage—could he really pull it off? The one time she'd suggested they go dancing, he'd sworn he had two left feet.

But the sex machine strutting the stage's four corners was an entirely different entity from the conservative persona he projected in public. Sure, she'd seen the super sexy side of him in private, but what he was about to do—put himself out there, literally
out
there—was about as public as you could take things.

His routine began with breakdancing. A few moves into it, she saw her worries were unfounded. He more than knew what he was doing. Back flips, spins, cartwheels, flares, even hand hops—he performed all in perfect time to the music. She knew he was in amazing shape. After years of sleeping with an alcoholic who sometimes went soft or nodded off, she had reason to appreciate his stamina in bed and out of it, but this … How did he keep it up? And where had he picked up those moves?

And he didn't just have the choreography down. He also brought …
attitude
. Sending smoldering looks out into the audience, lingering on the face of each woman regardless of her appearance or age, he knew how to connect, how to make her feel as if she were the most beautiful, desirable female in the room. Until now, the only woman Honey had ever seen him look at that way was herself. Even though she knew the act was necessary to his cover, Honey couldn't help it. She felt jealous.

And then his clothes started coming off, and she forgot about being jealous—or breathing.

He started with the hoodie, bringing the zipper down in one slow, smooth slide. A few more acrobatic moves and then the sneakers went by the wayside. Somehow he managed to slip them off without fumbling, even though they were at least loosely laced—there must be some trick to it but still,
impressive
! He peeled off the wife beater and pulled it off over his head, treating the audience to a view of beautifully sculpted biceps, impossibly firm pectorals, and six-pack abs. Skimming off the sweatpants sent every woman in the audience, including Honey, swooning. Powerful thighs, molded knees, and muscled calves—how had Honey missed that his legs weren't only athletic but unbelievably beautiful?

But it wasn't only his torso and legs that the wild-eyed crowd ogled. It was his package. Encased in a red G-string the color of sin, he was long and thick and at least semi-hard. Recalling the amazing texture and taste of him, the exquisite pressure of all that unrelenting maleness moving inside her vagina and at the back of her throat, Honey caught herself licking her lips. Catching Drew watching her, she slipped her tongue back inside her mouth and tried to remember that, in public at least, she'd always acted as a lady.

But then Marc turned so that he faced away from the crowd and—wow! Like his legs, his ass was a marvel of masculine beauty. Staring at those firm quivering cheeks, the curve from back to buttocks a purely perfect arc she longed to lick, the lobes taut as barely ripe melons, Honey reached for her glass and downed most of the remaining sparkling water in a single, thirsting swallow. A few booty shakes sufficed to bring the audience surging to its feet—and a few members dropping to their knees. Given the gyrations he was keeping up, Honey was amazed the scarlet G-string didn't snap.

Eyes popped. Mouths fell open. Squeals and shrieks ricocheted around the room. Several women, and a few men, fanned themselves. Honey couldn't be one hundred percent certain, but based on the deep, throaty exclamation, she suspected the woman two tables away had come.

Honey couldn't really fault her. Marc was wickedly mesmerizing, insanely sexy. Even with Drew seated beside her, his arm draped along the back of her chair, she couldn't help being seriously turned on. Her breasts budded. Her pussy pulsed. Tingling heat pooled in her lower abdomen. Stickiness seeped through the crotch of her panties, blanketing her tightly cinched inner thighs. Once she rose, she wouldn't be surprised to see that she'd left a stain on the seat. At one time, the possibility would have mortified her. Not so now. If she'd thought she could get away with it without Drew questioning her, she would have risen and headed for the nearest restroom, not to put out a panicked SOS to Carlson but to step into one of the stalls and masturbate away the tension.

The medley segued to Maroon 5's clubby hit, “I've Got the Moves Like Jagger,” and Marc picked up pace. Gaze glued to him, Honey acknowledged that he did indeed have the moves. Hips flexed, muscles rippled. A broad-backed hand did a horizontal slide across his powerful, glistening chest.

Well lubricated from several hours of free liquor, the audience responded with unbridled enthusiasm, their frenzied state far surpassing their earlier response to Drew's “greed is good” pep talk. Right now, the only “money maker” anyone cared about was the thick ridge bulging from Marc's G-string.

From somewhere in the audience, a female shrieked, “Show me your meat, mister!”

Honey looked over her shoulder in the vicinity of the voice. Ms. 1992, it had to be. There were so few women present that the dozen or so in attendance were easy to spot. Staying in her seat was a major test of Honey's willpower. If she'd had her druthers, she would have gotten up, gone over to the horny heckler, and shaken her until her bonded teeth rattled.

But whatever Marc was doing, he was doing it for her. In putting himself under cover, he'd taken himself out of his comfort zone, though he certainly seemed at home. He looked as though he'd invented dirty dancing.

All but one of the other women and a few men rose to their feet as well, some dancing in place, most waving fistfuls of bills and beckoning Marc over.