So here he was, pretending to be a small-time but especially trustworthy drug mule looking for work from this new criminal on the scene. Over the past two days, he’d gotten a crash course in undercover work, a rundown on what he needed to do, and the assurance he wouldn’t be alone in the club. He looked around surreptitiously for his backup, but everyone was focused on the stage and the dancer performing. Ben glanced that way…and nearly swallowed his tongue.
The dancer was Oliver. Totally glammed up and almost unrecognizable, but definitely Oliver. Ben had spent enough time watching his yoga instructor’s body over the past few weeks to spot it even under all of the glittery paint, heavy makeup, loose, long hair, and, uh, lack of clothes.
He felt a throb low in his gut that had nothing to do with the overpowering music as Oliver gyrated around the pole near the front of the stage, smiling coyly at the audience and pulling at the straps of his g-string. A few men held out bills and Oliver crawled toward them so they could tuck them under the elastic. The round globes of his ass glittered, sparkling under the strobe lights, and Ben suddenly wanted to bite one of them.
“Hey!” Ben jerked his gaze away from the stage as someone shouted in his ear. It was a shorter man, wearing a cheap suit and no tie, with a lowball glass in his hand. “You DuBois?”
Ben got his brain back in the game instead of being focused on the blood rushing south. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“Figured. Fucking bison are always built like fucking linebackers. I’m Regan.” He gestured with the glass at a table set back from the stage, amber liquid sloshing. “We’re back here.”
Ben let himself be led to the table, where another three men waited. They all stood as he approached. Two were clearly muscle—about as tall as Ben and with his broad “linebacker” build. The third wore a suit that made Regan’s look like a rumpled sweatpants outfit. The dark material, maybe blue, maybe black—it was tough to tell in the dim lighting—fit the man like a glove. He had dark hair, slicked back, and a tidy mustache and goatee. His dark eyes glimmered, and from his utter stillness as he observed Ben, Ben would guess he was a reptile shifter of some type—probably a snake.
Fitting.
Ben stuck out his hand. The guards tensed, but quickly relented when they saw that it was empty. “Barrett DuBois.”
The man clasped it. “Frediano Paul. Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Have a seat, Mr. DuBois. Or can I call you Barrett?”
Ben settled into one of the chairs around the table as the other men did the same. “Sure.”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Whiskey on the rocks.”
Paul jerked his chin at Regan, who got up to saunter over to the bar. Then he nodded at the stage. “He’s good, isn’t he?”
Ben grunted noncommittally, even though he wanted to shout Yes! at the top of his lungs. “He knows how to work a pole.” He bit back a groan as he realized what he said.
Paul laughed. “I’m sure he does, I’m sure he does.”
“Kind of odd to have a meeting in a joint like this, isn’t it?”
Paul toyed with his glass, the perfect illustration of ease. “Some people might think so, but I’m an equal opportunity player. Having chats in such an environment does two things—it keeps heterosexual men’s eyes where they should be, and it shows me the kind of person they are.”
“Okay, sure. I can see that.” Ben settled back too as Regan returned with his drink, and accepted it with a nod. “If they got a problem with a place like this, you don’t want to work with them.”
“Exactly.”
Ben took the opportunity to look back at the stage and openly ogle Oliver for a few seconds. Oliver couldn’t possibly see him past the bright stage lights, but it almost felt as though he was watching Ben. Waiting for him to look in his direction.
Had to be his imagination.
Managing not to drool, Ben turned around and raised his glass in a toast. “I’ve got no problem.”
“Good man, good man.” Paul tapped his glass against Ben’s and they both drank.
They spent the next hour chatting about nothing of importance—and yet, Ben knew that every answer he gave, every question he posed, was of the utmost importance in Paul’s eyes. He wouldn’t kid himself—he was being scrutinized, evaluated and measured. It was an hour-long job interview for a person he was pretending to be.
Hey. Not stressful at all.
Ben was nearly done his drink and dreading ordering another—he wasn’t a big drinker—when Paul downed the last of his and looked at him with a serious gleam in his eye. “You seem like a straight arrow, Barrett.”
Behind Ben, a cheer rose up, but he knew now was not the time to be distracted. “I try. Games are for kids.”
“I hear that. You know what I’m looking for, yes?”
“Someone trustworthy.”
“And discreet. I need—”
Paul broke off as Oliver sashayed into view, wearing a little more than he had on stage, but not enough to fully hide his magnificent body. For an instant, Ben forgot everything he was supposed to be doing as Oliver flipped his hair over his shoulder and pouted seductively at the guards sitting on the other side of the table. They each gave a single shake of their heads, their attention not diverted at all, and Regan made a dismissive motion with his hand to get Oliver to move on.
He did. Right to Ben.
“Hey, baby.” Oliver slinked—that was the only word—onto Ben’s lap and leaned close. “Interested in joining me in the champagne room?” He swooped closer to Ben’s ear. “You okay?” he whispered.
Ben grunted in what he hoped was an affirmative tone. “We’re kind of busy,” he said out loud.
“Too busy for me?”
“Can I take a rain check?”
Oliver swept his hands over Ben’s biceps and abs. Ben sucked in a breath and willed his dick not to respond.
His dick ignored him.
“Sweetheart, as much as I love the show you’re giving us right now, we’re in the middle of business. But come see me later, eh?” Paul adjusted his crotch and licked his lower lip.
And Ben saw red. Before he realized what he was doing, he was up and out of his chair, Oliver somehow behind him, with his nostrils flared, his brows lowered, and one foot digging into the cheap carpeting as though he were a bull about to charge. Because he was.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Paul held up his hands in surrender, even as his two goons leaped to their feet.
Through the red haze clouding his vision, Ben still understood that Paul hadn’t actually surrendered and was still a threat to both him and his…and his…
And his Oliver.
Well. Now was a hell of a time to realize that.
7
Paul chuckled and shook his head at Ben’s display of dominance. “You can’t get possessive over any of these dancers, Barrett. They’ll give it up for anyone with the right amount of cash. Right, Ricky?”
This was bad. This was so bad. The exact thing that the Director had hoped would be a strength—their budding relationship, whatever the hell it was—had turned out to be their weakness. He didn’t know what Ben would do if he agreed with Paul’s statement, but it probably wouldn’t be anything that would save their cover. And then this opportunity to set up an in for an agent down the road would be gone, never to be recovered.