Undercover with a SEAL. Cindy Dees

quickly and thoroughly.

      Ashe moved away from the windows and settled on the lurid red velveteen sofa, part of the furnishings that came with the dive.

      She had never thought of her apartment as particularly small, but he filled the space with his large frame and even larger presence. His silver-blue gaze honed in on her again, but this time it was filled with questions. Speculation. Determination to find answers. And more of that disconcerting heat.

      “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a nasty joint like that?”

      How did he manage to fill such a straightforward question with so much loaded innuendo? Her heart fluttered—actually fluttered—in response. Belatedly she mumbled, “You mean the bar?”

      A frown pleated his dark brow. “You and I both know the Who Do Voodoo is a lot more than a bar.”

      Caution stilled her entire being. She knew it because she’d been working there for months. But how did he know after only a few hours spent sipping booze in the corner? Who was this guy? Surely he didn’t work for Vitaly’s bosses. “Are you a cop?” she blurted.

      “No.” His answer was prompt and without hesitation.

      “FBI or something?”

      “Nope.”

      “Why do you care if I work at the Voodoo, then?” she asked. “It’s a steady paycheck.”

      “It’s not worth the money. That place is trouble.”

      “I’ll work where I want,” she snapped. “It’s my life.”

      He leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of her sofa. Deeply tanned, it was wreathed from wrist to shoulder in corded muscle and bulging veins that spoke of ridiculous strength. And she was alone in her isolated apartment with this total stranger who could overpower her without even exerting himself. She really ought to be scared silly of him. But she couldn’t work up anything but a sense of complete trust in this man. Clearly, she’d lost her mind.

      “So what’s the deal with the club?” he asked.

      “What do you mean?”

      “I’d bet my next paycheck there’s a whorehouse upstairs. Given how young the dancers looked, I’m guessing it’s a sex trafficking outfit. You may be too scared to call the FBI, but I’m not.” He tilted up on one hip to fish his cell phone out of a back pocket of his jeans.

      “You can’t call them!” she exclaimed.

      He froze. Eased back down to the sofa slowly, phone still in pocket. “Why not?” Something dark and dangerous vibrated in his voice. It wasn’t menace exactly, but it was a reminder to tread lightly around this man.

      “You’ll ruin everything!”

      “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific than that. What ‘everything’ do you mean, exactly?”

      She huffed. She didn’t want to tell him anything, let alone involve him in her secret investigation. But if the FBI raided the bar and shut it down, her only lead to Max would be lost.

      After weeks of frantic searching and the police seeming to ignore her, she couldn’t take the constant panic anymore and had walked into the Voodoo bar to demand answers. It was the last place her brother had been seen going into the day he disappeared. And given that it wasn’t the kind of joint he would normally have been caught dead in, logic suggested the place had something to do with his disappearance.

      When she’d barged into the club, Vitaly had mistaken her for someone applying for the waitress job advertised in the window. He’d offered her the position on the spot, and in a combination of instinct and impulse, she’d taken it.

      For the past two months, she’d been watching and listening and learning. But the mob bosses who employed Vitaly were extremely cautious. They rarely showed their faces, and they never did anything to hint at illegal activity—not counting the whorehouse upstairs.

      She occasionally served drinks in the back lounge where the lap dances happened, but she’d never waited on the mob bosses where she could get a chance to eavesdrop on their conversation.

      She had also never set foot above the ground floor of the bar and didn’t intend to, either. In all honesty, she was scared to death of getting sucked into the inescapable downward spiral that was the sex trafficking industry.

      “You haven’t given me a good reason not to call the feds...yet,” Ashe said, jarring her from her thoughts. “And I happen to believe trafficking in underage girls is about the worst form of exploitation there is. I have zero sympathy for anyone engaged in it.”

      “Neither do I,” she muttered.

      “Well, then?”

      He hadn’t moved a muscle, but a promise rolled off him to have answers out of her tonight, come hell or high water. She studied him closely. He’d shown genuine concern for her in the club and had even subjected himself to bodily harm to save her from that thug. Plus, he seemed prepared to listen to her. So heck...maybe she should take him up on his offer. Because thus far, she’d had zero success on her own finding out anything about Max.

      Decision made, she released a long, slow breath that made her entire being feel as if it had deflated. It seemed as if she’d been holding that breath for months. Had she really been living under so much tension and stress? As good as it felt to trust him at least a little, she wasn’t prepared to give up all her secrets to this man she barely knew. So she chose her words carefully. “Someone I know used to hang out at the Voodoo, and then we lost touch. I’m trying to figure out what happened.”

      “A girl?” he asked quickly.

      Oh, God. He thought she knew one of the trafficked girls from Eastern Europe who were virtual prisoners upstairs without identification documents or knowledge of the English language or American laws. Not to mention many of the girls were drug addicts who were paid for sex with heroin or crack.

      “No, no. Nothing like that. A guy. I’m hoping I’ll run across someone who knew him and may know something about why he was there and where he went.”

      “Ahh.” Ashe’s expression shuttered abruptly, and he leaned forward to reach for his wet shirt.

      Good grief. He thought Max was her boyfriend. Cripes. He must think she was a weirdo stalker chick working at the Voodoo to chase down some poor guy who’d fled from her and intentionally left no contact information.

      She winced as she bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from correcting Ashe’s mistaken impression. It was for the best. As hot as he might be, she had no time in her life for a dalliance that might distract her from finding her big brother.

      Her gut howled at her that Max was in trouble and until that internal scream was silenced, she was off the market for men.

      Ashe shrugged into his damp T-shirt. “How long do you need to find your...friend...before I call the feds?”

      “I don’t know. I’ve been there two months and haven’t caught a lead yet.”

      “And you’re sure he’s still alive?”

      Her spine stiffened in denial at the notion of Max being dead. It was what the cops thought. All this time with not a hint of him, no credit card hits, no banking transactions, no sightings...

      “I know he’s alive,” she declared.

      “How?” Ashe asked the question evenly enough. As if he was willing to hear her reasoning.

      She sighed heavily. “I feel it in my gut, okay? I know that sounds lame, but I would know if he were dead. And I’m telling you he’s not.”

      He stared at her for a second and then nodded briefly. Really? He believed her? No scoffing comments about how stupid it was to rely on a gut instinct? On how the facts said she was wrong? Wow.

      He