Page 9 of Hunter's Game
Through carefully timed glances, she kept track of all the players. Romano holding court near the Rembrandt, his cultured charm masking the predator beneath. Her father monitoring everything from his position by the door, pride and suspicion warring in his expression. And Hunter, stationed near a particularly ugly modernist sculpture, where he had clear sightlines to both exits and, more importantly, to the hidden server room she’d discovered behind a false wall.
Every few minutes, a small red light blinked above the concealed door—someone was accessing the system remotely. Eden’s own devices tracked the data flow, confirming her suspicions about what was really being tradedtonight. The artifacts were just window dressing. The real valuable commodity was information.
“See something interesting?” Her voice carried just the right mix of flirtation and professionalism as she appeared at Hunter’s elbow. Up close, her perfume mixed with the leather and gun oil that clung to his clothes, a dangerous combination that made her pulse quicken traitorously.
Hunter forced himself to maintain professional detachment, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. Eden moved with the kind of effortless grace that spoke of extensive combat training, her black dress revealing toned arms and the elegant curve of her neck.
He’d been in enough dangerous situations to recognize when attraction was clouding judgment, but he couldn’t help noticing how the gallery lights caught the hidden auburn highlights in her dark hair, how her eyes seemed to shift between green and gold depending on the angle.
“Just admiring the view.” His hand brushed her lower back. The contact sent a jolt through Eden’s system that had nothing to do with professional caution. Hunter’s touch was warm through the thin material of her dress, his callused fingers a reminder of the man beneath the cover identity. She found herself cataloging details she should have been professional enough to ignore—the way his custom tuxedo jacket stretched across broad shoulders, how his eyes shifted to a darker bluewhen he was focused on her, the clean scent of his aftershave mixing with leather and gun oil.
Hunter used the move to turn her away from the cameras, taking advantage of the motion to slip a small tracking device into her clutch. Amateur move. She’d spotted it immediately, despite the distraction of reaction it’d caused inside her. But she let him think he’d been smooth about it. “I’m more interested in what’s behind the scenes,” he continued.
“Aren’t we all?” She leaned into him slightly, returning the touch with her lips nearly brushing his ear. Close enough to catch his subtle reaction. “The server room’s hot. Someone’s uploading the entire inventory database.”
Hunter’s grip tightened fractionally. She felt the moment he put the pieces together. Her technical expertise. Her careful documentation. The way she’d positioned herself to monitor both the art and the club’s digital operations.
“You’re DEA.” His voice was low, his posture relaxed, even as his mind undoubtedly raced through the implications.
Her only tell was the slight hitch in her breathing, and she cursed herself for it. Strength, never weakness. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I’ve been watching you almost as carefully as you’ve been watching them.” He nodded toward where Romano was deep in conversation with her father. “The question is,what’s going to happen when Daddy dearest figures it out?”
“Probably the same thing that’ll happen when he realizes you’re not really a mechanic.” Her smile was razor sharp as she noted the minute changes in his stance—the way he shifted subtly to better cover her blind spots, the almost imperceptible adjustment of his jacket to allow quicker access to his weapon. “Though I’m still trying to figure out who you’re really working for.”
Before he could respond, Romano’s voice cut through the murmur of conversation among the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention? Tonight’s private collection includes some very special pieces that aren’t officially on display.”
Eden felt Hunter tense against her as Romano moved toward the hidden door. “That’s not part of the plan,” she breathed, genuine concern coloring her voice and panic rose within her. “They’re not supposed to move those pieces until next week.”
“Plans change.” He kept his arm around her, using their intimate position to scan the room. Two new guards had appeared at the exits. The regular patches were subtly herding the legitimate art collectors toward the main gallery.
Something was definitely off.
“Hunter.” Eden’s fingers dug into his arm as her surveillance feeds lit up with warnings. “The shipping manifests I saw yesterday? They’removing everything tonight. If they clear out the vault—”
“You’ll lose your evidence,” he finished her thought. “How long have you been building this case?”
“Three years.” Her voice cracked slightly, real emotion bleeding through her careful control. “Everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ve done...I can’t lose it all tonight.”
The raw pain in her voice appeared to hit a nerve, and a muscle in Hunter’s jaw flexed as his eyes remained fixed on hers. Three years undercover in her father’s organization. Three years gathering evidence against her own blood. No wonder she was wound so tight.
“Well then.” He pulled her closer, letting his lips brush her temple in what looked like an intimate gesture but was really cover for his next words. “I guess we’ll have to stop them.”
She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, searching for…something. When she realized what it was, she drew in a sharp breath. “You’d risk your cover to help me? Why?”
“Maybe I’ve got a thing for beautiful federal agents.” He gave her a dangerous smile, the kind she recognized usually preceded violence in her world. “Or maybe I’ve got my own reasons for wanting to take down this operation.”
“Hunter...” She glanced at the departing crowd, then back at him. In his eyes she saw the same battle she’d been fighting since meeting him—dutyversus desire, mission versus attraction. “This is about to get very messy.”
“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “messy is what I do best.”
She made a decision then and drew up to her full height, setting her shoulders. “The secondary server room, in the basement. That’s where they’ll stage everything before moving it. If we can—”
A commotion at the entrance cut her off. Merrick stormed in, his face thunderous. In his hand was a phone—Eden’s phone, Hunter realized with growing dread.
“Baby girl.” Merrick’s voice carried clearly across the now-silent room. “Want to explain why you’ve got a direct line to the DEA’s task force?”
Everything happened at once. Eden shoved away from Hunter, her hand going to the weapon concealed under her dress. Guards moved to block the exits. And through it all, Romano smiled that shark’s smile as he keyed something into his ever-present laptop.
