Find me, p.1
Find Me, page 1
CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lived in Colorado for many years and has now moved to Oregon. Her home is an hour from the rugged Pacific Ocean and an hour from the Cascade Mountains—the best of both worlds—not to mention the incredible restaurants in Portland and award-winning wineries in the Willamette Valley. She’s looking forward to exploring the Pacific Northwest and finding mysterious new settings for Mills & Boon Intrigue romances.
Books by Cassie Miles
Mills & Boon Intrigue
Mountain Retreat
Colorado Wildfire
Mountain Bodyguard
Mountain Shelter
Mountain Blizzard
Frozen Memories
The Girl Who Wouldn’t Stay Dead
The Girl Who Couldn’t Forget
The Final Secret
Witness on the Run
Cold Case Colorado
Find Me
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Find Me
Cassie Miles
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-91324-3
FIND ME
© 2021 Kay Bergstrom
Published in Great Britain 2021
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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CAST OF CHARACTERS
Isabel (Angie) D’Angelo—Undercover FBI agent whose disguise is platinum-blond hair and pink rhinestones.
Julian Parisi—Also known as Professor, he is the general manager of Nick’s, a gentlemen’s club in the Colorado Mountains.
Nick Lorenzo—The big boss of a Denver-based crime organization who plans to get into human trafficking.
Valentino—Known as the Baker, he owns several shops called Valentino’s Bakery and Wedding Cakes.
Nolan Zapata—Chief number cruncher for the Lorenzo crime organization.
Calamity Jane—Burlesque dancer who performs with whips.
Marigold—Angie’s childhood friend.
To Matt and Lauren, fantastic cooks. And, as always, to Rick.
“I owe you an explanation, and this isn’t something I can rattle off in a few quick sentences.
“It’s complicated, and it’s important that you understand. Things can get serious when you’re working for Lorenzo. Tonight, you saw how bad it can get.”
“Three murders. It doesn’t get much worse.”
“Last night, I promised that I’d protect you. That’s what I mean to do.”
Angie turned so she could see what was going on behind her. In a quiet voice, she said, “What if I don’t want your protection?”
“I’m not trying to insult you or say that you’re weak. But you’re new in town and really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“You think I should stay safe, keep my head down, do my job and not make waves. I should be a good girl, an obedient girl. Take no risks. Then I won’t get hurt.”
“I’d never try to tell you not to make waves. That’s not your nature. Angie, you’re a tsunami.”
“You bet I am.”
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The dark blue delivery van chugged across the motel lot and parked beside her Toyota hatchback sedan. Though the logo on the side of the van—Valentino’s Bakery and Wedding Cakes—seemed innocent enough, Isabel D’Angelo suspected trouble. Today, she was supposed to meet with a couple of the top honchos from Denver’s most extensive crime organization to talk about a job, but they hadn’t contacted her. Not a text or an email or a simple phone call. Why not? Had the deal gone sideways? Did they find out that she was undercover for the FBI?
Angie shook off her doubts. If she hoped to convince anybody that she was a math whiz with a special talent for money laundering, she had to totally believe her own cover story. More than confidence, she needed swagger, and she had to get it right the first time. Posing as a criminal wasn’t really a far stretch for her. Though she’d graduated number one in her class at Quantico, she’d been a delinquent teenager. Her natural talent for deception was one of the main reasons she’d survived in the foster system. Lying came easy.
Peering through the slit between the cheap motel curtains and the cold window frame, she watched two guys—one in a suit, the other in a black leather jacket—leave the van and approach her room. A gust of October wind flipped back the older man’s suit coat, and she saw a holster. He was armed. Nervous tension heightened her senses as she slipped into a leather jacket of her own—pink and studded, of course. A long time ago, she’d learned to use style, sparkle and flash as distractions. She tightened her long, sleek, white-blond ponytail and applied a fresh coat of fiery red lipstick.
She whipped open the motel room door and confronted the men. “You’re late.”
“The boss didn’t tell you when we’d be here,” said the man in a gray business suit with an open collar blue shirt. He was nondescript, bland and about five feet nine inches tall, which matched her height without shoes. In her specially designed platform combat boots, she was close to six feet tall.
“It’s after four,” she said, as if criminals kept regular business hours.
“Let’s go, Angie.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Carlos.”
“Nice to meet you, Carlos.” She closed the door to her motel room and went forward, brushing past the two men. “I’ll take my car and follow you.”
“You ride with us.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the guy in the black leather jacket reach toward her in an attempt to grab her upper arm. Did this dope really think she’d allow him to manhandle her? Angie’s self-defense moves were practiced and precise. She yanked his thick wrist behind his back and twisted hard. After a chop to the back of his leg, he dropped to a knee. While keeping pressure on his wrist, she flipped open the monogrammed switchblade she’d taken from a special pocket in her skinny jeans and waved the razor-sharp edge in front of his face.
Though her pulse was racing like a jackrabbit facing a rattlesnake, she stifled any sign of nerves. It was important to establish her identity as a dangerous person, even though she was cute, skinny and female. “Your name?”
“Murph.” His ID sounded like the bark of a mumbling mutt...murph, murph, murph.
She released him and took a step back in case he decided to lash out. “Here’ s the deal, gentlemen. I don’t want trouble. If it’s important that I ride with you, fine. Just ask nicely.”
“Sure,” Carlos said. A smirk twisted his thin lips, and she had the impression he’d enjoyed her confrontation with Murph. “Please, Miss Angie, would you join us in the van?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
She climbed into the rear. This windowless area wasn’t meant for passengers. A lingering scent of vanilla and sugar, plus a couple of white pastry boxes tied with string indicated that the vehicle actually was used to transport baked goods. She perched on the edge of a bench seat on the wall. Murph—still cradling his wrist and acting as though she’d hurt him—slid behind the steering wheel.
In the passenger seat, Carlos turned so he could see her. “I have one more request. Until we know you better, the boss insists that you wear this.”
A black hood dangled from his forefinger, and she stared at it in disgust. “Why?”
“This isn’t negotiable.” His smirk deepened. “Would you, pretty please?”
She snatched the hood from his hand. “I’ll do it, but this is a waste. I’m new to Denver and don’t know my way around. I couldn’t tell you where we are or where we’re going.”
The lie rolled easily from the tip of her tongue. When she was fifteen, she’d spent six months living on the streets of this city after she ran away from her foster home in Utah. That was eleven years ago, but there were parts of this town she’d never forget. Since yesterday, she’d been studying maps and computer images of Denver and the surrounding area. Knowing various locations and resources could be vital to her survival.
Riding in the back of the bouncy van with the black hood over her head provided an opportunity to plan and to focus. Her goal today was to get hired by the sprawling crime business that had taken root in Denver during the post-WWII population boom. Her entry point would be through their gambling and money laundering operation, but her endgame involved gathering enough information to destroy a brand-new start-up project that might turn into the biggest human trafficking ring west of the Mississippi.
Unlike her other undercover assignments, mostly in California, she had a personal stake in bringing down the patriarch, Nicolas Lorenzo. During her stint as a runaway in Denver, she’d lost a friend who had been swept up by criminals involved in the sex trade and never seen again. Angie didn’t have many friends, and she’d loved Marigold. She’d sworn that someday she’d get even.
Someday was almost here.
Though she was unable to see, she could tell a few things about their route from shifts in direction and changes in the light that filtered through the hood. They’d gone southwest, hadn’t taken a highway. She really hoped they weren’t headed into the mountains. Angie wasn’t a fan of the unmapped hills and forests. After a few bumps and a downward turn, she guessed that they were driving down a ramp into an underground parking structure.
After they parked, Carlos pulled open the door to the van and took her hand to help her climb out. “I need for you to keep that hood in place until I tell you to take it off.”
“It’s hard to walk.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let you bump into the wall.”
Without vision, she was thrown off-balance. Instead of facing Lorenzo with her head held high, she’d be forced to approach tentatively, clinging to Carlos like an invalid. No doubt that had been their plan: make her feel helpless so she’d be more cooperative.
Carlos guided her into an elevator. When they emerged, she shuffled her feet and felt carpeting on the soles of her boots. Carlos guided her through a door, taking care so she didn’t run into anything. He seated her in a padded chair before he whipped off the hood.
Angie blinked at the late afternoon light pouring through a wall of windows into a conference room. As soon as she could focus, she found herself staring into the most crystal-clear blue eyes she’d ever encountered. Deep set and framed by long, dark lashes, those piercing eyes dominated a square-jawed face with high cheekbones. His scrutiny disrupted her composure more than the van ride or the black hood. He seemed to be assessing her, taking her measure and making a judgment.
Dragging her gaze away from him, she checked out the other two men seated at a round table. To her disappointment, neither was Nicolas Lorenzo. Carlos took the empty chair to her left and dismissed his partner. As soon as the door closed, Carlos regaled the others with the story of how she’d bested Murph in the motel parking lot.
While he talked, she watched their expressions. The man with the incredible eyes barely reacted. Who was he? The other two were familiar from her research into the Lorenzo family, but she knew nothing about this guy with the rugged features and thick, curly, dark blond hair.
He continued to watch her, and she endeavored to match his cool resolve. She busied her hands to keep her fingers from trembling. From a pocket of her pink jacket, she took out a lipstick. There was a mirror on the side of the tube, and she used it to apply a fresh coat of bright red. When she pursed her full lips and smoothed her platinum hair, she saw that the men had stopped talking to watch her. She had their attention.
“Gentlemen, I’m Isabel D’Angelo. I go by Angie. Some people call me a genius when it comes to numbers. Hire me and I guarantee to boost your profits.”
“How much is this going to cost?” asked an extra-large man who barely fit into his chair.
“Not a dime,” she said. “I take a commission from a percentage of the profits.”
“You come with high recommendations, if you know what I mean,” said the man opposite her.
“I think I do.”
“Our associates in San Francisco like you. I’m Nolan Zapata. This big ape sitting next to me is Valentino the Baker. And that’s Julian Parisi, otherwise known as the Professor.”
She could have sworn that Julian’s firm handshake ignited an electric spark that sizzled up her arm and elevated her core temperature by several degrees. All the while, he never broke eye contact. “We have a mutual friend,” he said, “Manny Harris.”
“Not a friend of mine,” she quickly responded, tossing out another lie. Harris was with DEA and had successfully infiltrated a drug cartel before recently being reassigned. Why would Julian mention him? Was he testing her? She tried to pull her hand from his grasp but he didn’t let go.
“Where did you learn your math skills?” he asked.
“MIT.” She’d been telling this lie for so long that she almost believed it herself. “I had an uncle in Reno who showed me how to put all that academic data to use in gambling.”
“Handy.”
“Why do they call you Professor?”
“For one thing, I got brains.” He reached into the pocket of his dark blue blazer, took out a pair of black frame glasses and perched them onto his nose. “When I’m wearing these, people tell me that I look like I should be standing in front of a classroom.”
Angie never had a teacher who had blue eyes that could stare into her soul. If she had, she might have been more motivated to stay in high school. “I’ll call you Julian.”
“Now that we’re all friends,” Zapata said, “I want to make you an offer, Angie. We can use somebody with your skills, but you’ve got to prove yourself. I’ll give you one week to reorganize our OTB operation.”
“Horses?”
“That’s what off-track betting means.”
Her dislike for the massive beasts was pure truth. Animals were as unpredictable as children and almost as annoying. “I’d rather handle sports betting, even soccer.”
“It’s not your choice, honey.” Zapata gave her a dismissive nod. “I’ll check in with you, and I will expect higher profit after next weekend.”
“It’s already Thursday,” she pointed out. “I can’t make big changes in such a short time. Give me a month.”
“Ten days,” He emphasized the finality by whacking the flat of his hand on the table. “I hear you’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”
There was an implied threat behind his words. The Lorenzo organization wasn’t about to open their books to just anybody. “You won’t be disappointed.”
