The Trouble With Temptation

By Adrienne Bell

Morgan Kincaid is up to her ears in trouble. It's bad enough that she put her dreams on hold to open a nightclub with her brother. But when she tries to help with staffing problems, books that don't add up, and creepy patrons, he tells her to mind her own business. So, when a tempting stranger appears asking for a job, Morgan isn’t sure if Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome is her savior or more trouble than she can handle.

Ex-Navy SEAL Ty Brannigan has spent his FBI career tracking down the Russian mob, and the trail has led him directly to Morgan Kincaid’s door. Even though the evidence is damning, Ty can’t bring himself to believe that the eccentric beauty is in league with dangerous criminals.

When the mafia targets Morgan, the pair has no choice but to set aside their suspicions and band together to bring down the criminal organization that would stop at nothing to keep them apart.

***

Part romantic comedy, part thriller, and filled with plenty of intrigue, The Trouble With Temptation is the third novel in the Second Service contemporary romance series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adrienne Bell
• Release date: Sep 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9780985753566

Adrienne Bell

Adrienne Bell has lived her whole life in Northern California. She now resides on the far edge of the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and kids. You can follow the minutia of her life on Twitter, or see the pictures she likes to share on Facebook, or check out the exciting topics that she decides to dedicate a few hundred words to on her blog. Oh, and she thanks you for reading.

Book preview

Chapter 1

T his is bullshit , man.

Ty Brannigan ignored the curse as he walked through the glass door of the interrogation room. He waited until the door closed then turned and pulled the cord dangling against the frame. The blinds snapped shut.

I ain’t done shit.

Ty walked over to the large window that looked out into the San Francisco Field Office floor and did the same. After that he went to the outward facing windows. One by one, he shut out the outside light until the only illumination came from the two long flickering fluorescent tubes above the table.

You have no right to keep me here.

Ty turned around and fixed his gaze on the scrawny punk sitting across the table. The kid stared back at him defiantly. It seemed the little brat wasn’t smart enough for fear…yet. That was fine. Ty was more than happy to teach him the error of his ways.

He put his mug and an over-stuffed manila file folder down on the table, drew back the empty metal chair, and took a seat.

That’s where you’re wrong, Johnny. I have every right. It seems that you have quite a few speeding tickets that you never got around to paying, Ty said. Enough that the Honorable Judge Lindsey saw fit to put a warrant out for your arrest. Which means that you get to be my guest for the next forty-eight hours…at least.

Screw you, Johnny said, puffing out his chest. My father will have me out of here in less than an hour.

I don’t think so. You’ve been in this room for three hours already, and I haven’t seen or heard from your father. Ty leaned back in his chair. Of course, that doesn’t mean much. He might be downstairs right now, trying to pull whatever strings he has as mayor of your hick hometown, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to let him into the elevator.

You can’t do that. You have to let me see him.

"The only person I have to let you see is a lawyer. Ty crossed his arms in front of his chest. You see, Johnny, this isn’t like the time daddy wrote a check to the local sheriff’s re-election campaign and your DUI charges magically disappeared. This is real trouble."

Ty leaned forward and grasped his coffee cup. It felt good in his hands. He made a show of blowing the steam rising off the top before taking a sip.

The coffee machine set into the corner of the FBI office break room had to be twenty years past needing replacement. The stale beans that the Bureau supplied them with had to be twice as old. But the piece of junk did make a hot cup of coffee, and, in a cinderblock interrogation room that was always kept just a few degrees below comfortable, hot was one hell of a redeeming quality.

Ty let silence fill up the room. He watched as Johnny’s eyes narrowed, showing the first flicker of real concern.

Turned out the kid could be taught after all.

Why does the FBI care about a couple of speeding tickets?

We don’t. Ty took another sip. And another.

Johnny’s handcuffs started to rattle against the table leg. "Then what the hell do you want with me?"

Think about it real hard, Johnny.

Ty did his best not to smile as the poor bastard tried. Johnny’s brows pulled together as his eyes focused on a spot on the far wall. Ty could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears from the wheels turning inside his head.

And then came the moment that Ty was waiting for. Johnny’s gaze snapped back to Ty’s face. His teeth bit deep into his bottom lip.

Bingo. Pretty boy had just realized why he was chained to an FBI interrogation table.

Ty leaned back into his chair and waited. He didn’t expect the kid to give up the goods right away. No one ever did. That was okay. Ty had plenty of time.

Not that he thought Johnny was going to take the full forty-eight hours to crack. The kid was a half day case…at most. Right now, his face was screwed up tight as his pathetic excuse for a brain worked overtime, trying to figure a way out of this mess.

Ty’s gut told him that silence would go a long way with this one. Johnny was a club kid and a bartender when he needed money. He was used to loud dance floors overflowing with action. He obviously needed a lot of sensory input to fill up the hollow spot between his ears. An empty, quiet room and an unfriendly face was probably hell to him.

After five minutes, sweat beads had broken out on Johnny’s brow. After ten, they dotted his upper lip as well. Thirteen and he could no longer sit still in his seat.

This is about what’s going on down at Kincaid’s, isn’t it?

Ty leaned forward, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. It looked like he’d seriously overestimated the kid. He hadn’t lasted half a day. Hell, he hadn’t lasted half an hour.

"What is going on at Kincaid’s?"

Johnny shook his head, then pulled back in his seat. I can’t tell you.

Can’t or won’t?

Johnny’s face drained of color. Can’t. You don’t know the guys that have been hanging out there.

You’re wrong, Johnny. I know exactly who they are.

Obviously, you don’t. Those are some seriously bad dudes. Russian Mafia, man. They’d probably kill me if they knew I was here.

There was no probably about it. Ty had been on the trail of those seriously bad dudes for the last year and a half. Except for a security detail he’d headed for a friend in the suburbs a couple of months ago, he’d spent nearly every moment of every day tracking one of the most feared mobs in San Francisco. He’d questioned witnesses, sifted through the Mafia’s garbage, followed every lead, looking for anything he could use to take them down.

Nothing had worked. Not until Johnny here had fallen into his lap.

Kincaid’s, where Johnny worked as a bartender, wasn’t just the city’s newest hotspot. It had also recently become a known hangout of Evgeni Barinov, the boss of San Francisco’s Russian Bratva. Ty had a feeling it wasn’t just the allure of the dance floor that had attracted Barinov’s crew.

Kincaid’s sudden success had correlated exactly with Barinov’s interest in the place. Ty was willing to bet that with a little digging he would uncover a money-laundering scheme big enough to bring the Bratva to its knees.

But to do that Ty needed some inside information, and a cover that would allow him access to the club’s daily operations. Johnny didn’t realize it, but he was the answer to Ty’s prayers. There was no way in hell he was about to let all that slip through his fingers.

I can protect you, Ty said. Cooperate with me and I—

You’re kidding, right? Johnny cut him off with a laugh. Maybe you didn’t hear me, but these guys are fucking mobsters. The kind that don’t mind putting a couple of caps in the back of your head if you look at them funny.

But that didn’t keep you from taking their money, did it, Johnny? Ty pulled a couple of pictures from the file. He slid them across the desk. That’s you receiving an envelope of cash from Andrei Yashkin, Barinov’s captain.

Johnny lifted his hands up as far as the chain would allow and waved his open palms out in front of him. It’s not what you think. That money wasn’t for me. I was just doing Andrei a favor. He wanted me to drive that envelope across town for him.

Oh, I know. Twenty minutes later, you faithfully delivered it to a Deputy of the Triad. Ty pushed another photo across the table. "I can only assume it was payoff for the Bratva taking a piece of the the Triad’s underground gambling pie."

I don’t know nothing about that.

I never thought you did, Ty said with a shake of his head. You’re far too stupid and reckless for Barinov to trust with that kind of information.

Hey—

"But what you do make is the perfect patsy. Send the idiot off with a load of tainted cash to hand over to the rival mob. If he gets picked up by the cops, the Bratva has no real ties to you. If something goes wrong with the delivery and the bullets start flying, no big loss. Ty shrugged his shoulders. What I want to know is how much they paid you for this favor."

Johnny looked down. Ty didn’t think his face could get any paler. It appeared this was the first time poor Johnny Boy had ever considered that he might not have been asked to run errands because he was a favorite.

They didn’t pay me with money.

Ty cocked his head to the side. How did they pay you?

With women. Shame crept into Johnny’s voice. Don’t judge me, man. You should see the tail that those guys hang out with. Those chicks are crazy hot. And up for anything.

Sounds wild, Ty said, his voice dripping with disgust.

But smart, right. I can’t be in that much trouble since I didn’t take their cash. The punk flashed Ty a smug grin. His shoulders relaxed.

Actually it’s much worse. Now I can add human trafficking to your list of charges.

Charges? The smile vanished from Johnny’s face. But I— he stuttered then closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. I think I want that lawyer you were talking about earlier.

Ty clapped his hands once as he stood. Those are the first wise words I’ve heard from you, Johnny Boy. I’m going to get right on that.

Any lawyer would take one look at the evidence and the long list of charges he had against their client and beg the kid to take a deal. After all, the Bratva could get to him just as easily in prison as anywhere else in the city.

Ty reached across the desk for his file and a pen fell out. He picked it up and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

He looked down at Johnny. The poor kid had been through a lot today. Maybe a little reassurance was in order.

I know you’re afraid to talk because of what you think Barinov might do to you, he said. But you shouldn’t be scared of him. You should be scared of me.

Johnny bit out a bitter laugh. Dude, you’re a cop. You have to follow the rules. What the hell can you do to me?

Funny, I remember the last time someone told me I didn’t scare them. Ty unbuttoned his shirtsleeve. I was in the Navy back then. Crazy mission. Had to take out some armed insurgents that were holding a whole village hostage. My team took care of most of them, but it came down to me and one nasty son of a bitch just at the edge of town.

Johnny’s jaw fell open as he watched Ty slowly roll up his cuff.

Dude, what happened?

He used his last bullet on me. He got lucky and hit me in my shooting arm, disarming me completely. Ty held up his hand, showing a puckered scar in the dead center of his right forearm. Then he rushed at me with a knife.

Holy shit. What’d you do?

Ty flicked his thumb and shattered the pen.

I snapped his neck with my good hand. He tossed the remains across the desk. I’ll let you know when your lawyer gets here.

Chapter 2

Morgan Kincaid didn’t claim to be the best accountant in the world. Hell, she didn’t claim to be any kind of accountant. She had many passions in life—Superman, a couple of sci-fi television shows, any movie with a robot—but numbers were not one of them.

But she could add. Or, more to the point, tell when something wasn’t adding up.

That didn’t keep her from leaning forward and squinting at the spreadsheet on her computer screen.

Strangely enough, the move didn’t make the numbers change. There was more money in the club’s bank account than there should be. Far more.

But it wasn’t just the inflated balance that had her worried. There was always the chance—slim as it was—that the bank had made a mistake somewhere along the way. There were other problems as well.

Like the record of deposits she hadn’t remembered making, or the line in the budget that said the club had made twice the amount off liquor sales last week than their inventory would allow, or the inexplicable withdrawals for reimbursements she couldn’t find receipts for.

Something was wrong. Really wrong. And the thought of what she had to do next was making Morgan sick to her stomach.

She had to talk to her brother.

Gregg Kincaid was an accountant. More importantly, he was in charge of the club’s books. So if there was a mistake then he was the one who had made it.

And Morgan was praying that it was just a mistake.

Of course, there was only one way to find out.

Morgan groaned as she stood up from behind her desk. She didn’t want to do this. She’d already fought with her brother four times this week—a new record. They hadn’t even been at each other’s throats this much when they were working on opening Kincaid’s.

Then again, maybe if they had been, Morgan wouldn’t have found herself in this awkward situation.

Morgan loved her brother. She really did. But sometimes he drove her crazy.

After being banged up by the bad job market a little over a year ago, the siblings had agreed to pool resources and go into business as partners. Morgan had always dreamed of having her own place—a little pub with lots of tables and room for people to hang out and do their own thing.

Of course, Gregg had other plans. More hip plans. And as time ticked by, Kincaid’s became less Morgan’s cozy pub and more Gregg’s ultra-modern nightclub.

Morgan knew it was her fault for not fighting