Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3), Page 2

  Austin had scoffed to himself, expecting his father to catch on. To see clear through the pair of wankers who’d pulled the wool over everyone else’s eyes. Only his father hadn’t copped on, and when it was his turn to guess which bent playing card hid the pebble, Austin’s family had walked away minus a fiver. He could still remember the stifling disappointment he’d felt in his father—how it had kept him silent the whole ride back to London. The next day, he’d skipped school and hitched a ride back to Brighton to watch the monte sharks all day, learning their tricks. Before long, he’d set up his own operation on the opposite end of the beach, swindling unsuspecting tourists out of their holiday money.

  He’d done fair enough for a beginner, but he’d needed a partner. A shill. A chiller to step in when a mark didn’t take kindly to being cheated. There’d been no need to seek out a partner, however, because a partner had found him right enough. Found him, sunk his claws in, taught him the ropes…then double-crossed him by making off with his half of a million-dollar score.

  Austin’s hands turned to fists inside his coat pockets as he followed Polly down the darkened street in Near North Side, just north of the Loop, Chicago’s business district. His blood pumped in both temples, creating a heavy drumbeat to match his footsteps. She couldn’t know the identity of the man she walked beside. Could she? He wouldn’t wager on anything where Polly was concerned, suspecting the undercover squad had only begun to tap her capabilities as a hacker. But this man—one of the best shills in the bloody business—was dangerous, despite his affable demeanor.

  Austin still hadn’t managed to trap the alarm that had run free when Darren Burnbaum walked into the bar, the familiar swagger tipping off Austin immediately. His anxiety had only tripled when Polly got up to leave the bar with the man. By God, she’d barely made him work for the pleasure of her time, agreeing to dinner in two minutes flat. If that easy agreement had come off suspicious to Austin, it sure as hell hadn’t gone unnoticed by Darren, which was only one of his aliases.

  See, the drawback to needing additional players in a good con meant Austin had crossed paths over the last fourteen years with some of the best. When word went out that a mark was prime for the taking, cons swarmed like piranha around the opportunity. Kind of a fucked-up version of supply and demand. Oftentimes, if anyone wanted to score, it meant organizing the team and working together. So Austin was quite familiar with Darren’s skill set, and he didn’t want it anywhere near Polly.

  She was playing a part, so the fix was definitely in. This wasn’t just a random meeting at a bar—it had been planned. Until he knew the particulars, Darren was going down for the count.

  Because as dangerous as Darren Burnbaum had proved to be, Austin Shaw was twice as lethal. And not a goddamn hair on Polly’s head would be harmed on his stolen watch.

  When Darren led Polly to a diner, Austin shook his head. Still a cheap fuck. Loath to let Polly out of his sight for even a minute, Austin hung back and waited for them to enter the diner and be seated. Then he sneaked around to the kitchen entrance through the alley around back, nodding to the bored cook who shrugged and flipped over a grilled cheese sandwich. He slipped into the bathroom, grateful to see two stalls, and closed himself in the left one.

  If he remembered correctly—and he always did—Darren had a coke habit that would require a trip to the bathroom at some point—

  The ancient bathroom door swung open. Austin held his breath and waited for Darren to lock the right stall door and tap out a line of coke…onto the goppin’ toilet tank? Austin grimaced. The lengths a man went to for his vice. Darren’s came in the form of white powder while Austin’s stood five foot two and smelled like fresh-squeezed lemonade. At least Darren’s position would make what came next easy.

  Austin left his stall, braced his hands on either side of the one occupied by Darren and kicked it open. The door slammed into Darren, sending him crashing face-first into the wall behind the toilet. Austin wasted no time wrapping an arm around Darren’s throat, tightening until drawing air was impossible.

  “Forget you ever saw her,” Austin whispered into Darren’s ear, just as the other man was forced into unconsciousness.

  He let Darren’s dead weight drop onto the floor before moving quickly from the bathroom and back out into the alley, palming his cell phone with a curse. Just like any good con, sometimes other players were needed to pull it off successfully.

  Austin scrolled through his contacts and dialed Erin O’Dea. Arsonist, escape artist…coworker. She answered on the fourth ring in a singsong voice. “Aus-tin. Connor doesn’t like when boys call, especially on a school night.” He could hear the strike of a match in the background. “So make it snappy, before he makes your bones go snappy.”

  “Right.” Austin descended the stairs to the Red Line train that would take him back to Lincoln Park. “I need you to call Polly and get her home, please. Set the smoke alarm off in her apartment or something.” As if on cue, the train pulled up and Austin entered the half-empty car. “Should be a treat for you, O’Dea. The sound of an alarm without the drawback of being arrested.”

  “I don’t like easy treats. Give me a challenge.”

  Austin sighed and checked his watch. Only another few minutes before Darren regained consciousness. “I’ve no time to indulge your whimsy tonight. What do you want?”

  “I’m bored with my Ruger. Bring me the shiny, British.”

  “Done. It stays between us.”

  An alarm pealed down the line in response.

  Austin hung up and fell into a hard plastic seat, staring at his reflection in the opposite window. Only it wasn’t him at all, was it?

  Really, who the hell was Austin Shaw? Self-designated protector of Polly Banks? Con man? Master of disguise?

  And since when did he give two shits?

  Chapter Two

  Polly paced the squad meeting room, which was essentially a basement in an abandoned youth center in Ukrainian Village. Seraphina, her saintly squad mate, had hung a tapestry and placed scented candles on the concrete window ledges, but it still looked like a dungeon. Which was apt, considering they were all prisoners of their past transgressions.

  She’d come early, unable to remain in her apartment while harboring so much restless energy. Her lead—her one and only lead on Charles Reitman—had been within her reach last night. She hadn’t been gullible enough to buy Erin’s innocent story about the miraculous fire alarm deployment. Before she’d left the diner last night, she’d gone to check on Slim and found him unconscious in the men’s bathroom. Not wanting to end up the same way, she’d done the smart thing and bounced with a quickness.

  Now she was back at square one with the added variable of a third player. A meddler. Someone had choked out her ticket to Reitman, and she was not happy about it. Since childhood, she’d been a sucker for riddles, but this was one time she didn’t appreciate having to piece a mystery together. Making another attempt to connect with Slim would be a bad move because of what had befallen him while in her company. The nightclub, Tossed, was the final venue on her list of Reitman’s haunts, and she had no choice but to seek him out there after her face had been seen by one of his associates. Chancy, but necessary.

  Polly heard a familiar set of footsteps coming down the basement stairs and ordered her features to look bored. She leaned against the wall and studied her nails, even as her heart started to thud. Austin. No one else moved like him, with unhurried steps that were somehow crisp at the same time. Each footfall had meaning, a purpose. She hated having his walk memorized, but there it was. She would hear the handsome con coming from a mile away in a monsoon. He carried awareness with him, foisting it on everyone in his path, daring them not to acknowledge how truly shit-hot he was. Insufferable man. False modesty wasn’t in his repertoire, either, Polly lamented as Austin waltzed into the room, shaking raindrops from his rich brown hair.

  “Ms. Banks.” He made a savoring noise in his throat, dragging his gaze from the tips of h
er boots upward. “Should I assume from your punctuality that you were hoping to clock some alone time with me? I usually only take scheduled appointments, but you’re always the exception.”

  She knew better than to take the bait. Another facet of Austin she had memorized was his sexual gravity. Step off the ledge when he challenged you with innuendo and, well, splat. There was no way to compete with innate charisma like he’d been blessed with. Dammit. “I had no idea you would arrive first. I assumed it would be Connor.” Their resident ex-SEAL, who insisted on neat edges and precise plans, was usually fuming by the time all six members showed up. “If I’d known, I would have killed some time in Starbucks.”

  “Connor used to arrive first,” Austin said, sauntering toward her. “Until I realized it got under his skin when I do instead. So here I am.” He ran a hand over his sculpted mouth, his attention locked on the base of her neck. “And here you are.”

  The hard wall against her back felt more like a trap the closer he came. “You go to such lengths to get under people’s skin, but you can’t get under mine.” She tilted her head. “That must drive you crazy, Shaw.”

  “You. Are the only thing that drives me crazy.” The tips of his shoes bumped hers, sending a bolt of energy straight up her limbs. “And you damn well know it.”

  Okay. This was the confusing part. Every so often—like just then, for instance—she swore the constant bullshit exterior Austin wore like armor…dropped. Allowing her what she might classify as a brief glimpse at the real man underneath the disguises, accents, and charm. The operative term being might. If she were a total moron. Thankfully, Polly knew that the hints of vulnerability that shone through were manufactured. Part of the Austin Shaw Show. There wasn’t a hope in hell she would fall victim to a liar, the way her fathers had. The way Austin expected her to.

  Unfortunately, whenever Austin got this close, a humming started approximately three inches south of her belly button. That humming was only temporary, though, because it eventually turned into a twist….a churn. While her brain registered Austin’s inability to feel real human emotions such as compassion or regret, her body was turned on by those same drawbacks. If she let him, he’d give her sweaty, feverish sex without any of the pillow talk or round two possibilities. But no. No. If she let him get to her, physically or otherwise, he would win the standoff they had going on. A standoff she refused to concede.

  When Austin’s belt buckle nudged her belly, Polly swallowed a whimper. “If I drive you crazy, then why won’t you back off?”

  “If I thought that’s what you wanted, I might.” His eyelids drooped, his breath feathering the hair on her crown. He was so close, she could taste his dark, cultured scent. Honey and spice. Poison disguised as temptation. “Just one go-round, Polly. I need your body.”

  Good Lord. “No.”

  “Your pride is getting in the way of my sanity.” He laid his hands high above her on the wall, eased close so he could speak just beside her ear. Move, Polly commanded herself, but no dice. His thigh muscles chafed her smoother ones, his ripped-up stomach cradling breasts that strained toward him. Traitors. He was sinful male and bad intention in one seriously disarming package. Her feet wouldn’t move for all the tea in China. “Mmmm.” Austin sucked in a slow breath. “There goes the rest of it. Farewell, sanity.” He exhaled into her hair. “Even though you continually torture me, I brought you a gift.”

  She managed to shake her head. “I don’t want it.”

  He only pressed closer. “Yes, you do.” His fingers toyed with the ends of her hair. “A few weeks ago, I realized I’d never seen you drink coffee during the meetings. Only tea. Then you stopped. Now your hands don’t know what to do with themselves without being wrapped around a mug.” Her interest sufficiently piqued, Polly lifted her chin and met his eyes. Big mistake. Those stupid silver flecks were all but glowing as he spoke. “I realized you must have run out. So I sorted through the rubbish and found out the brand—”

  “You can’t get Fullings’ verbena mint in Chicago. I looked.” She narrowed her gaze as he crowded closer, flattening her against the wall. “The specialty places I order from online are all back-ordered.”

  “A mere mortal couldn’t get it, maybe. But we’re talking about me.” Austin knew better than to kiss her, but he appeared to be considering it. Dampening his lips by rolling them inward, eyeing her mouth like a predator. Polly’s right hand bunched, ready to swing, but he kept speaking instead of leaning in that final inch. “They’re back-ordered because I bought all of them out. I’ve a single packet in my right front pocket, same as there will be every day.”

  “I knew there had to be a catch,” Polly breathed. “You’re going to dole it out. Conditional gifts aren’t gifts at all, Shaw.”

  “I’ve graduated to playing dirty, Banks. I’m not proud of it,” he said, his voice low and vibrating. “You want to reach into my pocket and feel how desperate you’ve made me?”

  Oh, part of her did. A huge part. She wanted to touch this brilliant specimen of a man, just like every other woman who had fallen victim to his game—and witness the effect she’d had on his body. She could excuse the attraction because it was only natural with someone like Austin in your vicinity, especially after a yearlong sex famine. His voice, attire, scent, and speech were all designed to make a woman’s womb shake. But Polly wouldn’t join the trail of idiots left doddering around behind him. Not in this lifetime.

  “That tea is important to me,” she said, enunciating each word. “But I wouldn’t lower myself to begging someone like you. If you thought I would, that was an adorable underestimation on your part.”

  She could see cogs whirring behind his eyes, feel his breath fanning her forehead. This is what he did for a living; he read people. Since they’d begun working together, she’d seen him in action several times, and it was impressive, but she prided herself on remaining unreadable to him. “Tell me why the tea is important to you and I’ll hand over the whole lot.”

  Now that she hadn’t been expecting. His response threw her a little, cutting off the sharp rejoinder she’d had poised for delivery. “Why do you care what matters to me?”

  Dammit. There it was again. A shimmer of something else beneath the cocky exterior. A parting of the curtains that allowed blue light to shine through. God, he’s good. As soon as it appeared, though, it vanished without a trace. He cleared his throat and stepped back, running a hand through his GQ cover-model hair. “Do you even have to ask? When I know what makes someone tick, I can manipulate them.” He winked at her. “I thought you knew that about me, Banks.”

  She put up her middle finger. “Manipulate this.”

  An unfamiliar figure filled the doorway. “I must be in the right place.”

  …

  Austin didn’t think, he simply lunged forward to shield Polly, wedging her against the wall, her front to his back. A fleeting moment passed where he felt her hand curl in the material of his shirt, and it was a glorious goddamn feeling. Finally, some form of a tell from the mysterious Polly Banks. And it had only been six months in coming. So if presented with an unknown threat, she would consider him the lesser of two evils. Right. He could work with that. Some marriages had been founded on less, and he merely wanted to shag her senseless.

  Believing your own lies was another necessary skill when leading the life of a con. A brilliant one, at that.

  “Who the hell are you?” Austin asked the man framed in the doorway. “A quick answer, if you please.”

  “I don’t,” the figure returned.

  “Cop,” Polly whispered against the back of Austin’s neck, warming his scalp and making his pants that much more confining. Fucking hell. She’d picked a rotten time to get grabby and soft-spoken, but he’d take it. “Hundred bucks says he’s a cop.”

  Austin tilted his head, studying the man. His clean-shaven head reached the door’s top frame, arms jutting out slightly on either side of him, as if they contained too much muscle to hang at his side
s, like a normal bloody human being. It was hard to place his heritage, standing as the man was in the shadows, but Austin judged him to be half African-American with some Scandinavian blood accounting for the rest. He actually found it comforting that the chap looked as suspicious of them as they were of him. Cop suspicious. As always, Austin was amazed by Polly’s astuteness.

  “I don’t place losing bets,” Austin murmured, wishing she would twist up his shirt again, maybe do some more whispering. “Bad news,” Austin called to the newcomer. “We only work with one cop, and I’ve only just come ’round to the idea. If you’re here to give us orders, consider this my preemptive fuck-off.”

  The man appeared unfazed, swaggering into the room in a way that put Austin’s back up. He knew deception well, and although the man moved with a casual gait, Austin recognized an ability to defend oneself. A fighter’s swagger. “I’m not a cop anymore.” The newcomer leaned against the far wall and crossed his mammoth arms over his chest. “And that’s the last time you tell me to fuck off, English.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “It’s too early in the morning for a pissing contest.” Polly slipped out from behind his back, leaving him feeling cold. “Although there’ll be no avoiding it when—”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Bowen Driscol asked, coming to a stop just inside the door, his wife, Seraphina, close at his side. “I only signed up for one cop. Not including my wife.”

  “Good God,” Austin grumbled. “The street tough figured it out quicker than me? All this inactivity is making me rusty.”