Deadly Temptation. Justine Davis

laugh. “Think of it as another perk of working for Redstone.”

      Liana slowly made her way back to her new office, marveling at what had just happened. And it wasn’t until she was back there and sitting at her newly hooked up workstation that she thought to question whether Logan Beck was going to welcome what she’d done.

      As he left the station after his second day of blistering interrogation, too aware of the glances of the cops he passed on the way to his car, there was only one thing Logan Beck was certain of: he wasn’t about to stay out of this as ordered. Damned if he was going to sit on his ass while those IA pogues decided his future—or if he was going to have one. He had too much at stake to sit on the sidelines.

      There had been a time when he might have, when he might have trusted he’d be cleared simply because he was innocent. But that time, and that naive optimism, had died long ago. And even if he did still trust the system he was part of, he wasn’t sure anything could overcome the single biggest problem he had.

      Somebody wanted him taken down.

      Angrily he popped the clutch as he pulled out onto the street, and the bark of the tires on asphalt made him rein in the sporty BMW they’d given him as part of his cover. They’d likely be repossessing that soon, he thought, and he’d be on foot, since he’d sold his battered SUV when he’d gone under. But in the meantime, manually slamming through the gears gave him a certain satisfaction.

      He drove with much more concentration than the task required midday on a Wednesday, trying to keep his mind out of what had already become a deep and seemingly endless rut. He couldn’t go back to the tiny apartment he’d been using—not yet. They were no doubt still combing over it for proof he’d turned.

      Won’t find any, he told himself, but his gut was screaming that wasn’t necessarily true. After all, there was that bank deposit he’d have sworn didn’t exist, either. Whoever was setting him up was doing a thorough job of it, and the possibility that something had been planted in that apartment wasn’t at all unlikely.

      He turned the car toward the beach, needing someplace to just think. Things had happened so fast he wasn’t sure where to even start trying to unravel it all.

      That his cover had been compromised was the first, most logical conclusion. But that answer fell apart quickly; if Marcos had discovered he was a cop, wouldn’t he have just killed him on the spot? Of course, that didn’t mean that he simply hadn’t had time before IA had come knocking on Logan’s door. And it didn’t mean that Marcos wasn’t looking to kill him now that he knew he’d been played by a cop.

      No sooner had the thought formed than the thing that had been niggling at the edge of his consciousness finally penetrated completely.

      He was being followed.

      On some level he’d been aware of the dark-blue sedan for a couple of miles now. The driver was good, very good, and if not for the brilliant sun—this was December in Southern California, after all—that seemed to make the metallic paint on the sedan flash, he might not have noticed just one more ordinary dark car several back in the line of traffic.

      Of course, he was headed toward the beach. Maybe he was just paranoid.

      He yanked the wheel of the BMW and dived right around the next corner. He slowed, waiting, his eyes on the road behind him. And after a moment, slowly, the blue sedan came around the corner. Definitely a tail.

      What the hell did IA expect him to do? Head for the bank and pull out that money, maybe make a run for it?

      “Probably,” he muttered under his breath.

      He waited for a break in traffic in the outside lane. A main cross street was coming up, so he figured several cars would be making a right turn there and would leave him a gap. When it happened just as he’d hoped, he quickly switched lanes and slowed, downshifting to avoid the warning glare of brake lights.

      The blue sedan had nowhere to go, and by shifting the rearview mirror, he got a good look at the driver.

      It was a total stranger.

      He knew everybody attached to IA. He knew most of the cops at the entire department by sight. This guy wasn’t any of them. He also knew most of Marcos’s men, and while this man looked as if he could be Hispanic, he didn’t look the sort.

      Even more wary now, he thought quickly. He didn’t think the guy could be sure he’d been seen; Logan hadn’t looked directly at him, just used the mirror. And if he turned right up ahead at the next street, it might seem like he’d just changed lanes to prepare for the turn.

      He made that turn, then went right again into the first parking lot he came to, in front of a medical building.

      He parked the car in a visible spot near the doors. He didn’t dwell on the risks of what he was doing. They’d taken his duty weapon when they’d officially suspended him yesterday, so all he had was his personal two-inch backup. He hadn’t taken it into the station, for fear they’d take it, too, but instead had left it in the hidden compartment in the side door panel. The car had been confiscated in a drug bust up north, and had come with that and other interesting nonstandard accessories.

      He quickly got the small revolver out and strapped on the ankle holster. He checked the narrow sheath sewn onto the back of it, where the slim, razor-sharp blade he carried was secured; that little precaution had saved a life once, when he’d used it to cut through the seat belt of a burning car and pulled the occupant to safety. He unsnapped the safety strap that held the pistol in place; if he needed it, he’d need it in a hurry.

      When the driver of the blue sedan had had time to spot him, he got out and headed into the medical building.

      He paused in front of the directory as if reading it, trusting his peripheral vision to let him know whether the tail took the bait.

      He did. The blue sedan cruised slowly through the parking lot. Logan turned then, briskly, as if he’d found what he was looking for in the directory. He headed toward the back of the building, guessing the tail would find a place to park and wait where he could watch the BMW.

      Unless he decided to follow him in.

      Fine, Logan thought. Bring it on. I feel like punching somebody about now.

      His thoughts were bitter, but he couldn’t stop them. His world was crashing down around him, and so fast he was going to be lucky not to be crushed underneath the rubble.

      He waited for a few minutes, out of sight from the front doors, but no one came in. Impatient, he looked around, spotted a side exit and headed that way. The door was, thankfully, glass, and he checked the row of cars parked along that side of the building for the blue sedan. It wasn’t there, so he stepped outside and headed toward the front of the building. He’d nearly cleared the corner when a sliver of blue caught his eye from the parking lot of the convenience store next door. And there, parked mostly hidden behind a big Dumpster, was the blue sedan.

      Good job, Logan thought again. If I hadn’t been already looking for him, I never would have seen him.

      Logan used the Dumpster as cover and edged across the narrow strip of pavement between the medical building and the slightly higher parking lot next door. The sedan was parked heading out, so he could slide into a tailing position as soon as the BMW was on the move again. For a moment Logan thought about doing just that and leading his follower to a more private place for a confrontation, but decided quickly he didn’t have the patience to spare for a cat-and-mouse game just now. He kept going.

      The sedan was empty.

      He’d been outmaneuvered.

      Chapter 3

      Logan swore under his breath at his own stupidity. Then he sensed rather than saw a movement to his right, and crouched and spun in the same motion.

      The man who was standing there, giving him a rather rueful smile, held both hands up in front of his chest, indicating he had no weapon.

      “Detective Beck, I underestimated you,”