Chapter One
Billy Tripp nudged the nine–millimeter holstered
under his suit jacket and decided this might be as good a
time as any to meet his maker.
All he needed to do was slide that baby out, prop it
under his chin and—bang—the misery would be over.
After all the death defying experiences he'd had, killing
himself in a hotel ballroom would be sub–par.
Supremely sub–par.
Plus, he'd be dead.
"Cheer up, jagweed," Monk said, slapping him on the back.
"Why?" Billy glanced around the massive room at the sea
of men and women dressed in sharp tuxedos and sexy, low cut
gowns. As ballrooms went, Dante's ranked in the top ten.
Funky red walls and icicle chandeliers gave it a more
contemporary feel, but it was still a ballroom. And he'd
seen plenty of them.
"It could be worse. This job is almost complete."
Billy scanned his immediate surroundings. "Yeah, but,
dude, I'm guarding a necklace. There's not even a body
attached to it."
Monk grinned. "You shouldn't have let your passport expire."
Dick. Head.
"First of all, I didn't let my passport expire. It just
happened. An accident."
"You fucked up. Admit it." And then Monk started humming.
Humming? Really? Of course Monk was in a good mood. He'd
just returned from overseas where he played with guns and
blew crap up. Billy had been scheduled to take the next
two–month shift, but got caught up in this expired
passport mess.
How had he, an ex–Army ranger working for one of
the country's most elite private security firms, forgotten
to renew his fu—fudging passport?
And why the hell had he picked this month to promise his
mother he would stop swearing? She'd asked him to do it and
deserved his attention to the matter, that's why.
Even if it was slowly destroying him.
A woman in her fifties wearing a monster low–cut
black gown—that thing has no business on her
body—wandered to the table and locked in on him. Cripes.
"Fabulous, isn't it?" she asked.
He glanced at Monk, who rolled his eyes and stepped away
to check his phone. "It is." Billy kept his focus on the
room and any potential bad guys. The woman pressed a note
into his hand. Great. Another one slipping him her number.
Ceasing conversation, he waited until the woman left and
tucked the paper in his pocket with the other two. He'd get
rid of them later. This routine, like most things, had lost
its novelty long ago. Wasn't that a travesty? Early on, he'd
enjoyed the steady stream of attention that accompanied
women throwing themselves at him. He was a guy. And guys
liked to get laid. Pretty simple.
Except it got old. The strange women. The crazy, strange
women who parked themselves on his doorstep or called him
night and day. Hell, he never misled anyone about his
intentions. He always told them what it was.
"That was Vic." Monk grinned. "He said to say hi."
Not biting, Billy kept his gaze on the packed room.
"Fu—fudge off. I could have had a new passport in a
day or two, but Vic wanted to break my balls."
"He's teaching you a lesson. Next time, you won't forget.
Besides, we've been in a lot worse places than a fundraiser
in South Beach. In December."
Monk might as well take another hit off the crack pipe
because he wasn't getting it. "Every time I turn around, Vic
is hauling me into his office. And he had to bring up that
little infraction when you beat the crap out of me last
summer. Christ sakes, you nearly kill me and I get in
trouble? All because I was ragging on you?"
A couple in their twenties stepped up to the table and
Monk nodded. "Evening."
Billy stayed silent but shifted closer to the table. As
ticked off as he was about this job, there would be no way
he'd let that necklace disappear. Not on his watch. Soon
he'd be out of here. Gone.
When the couple moved on, Monk turned back to him.
"You're not grasping the point of this assignment. This is
punishment for being a grand fucking pain in the ass all the
time."
That was his theory? "Then why are you here? What are you
being punished for?"
"I asked for it. I'd been gone two months, Izzy is on
vacation for a couple of weeks and we're doing a long
weekend. I got no problems with this assignment."
Yeah. There's the difference. Billy turned his attention
back to the ballroom. "You're on vacation with your
Victoria's Secret model of a girlfriend and I'm in purgatory."
A strawberry blonde, her thick hair falling in soft waves
around her shoulders, stepped out of the crowd wearing a
peach gown with a baggy, draping neckline, but the rest of
it—humina, humina, humina—clung to her ample
hips like snakeskin. "Whoa."
She'd never be called skinny. Not with those hips and a
rack that could give a man vertigo. But chunky didn't suit
either. Statuesque maybe. Hot, most definitely. Jeepers, he
might be hearing angels singing over the orchestra. He
elbowed Monk. "Check out this smoker coming our way."
Monk swung his head in the sexy blonde's direction. "That
smoker is Kristen Dante. She runs this place. I met her when
I got here yesterday."
The boss? She couldn't have been thirty years old. Billy
let out a low whistle as Kristen Dante, her sumptuous body
balancing on mile high heels, came closer. Damn, the woman
had to be six foot in those shoes.
He nudged right up to the table. A woman like her could
make a guy like him lose focus and he'd wind up with a
missing million–dollar necklace.
"Hello, gentlemen," Madame Hotness said, pushing her hair
off her shoulder.
In contrast to the body that made him want to reach out
and touch, she had a face sent straight from heaven. Soft
and round and sweet with dynamite green eyes. Amazing that
she lived in Florida, because her fair skin would get crispy
in the sun. Toss in the reddish–blond hair and Billy
decided the whole fudging package worked. Big time.
Monk held out his hand. "Hello, Kristen."
The two of them shook hands and Hotness turned back to
Billy. "We haven't met, I'm Kristen. Welcome to Dante."
Kristen stood with her hand extended waiting for him to
say something. This was a big boy and, given her height, she
didn't get to look up at a man very often. Not to mention
the Calvin Klein model good looks. He wore his
collar–length, dark hair fashionably shaggy and his
slick Italian suit fit his long body just fine, but he
apparently hadn't learned to speak. His sparkling blue eyes
communicated their appraisal quite well, however, and she
forced herself not to hunch. Her lifetime of weight issues
didn't permit comfort when people stared.
This man made an immediate impression though. With those
eyes, she imagined he could get into all sorts of mischief.
The pinging in her head warned she should run screaming. He
had player tattooed all over him.
Peter, the man Vic Andrews called Monk, nudged his
partner with his elbow, and the guy wandered back to Earth.
"I'm Billy. Billy Tripp. Sorry. Mindsnap."
O–kay, then. She could only hope this guy had a
bigger attention span than what he'd displayed introducing
himself. Considering there was over ten million dollars
worth of jewelry in this room.
She turned back to Peter. "Do you need anything?"
"No, ma'am. We're fine. I'm doing the rounds and checking
in with our men. All is quiet."
Familiar slivers of unease curled around Kristen and she
turned to see Mr. Mindsnap's gaze plastered to her chest.
Here we go. Yes, they're real. Again, she focused on
standing tall, but the effort drained her, forced her to
concentrate on anything but her oversized body.
Peter cleared his throat and Billy flicked his attention
back to the ballroom.
"We have men by the main doors and by each table," Peter
said. "We're rotating every half hour. Were you expecting
this big of a crowd?"
"We expected three–fifty, but we're over four
hundred. It's a good cause and everyone loves to see
millions in jewelry." She pointed to the necklace propped on
the stand. "This one will be auctioned tonight."
Billy leaned forward and something in his twinkly eyes
had her girly parts on full alert. Trouble.
"I'll keep it safe," he said.
But he was staring at her again, taking in her face and
her hair, and the pressure of that hungry gaze forced her
shoulders down. If only she could ball herself up to hide
from the inspection. Did she have food on her face or
something? Wouldn't that be perfect? A fat Amazon with food
stuck to her cheek.
Her assistant appeared next to her. "Sorry to interrupt.
Can I see you a moment?"
If she didn't already cherish Dee, this interruption
would have sealed it. Anything to get out from under Billy
Tripp's eyes. "Absolutely. Excuse me, guys."
Once Madame Hotness—M.H. as she would heretofore be
known—left, Billy waggled his eyebrows at Monk,
clutched his heart with both hands and gasped. "This could
finally be the end. Tell my mother I love her."
Monk cracked up. "What are you doing?"
"Holy shi—sorry, Ma. Holy crud. Do I have drool on
my face? Seriously, dude, I'm fudging dumbstruck here."
"I see that. You were staring. She thinks you're an
asshole. I tend to agree. If you screw me on this assignment
I'll beat you worse than the last time. All I want is a
quiet weekend with my girl."
Kristen appeared again, her lips pinched. "Guys, I
have..." She motioned to Billy's hands still at his chest
"Are you okay?"
"Crap," Monk muttered.
Oops. Billy dropped his hands, stood tall and scanned the
room. "I'm fine. Heartburn."
Her gaze bounced between him and Monk before she finally
shook her head. She held up the phone with her left hand. No
wedding ring. Perfect.
"Something has come up in another part of the hotel. If
you need me, call my cell."
Oh, sweetheart, Billy thought, you've got yourself a deal.