Their love is built on lies…
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***
Washington, D.C.
Two a.m.
Emma’s face was angelic, full of rapture as her climax hit. Truman soaked it in—it might be the last time he saw it.
He rode the waves with her, memorizing the sound of his name on her lips as he stroked in and out of her over and over, maximizing her pleasure. Her core clinched hard around him, one final time, and he couldn’t hold back a minute longer.
He plunged over the edge, kissing her deeply. Please don’t let it be her.
That nagging voice wouldn’t leave him alone, even during sex. He’d never fallen for anyone as hard and fast as he had her, and it was all a tightrope walk.
He collapsed on top of her, whispering her name into the pillow as his body gave itself over to the sensation of their mutual pleasure. He was teetering on the edge of falling off that tightrope. Wondered what it would be like to choose stepping off of it with her. To convince her to run away from all of this and start over somewhere else.
Three weeks. It had only been three bloody weeks since he’d ‘met’ her at that restaurant. She’d never realized he was a plant. That he was purposely there to charm and befirend her in hopes of getting solid evidence agains her and the others. He’d been having dinner with his friend and mentor, and she’d walked past the bar on her way to the ladies’ room.
“That’s her,” Ian had said. “Your MI5 op ends in two days. You’ll no longer have that as cover or my Scotland Yard resources after that. You need to make your move. Now. Or the entire three years I’ve been hunting her and her mother will be a total waste. They’ll demote me, T.”
So he’d done what the man expected.
He’d befriended her.
Which had gone instantly to flirting.
Then all-out seduction.
Two days had turned into three weeks, and here he was. He’d charmed his way past her defenses, convinced her he was nothing more than a demolitions expert in the States on business. That their meeting was nothing more than coincidence.
She sighed deeply, fully satiated, one of her fingers tracing over his shoulder and down his back. He shifted his weight off of her, but she hugged him, keeping their bodies connected. “Not yet,” she whispered in his ear. “Stay.”
He did, wishing this would never end. That he didn’t have to come clean.
Kissing her neck, the words of confession burned his mouth, his tongue. They stuck in his throat. He should tell her everything. Come clean. Insiste she take her things and run.
But he was selfish. So damn selfish. He didn’t want her to go, not without him.
He was leaving at dawn. His employer needed him in Bulgaria. If he failed to find the evidence Ian needed against her, the Alice in Wonderland gang would slip through his fingers.
Again.
Because of Truman.
A few more minutes…
He wanted to relish all of them.
Her breathing slowed, and she fell into a deep sleep. Sliding off of her, he was faced with a dilemma—stay here and watch her breathe, or climb out of bed, find her phone, and make the copy of her SIM card that Scotland Yard and MI5 wanted.
He’d done this dance many times over the years since becoming an undercover agent. Although he’d never slept with a suspect, he’d misled plenty of them in order to get what he needed. That was his job—pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
Had he ever known who he really was? Rubbing his eyes, he thought back to his childhood. His mother had tossed him out on the streets of the East End of London when he was seven. Seven fucking years old.
He’d nearly died.
He’d never known a family outside of the gang he’d fallen in with until Ian had come along and plucked him off the streets. He owed the man who had become his pa if in name only.
He owed his country for giving him purpose. For keeping him out of prison. For not letting him end up dead in some back alley.
Emma was the daughter of Katherine Owens, a renowned international jewelry thief who ran the AIW gang. Thieves who had finally crossed a line they could never go back from.
It would take nothing to slip out of bed, rifle through Emma’s purse, and find the evidence he needed to put them all away.
Or clear Emma’s name.
Maybe she was innocent… He wanted to believe that so bad that it made his chest hurt. He wanted a relationship with her and not just the sex. There was something about her that made him a better man. That made him want to tell her everything. To stop lying about who he was and what he did for a living.
It confused him—this desire to come clean. He loved being a spy. He loved taking down criminals and terrorists. He loved Ian and his non-blood brothers, Dolan and Spence—two more orphans Ian had saved from the street gangs. Blood didn’t bind them, but loyalty did.
Could he throw all of that away? Could he betray his family, his country, over this woman?
Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling, the night squeezing in around him. There were only a few hours left, and while Ian had plenty of proof to go after the Red Hearts—a nickname given to them by the press—he was depending on Truman to get the final nail for the coffin. There was no room for errors. Their case had to be rock solid.
By the time dawn filtered in through the closed curtains, Truman was still battling with himself. So unlike him to be this torn up about a mark. Her mother was as guilty as they came, and Emma probably was, too. How could she not be?
And yet…
She woke, yawning and stretching. He evened out his breathing and closed his eyes, pretending to still sleep. Easing out of the bed, she padded to the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind her.
This was it. His final chance. He forced himself to think about Ian, Dolan, and Spence. Forced himself to remember the oath he’dd taken to protect his country. The people in SIS who had trained him and taught him everything he knew. They relied on him to do his job.
He thought of the Queen Mother, who had personally charged him to find the ring the Alice In Wonderland gang had stolen right from under her nose. An embarrassment, to be sure, but they had enraged her highness enough that she’d tasked everyone in the country with one purpose—find her ring and bring the culprits to justice.
Please don’t let her be guilty.
Slipping from under the covers, he sat on the edge of the mattress for a long moment, hanging his head. Across the way, on the hotel room’s desk, a buzzing came from inside Emma’s purse. It was an atrocious macramé thing she’d found in some Moroccan street vendor’s stall, she’d told him.
Through the material, he could see her phone lighting up as it continued to buzz.
He needed to know who was calling her at this hour. Could it be her mother?
Still at war with himself, his footsteps were slow and heavy as he made his way to it. He’d always had an innate sense of right and wrong since his days on the streets, and right now, the dread building inside his chest told him all he needed to know.
He glanced at his clothes lying on the floor where Emma had stripped them off of him. He should put them on, retrieve his gun and credentials from the safe, and walk out. Make up a story that she’d slipped out during the night. That he’d screwed up and let her get away.
The Queen Mother’s voice rang in his ears. “Do your duty, Agent Gunn. Whatever it takes.”
He blew out of breath, Emma’s phone falling silent. All he had to do was check the caller ID. Simple, easy. Then he could make his decision.
Bracing his hands on the desk, he hated himself for it but knew he couldn’t walk away. No matter what, he knew.
She might not be an undercover operative like him, but she’d never been honest with him. He’d fallen for her and her big brown eyes the moment he laid eyes on her, and even now, his cock twitched when he thought about her luscious curves and the way his name on her lips made him feel like a good man.
But it was all a lie. Every aspect of their relationship was built on fabrications and secrets. He’d always been a risk taker, happy to throw caution to the wind in an effort to outrun his demons, but no matter what his dick wanted him to do, his brain and heart knew there was no hope, no chance, that he and Emma had a future together.
In the other room, the shower came on. Firming his resolve, he reached inside the purse and checked the notifications.
His guts crawled. His chest felt like it was being cracked open. The tiny flicker of hope he’d been clinging to snuffed out. The truth was there in black and white.
No more denying it.
No more wishing for a happy ending.
Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he opened an app and synced it with Emma’s, allowing it to replicate all of her calls and texts. As it worked, he considered his next move. He would take her in himself. He owed her that much.
He retrieved his gun from the safe. He would never shoot her, but it was important that she understood the seriousness and gravity of the situation. That she didn’t fight him or try to run.
Running—that’s what the Red Hearts did best next to stealing.
His app finished. He shoved her phone back in her bag, but his finger snagged on one of the macrame knots as he drew it out.
At the same moment, the door to the bathroom opened. Emma peeked out. Steam floated around her head as she smiled at him, the shower still running. “Want to join me?”
He jerked and the purse fell to the floor.
The contents scattered, and the light from the bathroom highlighted a long strip of the rug. Refracting the light from where it had fallen was a large ruby ring.
Ostentatious and worth more than the actual value of the gemstones because of who it belonged to.
“What are you doing?” Naked, she threw open the door the rest of the way, dropping to her knees beside her things. “What…” She picked up the ring. “What is this?”
The damning evidence seemed to wink at him. He swallowed the acid that burned its way up his throat. He could do this. He could arrest her.
Then he’d hand the evidence of her involvement with the gang to Ian.
He’d return the ring.
He’d be the hero.
His father was counting on him.
His brothers would be proud of him.
His country would thank him.
So why did he hate himself?
Forcing the self-loathing away, he raised the gun. Emma’s beautiful face stared up at him, confused and scared. “Emma Grant, or should I say, Loren Emma Owens Grant, you’re under arrest for the theft of the Queen Mother’s ring and for multiple counts of international crimes.”
She scrurried back, dropping the ring. “You know?”
He said nothing, his heart in his eyes. “Please, don’t resist.”
“You knew all along?” Her eyes clouded with the realization that he wasn’t who he’d said he was. “You lied to me?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Stand up. Get dressed.”
“I’m…innocent,” she insisted, rallying.
“I wish that were true,” he said. “I really do, luv.”
And then as she hardened her stare and her heart, he called Ian so he could be the hero his family and country demanded he be.
***
I hope you enjoyed this origin story for Truman and Emma. Tell me what you think in the comments or via email. If you haven’t read Operation: Heist yet, grab your copy in my online store (and save $): https://mistyevansbooks.com/product/operationheist-super-agent-romantic-suspense-series-book-8
Misty 💜
Operation: Heist, Super Agent Romantic Thriller Series, Book 8
©2024 Misty Evans ISBN: 978-1-964028-12-5