Swindled (Close Contact Book 1) Read online

  Swindled

  Close Contact Vol 1

  Megan Mitcham

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Swindled

  ENEMY MINE - Excerpt

  Close Contact Volumes

  About the Author

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published by MM Publishing LLC

  Edited by Delilah Devlin

  Proofread by Tina Rucci & Lynn Mullan

  Cover Design by ProBook

  Swindled

  All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright 2016 by Megan Mitcham

  First electronic publication: June 2016

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-941899-25-0

  ISBN: 978-1-941899-25-0

  To sweat dreams.

  Swindled

  Harper Lang snagged a flute from the service waiter and cursed the vibrant white room. Why the hell did art installations have to be so damn bright? Thanks to long New York winters and blink-and-you’ll-miss-them summers, her pasty complexion hadn’t seen sun in the ten years she’d lived in the city. Nor had her face seen this much makeup. She probably looked like a street hooker working her way to professional escort. Well, she was working. A smile tickled her lips while the bubbling champagne did the same to the back of her throat.

  Yep, she was a naughty girl. Drinking on the job.

  She downed the remainder of the sparkling wine in an unladylike gulp, set the glass on a planter that looked like it had contracted red and white polka-dotted measles, and strode toward the nearest excuse for art. Her public school upbringing didn’t count the pile of day-glow vomit in the shape of an extra-large housefly as art.

  Vincent. Claude. Michelangelo. Those were her guys. Igmon Yeaveas, the featured artist of the night didn’t hold a candle to their talents. That fraud didn’t lure her here tonight, but for some incomprehensible reason, he attracted the Big Apple’s nobility and their pocketbooks. And they drew Baron Magnus Declan.

  At least, Harper hoped they did. Otherwise, she’d wasted three hundred bucks on a half-priced cocktail dress and two hundred more on four-inch stilettos. Maybe, when she needed a pick-me-up, she’d wear the curve-hugging lace and spikes around her closet-sized apartment.

  Her gut vibrated with excitement. After months of research and two near misses, this was the night she’d arrest the world-renowned swindler. She’d earn a stripe on her shiny new detective’s shield and maybe get assigned to one of the good cases. Missing persons, rape, homicide. The possibilities stiffened her nipples. Not the atrocities, but catching the real scum of the earth. Who cared about some Rico Suave talking rich broads into bed and out of their inherited dough?

  Harper tugged the low-cut fabric toward the ceiling to conceal her peaked twins. The black material managed not to move an inch.

  “Quit fidgeting,” her partner’s smoke-scarred voice crackled in her ear through a tiny comm link.

  “How the hell are you inside? Is he here?” she whispered.

  “Nah, still in the car. I swing my potbelly in that place, and we’d lose Declan forever. I just know you, girly. Anytime you get dolled up, you wring your hands like a perp.”

  She smoothed a hand over her bosom and down the narrow curve of her hips. These double-D cups belonged on another woman’s body. A stripper’s, perhaps. They only brought lecherous attention and grief on the force. People thought big boobs equaled a small brain. Even women. So, yeah, she’d kept them on lockdown for so long she didn’t know how to act with them on display. Yet, for the first time, Harper appreciated her chest. They’d landed her this gig. Russell had twenty-five years on the force, but didn’t possess the goods to ensnare the thief. She had the rack, half-a-million in borrowed diamonds, a rented limo, and a silver clutch worth more than the gun inside and the one strapped to her thigh combined.

  “We’ll get this guy, Lang. All we need is some damn proof.”

  Shoulders back. Chin up. Mouth pursed like the captain showed you. Interested, but not impressed. Boobs in. Think high society. Be upper crust.

  By the time she lapped the room, the fizz allayed her discomfort. The hot stares from two Wall Street suit types helped too. Harper’s gaze roved the sea of sequins, feathers, tweed, and skin in search of her quarry.

  “You see him yet?” Russell barked. “All I got are alley rats, a homeless guy, and waitstaff.”

  “Nothing.”

  The glass door opened and closed frequently, bearing couture-labeled couples like the stadium turnstile produced Yankee fans. But no Declan.

  Three hours later, the crowd thinned, her feet ached, and an edgy quality hugged her so tightly it cut off circulation to her brain. At eight years old, she’d read A Study in Scarlett and had wanted to be Sherlock Holmes ever since. She’d used logic and Declan’s developed patterns from years of swindling women in Europe to formulate the perfect trap for the man. He hadn’t even shown his face much less taken the bait. Feeling more like Addison Holmes than Sherlock, Harper closed her eyes, balled her fists, and willed him there.

  “I’m callin’ it, Lang.”

  “No, Russ. Give me ten more minutes,” she begged.

  “He’s usually in some lady’s bed by this time of night. Whether he pegged us from the door or didn’t hunt these waters, we missed him.”

  “Five more minutes?” she negotiated.

  “Girly, this job is rife with disappointment. Better get used to it now and invest in hair dye. Your black locks are gonna go gray before you know it. I mean, look at my hair.” He chuckled at himself. “Oh, wait, I don’t have any.”

  “Ha. Ha.” She groaned.

  “I’m outta here. Want a ride?”

  She plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing server, took a step toward the backdoor and her partner, but stopped short. The department had already paid for the limo. It’d be a shame to waste it on account of a no-show. “I’ll see you Monday, ole man.”

  “Be safe. Some of these highbrow types are mean bastards,” Russell warned.

  “I’m meaner.”

  “Sure are.”

  Harper chugged the contents of the first glass and left it in the care of another waiter. The suckers crawled through the place like worker ants. She pulled the transmitter from her ear, dropped the thing into her clutch, and snarled as it clinked on the gun and handcuffs. Seemed like none of them were getting any action tonight.

  Disappointment cut deep. Spinning in a leisurely circle, she cataloged the remaining patrons, craving something to dull the edge of disappointment. The bubbly wouldn’t work on her Italian and Japanese roots. They’d been saturated in sake and limoncello from a young age. Adding defeat to desperations, none of the fellas seemed fit for the job. Neither, the barely pubescent servers nor the ego-inflated suits wagging their brows would do. Tonight, she needed a man to toss her onto, well, anywhere and make things happen.

  Too bad her best chances of orgasm tonight came from Danny the Drawer Dick. Harper tipped back the other glass of wine,
sipping this time. She savored the taste of liquid money and mentally shrugged.

  At least, Danny’s reliable. Until there’s a battery shortage.

  As the bottom of her glass came into view, something brushed her upper lip. She righted the flute in a blink and braced for the bug or who-knew-what that surely sat at the bottom.

  “What?” she hissed.

  In the dregs of her champagne sat a big ass canary yellow diamond. Her gaze shot left and flew right in search of Declan. But no one paid her any attention. Not even the lanky waiter.

  “Son of a bitch. He was here, and he knew we were, too.”

  She poured the remainder of the champagne into a planter and pinched the three-and-a-half carat rock between her thumb and index finger. The only thing she hated more than losing was being made to look like a fool. Magnus Declan had succeeded where most failed. She held one of three diamonds reported stolen by Declan’s ex-wife, Baroness Genevieve DuMau, and bit back a curse.

  Magnus peered through the one-way glass overlooking the dwindling crowd, but saw only Detective Harper Lang. The woman sucking his lobe faded deeper into the background. Wasn’t it a dangerous thing when a woman could draw you in with a slant of her brow while an heiress couldn’t faze you by offering a blow job?

  Hell, yes!

  But it wouldn’t stop him. He’d been pursued by women since before his balls dropped. Yet, never quite like this. Harper had been on his heels for weeks, and all he wanted was hers tossed over his shoulders. Well, not all. He wanted to watch her face flush with ecstasy as he slid inside her. The thrill worked him over in ways he’d never known existed in his thirty-five years, and twenty of those had been lived on the edge of legal and off the cliff of moral.

  The black-eyed, porcelain-faced beauty chucked the flute into the large planter, dropped the diamond into her purse, and stomped toward the hallway which lead to the restrooms. A grin quirked his mouth.

  “Let’s go.” He shrugged the women off his ear and hauled her behind him down the stairs, through the corridor, and to the entrance of the women’s bathroom. When he finally turned and looked down, her light blue eyes glittered mischievously. A little too much like his own. “You come, and then you go. You’re not the one who’ll change me or pin me down. You don’t love me. You don’t know me, and probably have no idea what love really is. Understand?” Her eager hand shot to his fly. “You. Not me.”

  “Okay,” she panted, flashing blinding white caps and batting fake lashes.

  So much in his world was fake, he longed for something real. This probably wasn’t the best way to go about getting it, but it sure stirred his blood.

  Determined to search the kitchen and back rooms before heading home, Harper flushed the toilet. The door opened and a giggle accompanied two sets of shoes. Reaching for her matching lace thong, she continued righting herself.

  “But someone’s in here,” a woman whispered.

  Harper hurried to smooth her dress and split before the chick pulled out a bag of smack. There was only one person worth arresting tonight, and his voice was deeper than that.

  “I know,” rumbled the voice she’d swear her mind conjured.

  She’d listened to that gooey caramel tone for hours on end. Following along with the translations hadn’t diminished its panty-dropping effect. But that couldn’t be Declan. Not after the stunt he’d pulled.

  A throaty moan split the air. Harper flushed rooftop-in-July-hot and clamped a hand over her own mouth. She didn’t want to get caught in the middle of a fuck-fest, unless she was center stage. If it was in fact Magnus Declan, she had to know. Yet, she couldn’t risk chasing him away by barging out of the stall unprepared.

  “Ooohhh yes,” the woman groaned, “right there.”

  Curse her body to hell and back. Harper’s lady boner swelled to life as though it garnered the attention being awarded another. Releasing her mouth, she inhaled a deep quiet breath and steadied one hand on the metal wall. With the other, she grabbed her clutch from the top of the paper dispenser. One more fortifying breath and she leaned toward the gap between the door and stall.

  Her heart ping-ponged between her belly and throat.

  Baron Magnus Declan’s hips nestled in the V of a woman’s legs. Her blue dress fanned on the counter around her bare bottom while her panties dangled from the tip of a jeweled, white Manolo. Only the angle allowed the full view because his breadth could easily hide a slight woman or two. The broad’s head arched toward the ceiling, missing the best part of the whole damn experience.

  The man’s face was the only thing in all of Manhattan worthy of being called art. His wide jaw looked like it could take a solid punch, while his lips could kiss any hurt away. And those azure blue eyes…

  Oh god, he’s looking right at me.

  Thinking she may have been mistaken, Harper didn’t move. She didn’t want to draw his attention. But the longer she watched, the more clear it became. His fingers worked the woman splayed on the counter, but he stared into her eyes. The woman’s hips rocked. His gaze did not.

  An orange, spray-tanned hand coasted over his shoulder, and his gaze snapped away. “Grip the counter,” he demanded.

  Harper covered her heart with her hand, trying to stop the frantic rhythm. She only succeeded in stimulating her nipples. In a flash, his blue eyes returned to her. The attention seared hot in her core. He flicked the woman’s clit and finger fucked her to the most intense orgasm Harper had ever experienced—and he hadn’t even touched her. She hadn’t even touched herself. Well, not much. Yet, her fingers bit into the clutch, her breath stalled, her body quaked. The lace of her bodice crushed under her grip. All the while, he watched her through the tiny slit. And she didn’t dare blink.

  Weak-kneed and close to tears when the woman straightened her dress, Harper stumbled backward and gripped the metal bar she’d never before dared to touch in any bathroom stall. Her heart stormed inside her chest, which was minimal in comparison to what her brain did. Guilt and confusion assaulted her for a long minute, but stubborn pride lifted her chin. Manolos clacked across the short room. Air shifted, and the door met the frame with a thud. Though she couldn’t see him, she knew he remained.

  The bastard.

  Determination straightened her shoulders. She had done nothing wrong, though the wetness between her legs called her a liar.

  Lusting wasn’t illegal.

  The water turned on at the sink. Harper exhaled and stepped out of the stall. Declan’s knowing gaze held her own as she walked to the nearest sink. She turned the faucet and lathered soap, nearly mimicking his movements.

  “What kind of name is Magnus, anyway?” Harper asked.

  The corner of his mouth quirked before thinning. He dried thick hands, tossed the cloth into a wicker hamper, and then snagged hers and did the same. His gaze considered her like she were an intricate puzzle. “The only thing my mother gave me before divorcing my father for a younger, hotter version with less baggage, taking her money with her, and leaving me and my siblings destitute.”

  She hadn’t expected that, but tried not to show it. Probably wasn’t true anyway. Just something to sway her feminine emotions. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Is that your excuse for using women like disposable rags?” She nodded toward the hamper.

  “If you’d paid attention, and I think you did,” his pink lips spread wide at that, “you’d recall mutual using going on. Women and men have been using each other for centuries. It won’t stop anytime soon.”

  “What does your wife think about that?”

  “Ex-wife,” he corrected, smoothing his dark blond brow.

  Of all things, her pulse skittered at the stroke of his finger across the coarse hair. He rubbed a thumb over his lower lip, taunting her. “I wanted a title. She wanted security.”

  “Security?” Harper swallowed.

  “In the bank account and bedroom.” He stepped forward, brushing the lace of her dress with his high-end suit’s buttons. His breath tickled h
er cheek as he leaned down. “Her extravagant lifestyle and first marriage left her in need. Do you know anything about need, Harper?”

  “Detective Lang,” she snapped. Or at least, she tried. His virile scent and proximity screwed with her senses. She breathed deeply, fighting to ignore the brush of her nipples against his chest. “Why did you give me the diamond?”

  “Have it tested. It’s not the piece from her family’s collection, which she sold five years ago, but one I purchased to replace them on our three-year anniversary. It’s a quarter carat larger.”

  Harper collected every speck of self-control she possessed, planted two hands on his chest, and shoved. The big man only moved an inch, but it was enough that she squeezed between him and the wall and hurried toward the door.

  “Aren’t you going to cuff me?”

  She didn’t have anything to hold him, but still she stopped with one hand on the door.

  “No, you’re not,” he said, drawing nearer. “You don’t want anyone to know I made you come without a single touch.” Looming over her shoulder, the heat of his large body shot a wave of gooseflesh across hers. “I’ve never seen such an honest reaction in my life, and that’s a treasure too exquisite to share.”

  Damn! He was good. No wonder women tossed themselves at him, along with anything else he wanted. Harper stomped her rage on each of the seventy-two stairs it took to reach her apartment door. She’d done many difficult things on the force, but none had come close to walking away from Magnus Declan. Pheromones wafted off the man’s skin in potent waves as detrimental as forest fires. But the unexpected sincerity, combined with his uninhibited manner, proved the most dangerous aspect, aside from his pure physicality.

  A single lamplight welcomed Harper home. She locked the door and dropped her clutch, thigh holster, and tiny Colt onto the end table. Flipping off the torturous heels, she trudged past the cozy seating area and kitchenette. Fluffy white cotton pillowed her reverse-swan-dive onto the bed. A shower was in order. The absence of his sexy musk would make the night easier, but she wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Feet dangling over the edge, she tossed an arm over her eyes, and weathered the discord between her body and mind.