Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)
Tessa Bailey
Chapter One
Austin Shaw hardened his jaw and slid onto one of the plush leather chairs lining the bar. With his left hand—the one sporting a Rolex he’d just nipped from a trusting pawn store owner—he reached under the opposite arm, removed the copy of Crain’s Chicago, and tossed it onto the bar, nodding at the nearest group of businessmen as he did so. As expected, they nodded back, sitting a touch straighter in their seats, thus reminding Austin he was having a brilliant fucking hair day. What else was new?
In Austin’s peripheral vision, he saw the red-vested bartender jolt from his post watching the Chicago Bulls game on an expensive flat-screen and stride toward him. Good man.
“Something to drink, sir?”
Austin cast a discriminating eye over Red Vest’s shoulder toward the top shelf, rolling his tongue in his mouth, anticipating his employment of the New England accent he’d been practicing. “Johnnie Walker Blue.” He laid his arm across the neighboring chair and watched the bartender’s eyes light on the Rolex. “And a round for those hardworking gentlemen across the bar, too. Their boss is an asshole.”
Red Vest quirked a blond eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“You’re looking at him.” Austin tilted his head. “But let’s keep that between us, eh? My office is on the top floor for a reason.”
The bartender laughed and went to fulfill the order. Austin leaned back in his chair, his confidence solidifying now that he’d accomplished the two most important objectives when walking into an establishment. Thanks to the combination of his Rolex, the financial journal, and the easy lie he’d told, the bartender had now assigned him a worth. And that worth was high. If Austin needed information—and he did—valuable words would roll right off Red Vest’s lips now, smooth as smoke.
Secondly, he’d made friends with everyone in the room without breaking a sweat. Pleasing others meant they’d do the same for him. Do it with a smile and the arrogance he’d been born with? He’d have those stiffs jumping through flaming hoops before they finished their drinks.
Right. Now that he was in charge of the landscape, the business at hand bled in, like an uncapped ink pen against white cotton.
Polly Banks. Hacker extraordinaire. Ex-convict. And the first woman who’d made his acquaintance without noticing or commenting on the silver flecks in his eyes. A ghastly oversight, really.
With a discreet check of his watch, Austin began a mental countdown until the untouchable Ms. Banks strolled through the establishment’s doors. Tonight wasn’t the first night he’d followed her to the upscale bar in Chicago’s financial district. It was merely the first night he’d chosen to insert himself into the frame, rather than hang back and observe Polly’s amateur operation from the darkened back corner booth. At least, he’d assumed the operation was amateurish. He hadn’t quite figured out what angle she was working, which gave him a beastly case of nerves. On top of a festering volcano of irritation, wrought by her increasingly diminished attire.
Low-cut silk tops and flashes of garter belts that likely accounted for the unusually populated bar. Austin kept his expression mild even as his features ached to threaten each and every arsehole in the vicinity with a look. One that said, “Ah, gents. Put your wedding rings back on. The sleek beauty you’ve been ogling five nights straight is mine. She just hasn’t come ’round to the idea yet.”
Bit of an under-exaggeration, unfortunately. When Polly looked at him, Austin could feel her disdain like a blast from a fire hose. It was jarring, really. He’d encountered many reactions from the fairer sex. Astonishment, attraction, nervousness. What he wouldn’t give to inspire nerves from Polly. He’d know just what to do with them, and his process involved a distinct lack of clothing. Possibly a piece of leather for her to bite down on when overcome by pleasure.
Austin took a sip of Johnnie Walker to stifle the groan building in his throat. He and Ms. Banks were nowhere near nudity and leather—yet—unfortunately. Instead, he was in disguise, watching her play a game in which he could easily assist her. If she didn’t liken him to pond scum.
Really, he’d had no chance to make an alternate impression on the sassy bit of goods with a mind that rivaled even his own. Both of them had been brought to Chicago upon being issued ultimatums. Prison time…or working undercover to put criminals—such as themselves, but with significantly fewer accolades—behind bars. He and Polly, along with four other victims, had been sent to purgatory. “Atoning for their sins,” their leader, Captain Derek Tyler, had put it.
Austin disguised his snort with a cough. Sins were only sins if someone was watching. And he was usually long gone before his marks caught on.