The Trouble With Temptation (Second Service Book 3) (3 page)

“So, Miss Kincaid, I take it you’re the owner,” he said as he muddled the mint leaves in the bottom of the Collins glass.

“Co-owner. My brother is my partner,” Morgan said before tasting the Manhattan. It wasn’t her favorite cocktail, but, she had to admit, Ty’s was pretty tasty. “You’re lucky I’m the one in charge of staffing. I’m not sure how far that flirting smile would get you with him.”

“I don’t believe in luck. My skills speak for themselves.” He added the Mojito to the line. “The flirting is just a bonus.”

Morgan looked down at the timer. He had twenty seconds left.

“You have a pretty high opinion of yourself.” Morgan picked up the Mojito and took a sip. The sweet mint and sour lime mingled delightfully on her tongue. “And it doesn’t appear to be completely unwarranted.”

“It’s only cocky if you can’t deliver.”

“True. Where did you learn your moves?”

“Here and there.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“And where did you work with Johnny?”

“Same place.”

Ty staked two olives and slid them into the martini glass. He pushed the drink forward, letting his hand brush against Morgan’s. He didn’t pull away.

Morgan narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile that was tugging at her lips. What the hell was it about this guy? He had her grinning like a boy-crazy teenager.

She composed herself long enough to sample his last concoction.

“Well, congratulations, the mysterious Mr. Daniels. It looks like you’ve earned yourself a provisional gig at Kincaid’s.”

“Provisional?” He arched a brow.

Morgan laughed. She had the feeling Ty Daniels was used to getting exactly what he wanted. Still, there was something undeniably charming about him. And it wasn’t just his looks. She was having a hard time putting her finger on exactly what made this guy so magnetic.

Maybe it was his eye contact. The way his gray-green eyes stayed on hers gave her the impression he was into her. Which was ridiculous. There was no way she was his type.

He, on the other hand, was everyone’s type. Not that she was going to tell him that. Morgan doubted that his ego needed any reassurance.

That wasn’t fair. Not everyone was like Johnny. Ty might exude confidence, but he didn’t seem arrogant.

One look told her he wasn’t a man who slid through life. There was an edge to his smile that spoke of experience, the kind that made him appreciate the good things in life.

“You make a fine drink,” Morgan said. “But we can get swamped on a Friday night. I want to see how you deal with that before I make a firm offer.”

He propped his arms on the bar and leaned forward. “I look forward to proving myself.”

Rounded biceps pulled the sleeves of his shirt tight. Morgan cursed herself silently as she struggled to tear her gaze away.

It was one thing for the girls who walked through her doors to get pulled in by this guy’s charms. But she was his boss, she reminded herself.

His
provisional
boss.

“The doors open at nine,” she said, bringing herself back to business. “I’ll expect you here at eight. That will give you plenty of time to get to know the place and prepare for your shift.”

“Sounds good.” He picked up his jacket as he came around the bar. He stopped in front of her and extended his hand. “And thank you. I won’t let you down.”

Morgan had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. His full lips were tilted up in a half-smile. She prayed that the lights were dim enough to hide the blush she could feel starting to creep into her cheeks. She cleared her throat.

“Then I’ll see you at eight, Mr. Daniels.”

She held out her hand. Ty slid his palm against hers. A little bolt of electricity ran up her arm and down her spine.

He nodded. “At eight.”

Morgan watched him walk outside.

Damn. For someone who ran a nightclub, she had to get out more often.

Chapter Three

Ty pulled around the corner and on to Fillmore Street, splitting the lane between two cars. The neon lights from the buildings mixed with the yellow glow from the streetlights, and reflected off the blacktop in a surrealistic blur of color. He pressed the throttle on his Ducati and sped in front of traffic.

On a Friday night, this part of town was packed. The lights shined like beacons to the masses, promising nights to remember. It was almost unrecognizable from the neighborhood he'd driven through this morning, when the sunlight had revealed nothing more than gray storefronts and the apartments above. But the city turned into a different creature at night.

He slowed down just enough to make the turn into the alleyway next to Kincaid’s and coasted the rest of the way. He pulled up between a green Subaru with a faded ‘My other car is a TARDIS’ sticker in the corner of the back window and a shiny black Audi. He kicked down the stand and stepped onto the pavement.

He had just walked around the older car when he saw Morgan standing on the other side of the doorway. Two black trash bags hung from her hands as she struggled with the iron security door. He ran up and held it open for her.

“Thanks,” she said, and stepped down the two small concrete steps.

“No problem,” he said, grabbing one of the heavy bags from her. She hadn’t changed from the grey T-shirt and jeans she’d been wearing that morning. The only difference was that at some point she’d pulled her bright fuchsia hair back into a simple ponytail.

“Don’t you pay people to do this for you?”

She laughed as she lugged the trash over to the dumpster. She lifted herself up on tiptoes as she propped open the lid. “I take it you’ve never run your own business. When something needs doing, you just do it.”

Ty tossed in his bag, and then grabbed hers. She let go of the plastic cover and it crashed down, echoing off the close walls of the alleyway.

Morgan let out a breath and wiped her hands against her pants. “Thanks again.”

He looked down at her for another half-second. “No problem.”

Ty found it hard to pull his gaze away from her face. He told himself it was because, even after their lively meeting this afternoon, he was still having a difficult time figuring her out. Maybe it was because she was so far from what he’d expected. The woman ran the hottest nightclub in the city. He’d imagined short skirts and black high heels, a hard, cutthroat gleam in her eye.

But that wasn’t the woman who was grinning at him with wide caramel-brown eyes. She wore purple canvas shoes and a Star Wars iron-on graphic on her shirt. She laughed easily. She smiled even easier.

Not that it meant anything. Ty had been doing this long enough to know not to put too much stock in first impressions. Gut instincts were fine, but hard evidence was better. And the evidence pointed to all kinds of illegal activity going on inside Kincaid’s.

Ty couldn’t imagine how an owner as engaged as Morgan could possibly be blind to it. No matter what his gut told him. Or how brightly her eyes sparkled in the streetlights.

“You ready?” she said, gesturing toward the door.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then let’s get to it. The doors open in an hour.”

He followed her inside. She gave him the grand tour, showing him the stockroom, the liquor room, the break room, all the places that he needed to know. He met his co-workers and shook a few hands, including Morgan’s brother, Gregg. Then it was time to start.

The crowds poured in through the doors once they opened. Morgan hadn’t been stretching the truth. One second the club had been empty and the next it was packed. People pushed up against the bar, demanding attention.

It was a damned good thing he wasn’t lying about his experience. He’d spent more time than he wanted to remember behind a bar years ago. Before the Navy. Before his life had turned around. Back then he’d done anything he could to pull in money. Tending bar when he was only seventeen was the least of his sins.

That was a lifetime ago, but mixing drinks was a skill that he’d never forgotten. And it was paying off now.

After three hours, his pockets were stuffed with tips—not to mention half a dozen unsolicited phone numbers—but, more importantly, he had one hell of a view of the back booth.

Johnny hadn’t lied. The place was a veritable line up of San Francisco’s
Bratva
elite with Evgeni Barinov seated squarely in the middle.

And Ty had a front row seat.

He’d been back there for hours, holding court as everyone around him drank and talked. Occasionally, one of his men would disappear into the crowded dance floor only to reappear minutes later with a beautiful woman on his arm.

So far, the table had only one visitor who came and went—Gregg Kincaid.

Ty glanced at his watch. The guy had been sitting directly across from Barinov for the last half hour, talking about something. Whatever it was, it looked intense.

Eventually, he was going to have to find a way to bug that table. At least, now he had the access.

Thanks to Morgan Kincaid.

Ty took a second from the gin and tonic he was pouring and looked around for her.

He hadn’t seen her since the doors had opened. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Johnny had said that Gregg took care of the front of the house and Morgan ran the back. It appeared that division of labor was set in stone.

The waitress that had been working the back of the club put her tray down on the bar. “I need another Stoli on the rocks,” she shouted over the booming music.

You got it…Lecia, right?” Ty asked.

The pretty blonde smiled and batted her eyes. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“I should just give you the bottle for how often you’ve been up here,” Ty said, scooping ice into the glass.

“Oh, no,” the waitress said with a shake of her head. “Those guys would never lower themselves to pouring their own drinks.”

“Who the hell do you have back there?”

Lecia rolled her eyes. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

“Are they giving you trouble?” Ty asked, pouring the vodka.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she said with a wink. “But thankfully, the Russians haven’t gotten out of line tonight.”

“Are they here a lot?”

She nodded. “Just about every weekend these days. It wouldn’t be so bad, but they’re lousy tippers, and Mr. Kincaid doesn’t let me pick up any other tables when they’re here.”

“Too bad,” Ty said, putting the glasses down on the tray. “But let me know if they give you any trouble, okay?”

“You
are
sweet. My very own white knight,” she said before turning away.

Ty watched as Lecia delivered the drinks to the back table. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that he wasn’t the only one.

The swinging door that separated the bar from the back of the house was cracked open. Ty could just make out Morgan’s face through the small rectangular window cut into the top. Her eyes were fixed on her brother.

And she didn’t look very happy.

Ty turned back to the bar and made a few more orders. When he looked again, Morgan was still there, staring daggers across the room. It was a good thing the woman wasn’t a gambler. She had to be the easiest read Ty had ever seen.

Too bad he didn’t like what he saw there. Her mouth was a tight line. Little U-shaped crinkles showed between her eyes. She was a woman building up the courage for a confrontation.

That would be a bad idea.

Ty knew just how ruthless the men sitting at that table could be. At his desk, he had stacks of photos of their handiwork—tongues cut out, necks slashed, heads with the backs blown out. For a moment, the vivid image of Morgan’s pretty face in one of those pictures flashed in his mind.

Ty blinked the horrible image away.

He might not know the extent of Morgan Kincaid’s involvement with the
Bratva
, but he knew he wouldn’t stand by and let them touch her. He was here to get evidence, sure, but there was no way he could in good conscience let anyone get hurt—or worse—on his watch.

“Hey bartender,” a voice shouted from the end of the bar.

Ty swiveled around toward the guy half draped over the bar, holding up his hand, desperately trying to get a drink. After Ty finished, the door at his side was swinging, and Morgan was already halfway across the dance floor.

***

Morgan walked as fast as her dignity allowed. She needed to outpace her cowardice. She could feel it, right there behind her, telling her to turn the hell around and get back to her office. This was a conversation she could have with her brother later. When the club was closed.

But she’d tried that. And it hadn’t worked. He would just tell her more lies. More assurances that nothing was going on, and everything was fine. That she should mind her own damn business or else.

Well, it was time to find out what exactly
or else
was.

This was her club too, after all. It might not be the place she’d always dreamed of, but it was still hers…well, half of it at any rate. She deserved answers.

Whatever trouble Gregg had stumbled into, she was willing to bet it had to do with the men he was with now. She’d seen them in the club dozens of times, and every time Gregg bent over backwards to be with them.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. They looked stylish, and rich, and powerful—all the things that Gregg desperately wanted to be. But they were also scary as all hell.

This was the first night that Morgan had been able to work up enough courage to come out and talk to them. Even now she was having second thoughts. These didn’t look like the kind of guys you wanted to mess with.

But she wasn’t going to mess with them. She was just going to say hello. She had every right to talk to the people in her club. Even if they did look a whole hell of a lot like mobsters.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

She was just about to turn back around when Gregg glanced up and their eyes locked. For a brief moment, his face fell and it reminded Morgan of the look he would get when they were kids. Back then, Gregg always managed to pout his way out of all kinds of trouble.

Well, not this time. If these guys were as bad as she feared, then her brother needed her help.

Morgan cleared her throat before she stopped in front of the table. A dozen stony faces stared back at her.

“Hey, Gregg,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. It was nearly impossible to do and still be heard over the music. “Do you want to introduce me to your friends?”

“Morgan,” her brother said, his voice filled with warning.

“I guess not.” She turned toward the man sitting in the middle of the booth. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that, whatever was going on here, this guy was the one in charge. The man practically exuded power. Morgan extended her hand. “I’m Morgan Kincaid. Gregg’s sister and co-owner of Kincaid’s.”

The man looked down at her hand, but didn’t take it. His face was flat, showing no sign of emotion.

“Miss Kincaid,” he said in a thick Russian accent.

Morgan pulled back her hand and rubbed it against her other one. The truth was she was suddenly glad he hadn’t shaken it. She could only imagine that with a stare that icy, his touch was even colder.

“Morgan,” her brother tried again.

“I’ve seen you in here, a few times before Mr…” A long silence hung in the air as she waited for him to fill in his name. Morgan swallowed past the lump quickly growing in her throat. “And I thought I should come over and introduce myself.”

“And so you have,” the man said with a note of finality in his voice. He turned to the slim brunette at his side and started to talk in a language she didn’t understand.

Morgan felt heat creep into her face. Who the hell did this bastard think he was that he could talk to her like that? This was her club. This was her house.

Well, half of it, at any rate.

“I was also wondering what your business with my brother is.”

The Russian stopped talking. He slowly turned toward her.

“Morgan, don’t,” Gregg said, louder this time.

“I have no idea what you mean, Miss Kincaid.” It took every ounce of resolve for Morgan not to wither under his openly hostile stare. “But even if I did, the business would be, as you said, between your brother and I, and no concern of yours.”

Glacial blue eyes burned into hers as he picked up his glass and took a drink.

“True,” she said. “But, like I already said, the club belongs to both of us.”

“Is that right?”

“It is,” she said.

Morgan crossed her arms in front of her chest. She hated a bully. Anger always roiled up inside of her every time she came in contact with one, along with the burning desire to put them in their place. But even she had to admit she might have gone overboard with this one.