FLESH AND CON ARTISTS
Book 6 in the Flesh and Thieves series
Mallory, known as Turk, is sent undercover into the most dangerous cartel in all of India. The Ward Squad doesn’t have operatives in place in Asia, but Nate, T’s younger brother, follows Mallory to Mumbai. Nate has had a crush on Mallory for ten years. They desperately fight against a ticking clock to stop a plot to poison 40 million peoples’ water supply. Mallory has to risk capture to save the child she’s supposed to be teaching; Nate has to find a way to find a way to rescue them both. Can Nate save Mallory and finally prove he’s worth taking out of the friend box?
I’ve exploited my body on missions before. Almost every mission, actually. I never felt bad about it…until now. Now I have a very bad feeling. Like everything is about to go to FUBAR fast in a serious way and no amount of side boob is going to fix it.
I open my trench coat.
That makes me feel mildly better.
Big Nate is supposed to tape a wire on me but he looks me up and down, gaze hot, taking in the white cloth straps over my breasts that make up my Marilyn Monroe-ish excuse for a halter top, and my skin-tight silver-sparkly boy short hot pants that barely cover my ass cheeks and the dusting of body glitter.
I’m used to ignoring the want in Nate’s eyes. But now he looks drunk with lust.
“Turk,” he says to me, lightly caressing my cleavage and then the exposed sides of my breasts and waist.
“Hands,” I say, batting his hands away.
“Turk.” Nate’s voice is a husky whisper. He steps closer. He puts his hands on my hips and caresses around to my ass.
“Hands,” I say with less reprimand. My body heats. I’ve always liked Nate. A lot. It’s mostly his boyishness, his I’m-the-youngest-brother, the harmless one, that has made him so easy for me to ignore.
He’s not doing his harmless thing now. He’s predatory.
“We don’t have time for this. Mic me.”
“Where?” His gaze rakes me head to toe again. This time it stops right at my pubic area. “Mallory,” he whispers, closing the last inch between us so his hard chest is against my breasts. “Are you wearing underwear?”
I step back. “Damn it, Nate.”
He’s got his hands on me again. My eyes flutter closed because it feels fantastic. His thumb passes over a nipple as he rubs my body up and down searching for a place to hide the microphone.
“Nathan,” I hear Ward’s voice, stern in my ear through my earpiece disguised in my big earring/ear cuff combination. “Is she ready yet?”
Nate ducks his head and talks into the small wire clipped to his T-shirt. “There’s no where to freakin’ pin or tape the mic on her, dad. Did you see what she’s—”
“Get it done, Nate.” Ward’s voice was harsh. “Irish says they’re all settled in and talking. It’s time. We need her in there.”
Nate looks up at me, and the hunger is back in his eyes. “Any chance when this is over, I can get you to wear this outfit for me? You could role play—”
I grab the mic and wire out of his hands, but he grabs it back. Nate pushes the white fabric of my tank top aside, pulls down the clear adhesive cup that I’m using instead of a bra and places the mic right underneath my nipple. Damn. Whoa! He carefully tapes the wire to my skin, and puts everything back in place. It’s only the folds on the tank top, the ruching, that make the mic, wire, and my now excited nipple hidden instead of painfully obvious.
Nate leans down and speaks directly into my right breast. “Testing, one, two, three. Testing.” I feel the warmth of his breath as he speaks. I put my hands on his shoulders and push him away. If my nipples pucker up more, no amount of ruching will hide it.
“Loud and clear,” Ward says. “Send her in.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
Nate looks at me. His blue eyes get wide, perhaps at my admission. I’ve worked with his family for years and I’ve never shown fear or weakness.
“I’ve got a gift for you,” Nate says. He takes a silver bracelet out of his pocket and holds it up. It’s a thin chain with a solid silver heart about the size of a quarter on it. He bends down, slowly, his energy caressing down my body until he is kneeling in front of me. He takes my right foot and places it on his thigh, careful not to let my mile-high clear stiletto puncture his jeans. We’re in a surprisingly intimate pose, with me wearing so little and him in front of me. He caresses the top of my foot, my ankle, and my calf, before he secures the clasp of the chain around my ankle with a little snick. It’s not a bracelet; it’s an anklet.
For a moment I’m startled, thinking this is a love trinket, some declaration of the crush he’s had on me since he was a teen, but I then I realize this is his response to my statement of worry. It’s not a love gift. It’s a tracker.
“Got you, Turk.”
He gives my leg one more caress as he stands up.
“Nate, is she in yet?”
“She’s going in now.”
I’m going in to a den of thieves, to penetrate the worst known crime syndicate in the world, to set up a con to double cross a leader who wants to unleash destruction on Mumbai. And I’m going in with no weapons, because I’m dressed as a stripper? What could go wrong?
My lips curl down in a half snarl. Welcome to my life.