Cover Me Page 2

  Cilla left the office and hurried toward the restroom. Dread made her heart race, and she swallowed to wash away the taste of bile.

  Ryan Ward. The reason she'd been banished to the sixteenth.

  The door banged shut behind her, and she leaned against it. She needed a moment to put the mask back on.

  She hated that she needed it here in the station, around her fellow cops. But after the situation with Ward, there were still a lot of people who either ignored her or were outright hostile.

  She'd crossed the blue line of silence. Accused another cop of excessive use of force.

  Pushing away from the door, she splashed cold water on her face. Studied herself in the mirror as she blotted dry with a paper towel. Good. Cool eyes. No emotion showing. No chinks in the armor.

  Despite the need to dress like a hooker, she wanted this undercover job. It would keep her out of the station for days, possibly weeks. Away from the cold-eyed cops.

  And if Ward came into the pub, she'd deal with it. Until it happened, she wasn't going to think about it.

  Sooner or later, people would forget what had happened. Sooner or later, her fellow cops would thaw out. But until then, she was happy to go undercover. On this job, she'd only be dealing with one other cop, and he'd be playing a role, too.

  Her mind started revving, thinking about strategies and ways of getting the information they needed. Who was the other cop? How would he be to work with?

  She was looking forward to finding out.

  * * *

  Ten days later, she walked into the Pipe and Shamrock, carrying her keyboard. As she headed for the stage, she glanced around the crowded room.

  She spotted her undercover partner immediately. Damn it!

  She'd already met him.

  Even worse, she hadn't been able to forget about him.

  Chapter 2

  Her partner beckoned like a neon sign, even though there were thirty or forty people milling around the bar.

  Brendan Donovan. Slightly too-long black hair, bright blue eyes, a killer smile. And his body wasn't hard on the eyes, either – tall, lean, sinewy muscles.

  She'd noticed everything about him the night he'd stopped her car. Too bad he's a cop had run through her mind. Then she'd forced herself to forget about him. Fellow cops, including delicious Donovan, were off-limits. He was a bright, shiny toy, pretty to look at but far too expensive to buy.

  Tonight, he leaned against the bar, nursing a beer and talking to a stunning blond in a short, clingy red dress and four-inch stilettos. She rolled her eyes. Nothing obvious about her.

  Brendan seemed to like it.

  She snorted as she lifted the keyboard case onto the tiny stage. She'd mentioned meeting Brendan to a couple of the women at her station. They'd laughed and told her to watch her step. He had a reputation.

  None of them had met the detective, but they'd all heard the stories. One of three brothers and a sister who were Chicago cops. Another brother who was FBI. Brendan was the youngest brother. He lived to go undercover. A wild man. Adrenaline junkie. The only Donovan brother still available.

  A playah.

  She'd been irritated with herself for asking, but the words just slipped out of her mouth. In spite of her no-cop policy, Brendan Donovan had made her skin tingle. Other parts of her, as well. The wild, reckless risk-taker she kept carefully hidden at work had rubbed her hands together and smacked her lips. Yum.

  She turned her back on the scene in front of her and plastered a smile on her face as she greeted the two men on the stage. "Hi," she said. "I'm Cilla."

  The drummer, a guy with long salt and pepper hair and a longer beard, reached over and shook her hand. "Keith." He let his gaze wander from the leather vest that made it look as if she was bare beneath it to the short leather skirt and the high boots. "Hear you're pretty good."

  She wanted to laugh. How would he know? She hadn't even auditioned for the manager. He'd taken one look at her skin-tight jeans and low-cut tank top and told her he'd call if they had an opening. "Thanks," she said easily. "I got the playlist. Maybe we can talk about what you guys want from me."

  Keith's eyes gleamed.

  "At the keyboard," she added, trying to look friendly and clueless. This was exactly the reaction she was counting on. She hoped the rest of the men in the bar reacted the same way. It would make her job a lot easier if they were thinking with their little heads.

  "Yeah," he said, tearing his gaze away from her chest. "This is George. Guitar. Phil should be here any minute. He's on guitar, too. Go ahead and set up. We'll talk before we start."

  "Great." She smiled briefly at Keith and George, then opened the keyboard case and went to work.

  * * *

  Brendan edged away from Tiffany on the pretext of picking up his beer and taking a drink. The blond had been surprisingly aggressive, even for a group of singles who'd gathered for the express purpose of hooking up. She'd strolled over to him moments after he'd walked into the Pipe and Shamrock, standing eye to eye with him. Tall woman. And edging close enough that her very large breasts brushed his chest. "Tiffany," she'd said, her voice high-pitched and breathless.

  He hadn't noticed her the week before, and he would have. The way she dressed, her killer body, her height. The blond hair.

  Not his type, but he was here to talk to people and make friends. "Hey, Tiffany. I'm Brendan."

  He used his own first name as often as possible when he went undercover. Turning to look when someone called 'Brendan' could give you away in an instant. So could not responding to his undercover name. He figured there were enough Brendans in the city that he was safe.

  Now Tiffany was plastered to his side as if they'd been super-glued together. If he didn't cut himself loose now, he'd be stuck with her all evening.

  "Think I see an old friend from the neighborhood," he said, motioning toward the biggest cluster of people. "Catch you later."

  She fumbled in her tiny black purse and pulled out a card. "In case we get separated in the crowd," she cooed as she slid the card into his front pocket. Her hand lingered a moment too long. "Give me a call."

  "You have fun this evening," Brendan said.

  "Would have been more fun with you," the blond said with a tiny pout. Then she turned away, smiling and stepping close to the man on her other side.

  Interesting. No one had ever slipped a business card into his pocket at a meet-up bar.

  Brendan took a deep breath and made sure his expression said, "What a great place this is. Can't wait to meet these people." Then he leaned against the bar and scanned the small stage at the front of the pub.

  His partner had arrived. The keyboard player was crouched on the stage, brown hair cascading in waves down her back, her tiny black skirt creeping up high on her thighs. He smiled in appreciation at the sight of all that hair and her long legs. Her skin gleamed beneath the lights and her vest rode up enough to display a tiny strip of pale skin. She'd dressed for the job - a woman in tight clothes was enough to make most men lose their powers of thought.

  Himself included. Except when he was on the job.

  He'd enjoy the scenery, but he wouldn't lose his focus.

  She stood and effortlessly lifted one of the keyboards onto its stand, and his smile deepened. She had a fine ass to go along with those long legs and wild hair. He wasn't going to have any trouble pretending they were a couple.

  His captain had told him they had the perfect partner for him. Seasoned undercover cop, knew how to play the keyboard, willing to dress for the job.

  She'd sounded perfect. They had to act like a couple, completely into each other. And even if there was no spark between them, every undercover cop knew how to pretend.

  She turned around for the other keyboard, and his smile froze. Shit. Cilla Marini. The cop in the Mustang. The woman he'd thought about more than once since that night almost two weeks ago.

  She wore a black leather vest with nothing beneath it. That short, short black leather skir
t. And knee-high black boots. His heart thundered against his chest and all the blood in his body headed south.

  He wasn't going to have to pretend with Marini.

  He took a too-big gulp of beer, coughing a few times to clear his throat. Then he took a smaller sip and lowered the glass to the bar.

  Had she seen him? Figured out he was her partner on this job?

  If he was a betting man, he'd say yes. The night he'd pulled her over, Cilla had been composed. Cool. In control. The kind of woman who'd scan the room the moment she walked in. Assessing the crowd. Looking for her partner.

  So, yeah. She knew.

  As he watched her get ready to perform, he had to give her credit. She chatted with the other band members as her hands flew over the keyboard, plugging in wires and adjusting her mic. Finally, she pulled a piece of paper from her keyboard case and set it on the amp behind the keyboard. Set list, probably.

  Not once had she turned her gaze to the crowd.

  She was good. She acted as though her entire focus was on the music she was about to perform.

  He edged closer to the stage, close enough to hear the guy with the beard who'd been ogling her earlier, say, "You sing at all?"

  "Yeah, I can sing." She stopped fiddling with her mic and glanced over her shoulder with a friendly smile. "Rather not do it tonight, though. I want to focus on getting comfortable with you guys first. That okay?"

  "Sure. Plenty of time. Sounds like you're gonna be here for a few weeks."

  "That's what the manager said."

  Brendan eased back into the crowd, going out of his way to talk to as many people as possible. He dodged the women who eyed him like a juicy filet, but made sure he got their names first.

  Finally, after an hour, he spotted a woman whose fingers were white around her glass of wine. Her gaze darted nervously around the crowd. Was she looking for someone? A contact? A customer?

  He didn't think a dealer would send a nervous, scared woman into a club to sell drugs, but maybe it was a cover. Maybe she was playing a role, too.

  Picking up his beer, he wandered over and smiled at her. "Hi. I'm Brendan."

  She swallowed. "Uh, hi. Barb."

  They chatted for fifteen minutes, her shoulders gradually relaxing and her hand loosening its death grip on the wine glass.

  She was no drug dealer, unless she was the world's greatest actor. She said she taught third-graders, and he believed her.

  Glancing around, he saw a tall, thin blond guy who looked as nervous as Barb had been. Another suspect? Or just another desperate wallflower? He turned to the guy and said, "Hey, have you met Barb? This is her first time at the Pipe and Shamrock."

  Ten minutes later, he walked away from Chuck and Barb, smiling slightly. Two people he could check off his list. And bonus points for giving both of them a safe harbor in this sea filled with sharks.

  "Thanks, folks. We're taking a short break. Be back soon."

  The voice came from one of the guitar players in the band. Cilla stepped away from the keyboard and talked to the three men for a moment. Then she smiled, and it changed her face. Made her light up like a Christmas tree. Her eyes twinkled and he saw even white teeth behind her lips.

  She stepped off the stage and wove her way through the crowd. She didn't even glance his way. Good. She knew what she was doing. She hadn't gotten the job only because of her keyboard talent and her looks. Although they were a nice bonus – every man in the bar had stared at her at least once tonight.

  As she passed beneath a light, sweat glistened on her face, her neck and her arms. A drop trickled slowly down her throat. When it dropped into the hollow between her collar bones, he wanted to shove past the guys in front of him and lick it off.

  Damn. Focus.

  Brendan hung back and observed as she reached the bar. He'd watch for now. See who else approached her. Let things unfold in front of him.

  Three men converged on her at once, all of them clamoring to buy her a drink.

  "No, thanks, guys," she said with a smile for each of them. "Rick's getting me an iced tea."

  "You don't drink?" the youngest-looking guy asked in a shocked voice. Definitely a bro. The popped collar on his polo shirt was a dead giveaway.

  "Not when I'm working," she answered.

  Brendan hid a smile. She was fast. Clever. He liked that about her.

  "Then let me buy your tea," the guy on the other side of the bro said. He was maybe in his late thirties, dark hair, wearing a suit. Made him stand out in this crowd. So did the twenty he pushed across the bar for her iced tea, waving at the bartender to keep the change.

  "Thank you," Cilla said, giving him what looked like a genuine smile. "I appreciate that."

  The third guy, standing behind her, pushed closer. So close he was almost touching her ass. Brendan took a sip of his beer instead of grinding his teeth. She could handle herself. She'd worked undercover before.

  "Loved your work on the keyboard," the third guy said. He was a little overweight, and his button-down shirt bulged at the gaps between the buttons. "You're new in the band, right? There was a guy here last week."

  Cilla swiveled to face him, discreetly using her foot to push him backward. "Thanks. Yeah, Jerry broke his hand. He'll be out for a couple of months."

  "Too bad," Bro Guy smirked. Clearly, he didn't think it was bad at all.

  Cilla settled against the bar, her back resting against the wooden edge. "So, I'm Cilla," she said. "Who are all of you?"

  She never even glanced Brendan's way.

  * * *

  By the end of the third set, after almost three hours onstage, Cilla's fingers were cramping. But she'd done a decent job. Held her own. Tomorrow night, she'd do better.

  As George thanked the mostly inattentive people, she stepped away from the keyboard and scanned the room. The crowd had begun to thin forty-five minutes ago. Lots of people leaving in pairs. Two of the three guys who'd cornered her at the bar after the first set were among the lucky ones. The third guy, the older one with the dark good looks who'd over-tipped the bartender, was still there. Watching her in between watching the crowd.

  A guy who looked like that and threw money around? The women should have been all over him. So why was he still here?

  Her heart began to pound. Finding their dealer couldn't be this easy. Suit Guy stuck out like a penguin in a desert. But maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted to look obvious. Wanted to stand out from the crowd. Maybe, if he was their guy, he deliberately chose the successful, smooth look as he peddled his drugs.

  An upscale crowd would be careful about where they bought their drugs. A guy who looked like a classier version of themselves would make them comfortable. Willing to shell out big money for the wonder sex drug.

  Had Brendan talked to the guy?

  Her gaze found him halfway down the bar, deep in conversation with a woman. Average looking. Brown hair. Nice clothes. Nothing flashy, but flattering.

  Brendan was standing close to her. Hips almost touching. His eyes fixed on hers.

  She swallowed hard, then forced herself to relax. That's what he was supposed to do, idiot. Her captain had said her partner was a good undercover operative. He'd done this before. He wouldn't get distracted by a woman. Even one he was attracted to.

  Turning away, she began packing up her keyboard. By the time she was lifting the final piece into its case, the pub was nearly empty. But Suit Guy was still there. Watching her.

  Would he follow her into the parking lot? Push her to go home with him?

  Did he think the twenty-buck iced tea, and the one he'd sent to the stage during the third set, made him entitled to her?

  Would he listen when she said no?

  Her heart sped up a little. If he didn't, she could handle him. But she didn't want to. She was supposed to be a musician. Not a woman who knew her way around a street fight.

  "Hold on, Cilla, and I'll get your money," George called as he headed toward the office at the back of the pub.r />
  She nodded and stepped off the stage, lifting the cases holding her keyboards to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Suit Guy stand up.

  Okay. He was heading her way. She took a deep breath in, then let it out. She'd handled worse than a pushy guy in a bar.

  "Hey, Cilla. May I buy you a drink before you leave?" He smiled, making him look shark-like. "You're not working anymore."

  "Thanks," she said easily. "But I'm beat tonight. First night playing with a new band is tough. Maybe another night. Do you come here regularly on the weekend?"

  He studied her for a long moment. Finally he said, "I will be, now."

  "Great," she said, holding his gaze. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

  His gaze swept down her once more. He nodded and turned back to the bar and picked up his drink.

  Brendan had been lingering at the bar. As soon as Suit Guy moved away from her, he dropped a bill on the wooden surface and headed toward her.

  "Hey," he said as he reached her. "Loved what you added to the band. You're better than the guy last weekend."

  "Thank you," she said. She glanced at Suit Guy's back, saw him tip back his glass and finish it off.

  "Can I help you carry those out to your car?" Brendan asked.

  She eyed him up and down. "I'm not going home with you."

  "Wasn't going to ask. We haven't even been introduced." He leaned a little closer, and she could smell his fresh, outdoorsy smell. How did he still smell like that after a night in a sweaty, beer-soaked bar? "I wouldn't say no if you asked, though. I've discovered I have a thing for sexy keyboardists."

  God, Brendan had earned his reputation. His bright blue eyes twinkled at her, letting her in on the joke. A tiny dimple appeared in his right cheek when his smile widened. And that smile made butterflies dance in her stomach.

  "Not gonna happen. Although I won't turn down help with the luggage." She nodded toward the two leather cases and the amplifier next to her. "I always appreciate company to my car at the end of the night."