Page 80 of The Truths that Deceive

“You know a lot about this place.”

“Jealous?”

“No.” Maybe, but I don’t say that.

“Been here before.” Smith doesn’t offer any further explanation. “Go there, lock the door, and wait for me.”

“How—?”

“You’ll know. And no matter what, don’t take the fucking mask off. Go.”

Heart beating fast, I rise and he smacks my ass. But I don’t look back. I just follow orders.

I want to stay, to confront Johnny, see what the deal is, why he disappeared from Europe. But I’m not stupid. He’s got to be here to sell shit he stole. He might have all of the blueprints or just some of them, but both cases suck. I gleaned from the intel I gathered that even parts could be used to create other weapons, which is one reason it could change the outcome of wars and terrorism. It’s one reason things were done in parts, that anyone who worked on anything to do with the blueprints or the weapon only had tiny parts, and it was all encoded.

It didn’t matter they were trying to find out who stole what or who wanted the weapon’s blueprints. Shit, the whole thing can be a ruse for all I know.

My mind spins.

But deep down, I don’t think it’s a ruse. I think I’m a patsy.

If not one set up by Johnny, then by others.

What I don’t know is why.

And if it’s something simple like he’s so deep under that he’s here doing CIA business illegally on US soil, then why amIwanted? Am I actually under suspicion?

The questions whirl hard and fast enough for me to keep my head down as I move through the club and up the stairs.

Even so, I feel eyes on me, that insidious touch a man can give by just looking, by wanting to touch.

When Smith looks at me that way, delicious shivers skitter along my skin.

When other men do it, a clamminess creeps in, closes hard around me, choking me hard, and not in the good way.

For a second upstairs, I lose my way, and I’m caught in a small crush of bodies near a bar. Fingers skim my skin as they try and slide over my breasts, under my skirt.

That last hand I grab and twist, bending the finger back, and the man’s cry of pain can be heard over the sensuous beat of the music.

The sign for restrooms beckons me. I navigate toward them, moving across the floor, past couples fucking, past humiliating acts like a girl being passed roughly around, her body exposed and touched like she’s prime beef.

I catch her eye, and she narrows hers at me, a clear indication to move along.

Oh hell, she likes it, she likes the humiliation.

So I do. I put my instinct to dive in and try and protect—a useless instinct because I’m hopelessly outnumbered and she doesn’t want it—into the back seat of my head, cramming it down low.

I turn down the wide opulent hall with restrooms on either side. But this isn’t what he meant. At least I don’t think so. I hesitate, and a man in a black suit appears.

His gaze hits the mask, then drops to my breasts for a nanosecond before returning to the mask.

“Miss?”

For a moment I almost scream at him, and I don’t know why. It’s like being alone with my field agent below, down there with Smith and even more naked girls, stretches all nerve endings thin and tight.

“I’m looking for…” I flounder. “A suite?” That’s what Smith said to me. A suite.

“Did your master tell you which suite?”

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