Page 24 of Undertow

“Are you even real?”

She waves over me, and I shake my head with a smirk.

“You’re one to talk.”

Her blush has to be genuine as well. No way she’s as good at this as I am. No one is. I was born for this.

“Well, you’re going to have to do a better job of keeping your clothes on if you want to take things slow,” she teases.

Except, she’s not entirely joking. Gaze locked on mine, she steps closer. Everything in her body language tells me shereallylikes what she saw. That she wants to see it again.

I lift the hem of my shirt several inches, as if checking something on the fabric, then raise it higher when I “find” it. I feel the burn of her gaze on the exposed ridges of my abs. It travels down my inked skin to where the sharp pelvic lines meet the waistband of my shorts.

I give her a few seconds to look before ending the show.

“I said slower. I didn’t sayhowslow,” I return with a deadly half-grin. I’ve done a lot of damage with that grin.

Heat flares in her eyes, and I try not to think about the damage she could do to me if I’m not careful. That kiss… I’m still haunted by the fact that I can’t definitively say none of it was real.

Her gaze tackles me on the bed two feet away as she closes the gap between us. The hunger is apparent when she creases the fabric of my shirt, drawing a forceful line down the center of my chest with her finger. I chose this shirt specifically because of how it accents my strongest weapon—my eyes.

“Your eyes are seismic,” many lips have whispered at my ear.Except, they don’t say “seismic.”Sexy, mysterious, tempting,dozens of adjectives over the years, all tedious and uninspired. What they mean istreacherous, because once those eyes are trained on you, Montgomery McArthur will own you too.

Julia wants to play me, but I’ve already won.

“The whole family eats at my mom’s house every Tuesday night. You want to come?” Her fingers glide back up my shirt to curve around the back of my neck. I hiss in a breath when she jerks us together.

“As your date or your unemployed charity project?” I ask with a mischievous smile.

She returns it, her hips grazing mine in sweet, intentional friction. Her focus sinks to my lips again. “Both?”

My smile widens into a grin as I lean in for a chaste kiss. Just enough to trigger the ache. Not enough to satisfy it. She exhales a frustrated breath when I pull back and step away.

“Is it going to be weird that you’re bringing some guy you met two hours ago to your family dinner?”

She lifts her shoulder with an amused glint. “Probably. But why do I think you’re a guy who can handle weird?”

I spot her immediately.Mama H, the head of the Hartford clan.

Unlike Julia, the Matriarch looksolderin person. The dossier photos were outdated. Silver, chin-length hair tucked behind her ears frames tanned, wrinkled skin weathered by sun and strife, much like the rest of her small kingdom.

I’m careful not to stare as I do a quick scan of the scene to absorb as much as I can.

The house itself is dated but impressive in its size. Two stories, a wraparound front porch, and aged yellow paint give it an inviting look. It’s a deceptive charm, since everything around it broadcasts the opposite. Security cameras watch from strategic locations around the property. Thick vegetation on each side of the building blocks access to the back of the houseand forms a natural barrier for privacy—as well as a means of escape.

The single gate connecting the front yard to the back requires an intricate combination. I only caught six of the eleven numbers as Julia punched them in.

There’s no question this is a hub of illegal activity.

We’re in the back now, facing a stunning view of the ocean—a view I’m careful to avoid as I focus instead on the rest of my surroundings. Behind the house, the ceiling of the first floor extends out several feet, creating two stories of outside space. At the ground level is a covered patio, while a balcony lines the exterior on the second. The rectangular inground pool is littered with debris and algae. I only recognize a few of the people occupying the tattered chairs surrounding it from my research.

The entire property has the stately air of an heirloom mansion that was in its prime fifty years ago and remembers it fondly.

“Mama H, this is Everett Shaw,” Julia says, pulling me toward the woman seated at a worn patio table. A tub of shelled walnuts sits beside her folding chair. Another small pile rests beside the bowl in front of her. She continues working on the nut in her hands as her wary gaze brushes me.

“Hello, ma’am. I go by Shaw,” I say, nodding toward her. I’m too far away for a handshake, and she’s made no indication she’s interested in one.

“Adrian said they picked you up at the café,” she rasps through a clench of the nutcracker. Her voice is rough, her tone, matter-of-fact. The crunch of the shell draws her back to her task, and Julia nudges me.

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