Code of Honor Read online

  Code of Honor

  Cipher Security Book #2

  April White

  www.smartypantsromance.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Cutie and the Beast by M.E. Carter, Book #3 in the Cipher Office Series

  Also by April White

  Also by Smartypants Romance

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2020 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  eBook Edition

  “Maybe love, at its essence, is being a mirror for another person—for the good parts and the bad. Perhaps love is simply finding that one person who sees you clearly, cares for you deeply, challenges you and supports you, and subsequently helps you see and be your true self.”

  Penny Reid

  1

  Anna

  “That awkward moment in a fight with my twin sister when one of us calls the other one ugly.”

  Anna Collins

  “If you can’t seduce him wearing this dress, I’m taking your woman card,” Colette said as she adjusted the hot pink silk evening gown lower on my chest.

  “That’s a thing? I was clearly absent the day they handed those out.” I batted her hands away and hiked the straps up. “I don’t know how you wear this without boob-spillage. I’ve worn more substantial things to the beach.”

  Colette scowled at me in the mirror. “You wear a wetsuit at the beach. And speaking of, why do you have a tan? It’s March.”

  Even glaring at me, she was elegant and feminine and everything I wasn’t. It was a ridiculous thought for an identical twin to have, but facts were facts, and mirrors did not lie.

  “Did you forget I just got back from a surfing trip to Australia?”

  She sighed. “Sorry I don’t keep track of your surfing trips.” Colette was seven minutes older than me, but to her, I had all the sophistication of a ten-year-old tomboy. To be fair, I was a tomboy, but I was also a fully functioning adult who had been around the world a couple of times and occasionally went toe-to-toe with bail-jumpers.

  “My point,” she said, finally smiling at me, “is that you look gorgeous, and if you’d stop fussing with the straps, no one would ever know you’re not me.”

  I scoffed. “As long as I don’t try to walk, talk, or laugh, or do anything that requires coordination or grace.”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea how you climb mountains or ride your motorcycle or jump out of planes. Honestly, Anna, for someone so athletic, you’re totally hopeless.”

  I shrugged. “I bounce.”

  And just like that, my boob popped out.

  I shoved it back in and hiked up the strap again. “Seriously, how do you wear this thing? There’s no way I can seduce Gray if I’m constantly worried about falling out of your dress.”

  “Good thing for you he’s been troweling on the charm for two months, so an actual seduction would be overkill,” my sister said with a smirk.

  “An actual seduction requires looking seductive,” I grumbled as I adjusted the dress yet again in a futile attempt to hide the cleavage. “There is no part of me that is remotely comfortable or confident in this thing.”

  Colette turned me toward her and put hot pink gloss on my lips. “Well, if I’m the one who goes to the party, then you have to trust me to set everything up.”

  “Uh-uh. No way. I do my own recon, and that way I always get out,” I said as I studied the oil slick on my mouth with a grimace. I touched my lips together and tried to open them, watching in revolted fascination as they stuck to each other.

  “Then you have to be me, and you have to be sexy, and you have to make him invite you to stay so I can come back and be your alibi.” She slicked the pink goop on her own mouth and studied her reflection critically.

  How was it possible that Colette, wearing jeans and a linen shirt, could look so effortlessly female, while I looked like a confused boy playing dress-up in his sister’s closet? We had exactly the same long, curly hair, courtesy of our mother, and the same weirdly long lashes on gray eyes, courtesy of Dad. We were genetically identical, and yet my body was awkwardly athletic while hers was willowy and slender. My laugh was loud and startling, and hers made fairies sigh and small woodland creatures come out and sing. She walked like a supermodel in stiletto heels while I teetered around like a drunk toddler in anything higher than Doc Martens combat boots.

  It was humiliating to be Colette’s sister.

  And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  My sister watched me in the mirror. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go in and set things up? You can trust me, you know.”

  I scowled at her. “I know I can trust you. I also know I have to do this part myself. Your photos were brilliant for planning this thing, but I’ve never been there, and if I’m going to be creeping around this guy’s place later, I want to walk the floors first.”

  She sighed like a long-suffering older sister and tucked the pink lip slime into the pointless little evening bag that went with the dress. She handed it to me, along with the embossed invitation printed on super-swanky Italian paper, and then gave me her stern, big-sister look.

  “Gray invited me because he knows I’m not seeing Mac anymore, and now that he’s done supervising the remodel, he doesn’t have to worry about pissing off his architect. He’s going to get you alone, and he’s going to hit on you. It’s what he’s been trying to do since we met, but I had Mac to shield me. My sweet-but-clueless boyfriend is now out of the picture, and Gray knows I wouldn’t come tonight unless I was prepared to hook up. I’m stating the obvious here so you remember that you don’t have to try too hard with this guy. Just set the meeting time and then stay the hell out of his way so he doesn’t wonder why you’re acting so weird.” Colette spoke complete
ly without irony, and it made me wince just a little – not a lot, because I was a realist, but a little.

  She must have seen something on my face, because her tone softened, like she was sorry for me. “You don’t have to try so hard with guys, you know. You’re beautiful and funny and wicked smart.”

  I smirked, because she was describing herself and she knew it. “And awkward and dorky and way better than you at strategy games and plotting perfect crimes, so at least I’ve got that going for me.” I adjusted the dress one last time, then kissed her with a big, hot pink, goopy smack on the cheek. “Love you, sis.”

  She cringed away and rubbed the oil slick off her cheek with a scowl. “Don’t do anything dumb.”

  I turned back to look at my sister with a look of disbelief on my face. “You mean like make a date for you to sleep with Richie Rich so I can steal back the painting that his dickhead dad stole from our mother?”

  She smiled infectiously, and I returned the grin when she said, “Yeah, like that.”

  * * *

  Sterling Gray was actually more like Richie Rich’s entitled older brother. But his entitlement came with a great house. It was technically the “family” mansion, which meant it was owned by Dickhead Dad, but Gray had supervised every aspect of the extensive renovations for his father, who apparently spent most of his time on the East Coast.

  Colette had dated Gray’s architect a few times, which was how she had gotten into the old Prairie District mansion while it was being renovated. Colette had been able to tour the house right before inspection, but then Mac met someone else, and things like furniture layout and security systems could have changed since then.

  A uniformed butler opened the heavy leaded glass door and took my invitation. “Welcome back to the manor, Ms. Collins,” he said in a soft, Southern drawl. It was a strange voice to hear in a Chicago mansion, but it added gentility to the austere entry hall.

  I had my hand out to shake the butler’s before I remembered I probably shouldn’t do anything to make myself memorable. “Nice to m—see you again,” I said, with a smile Colette would’ve called ‘toothy.’ I remembered just in time that Colette had said Sterling used a butler for parties, but she hadn’t told me his name.

  No one in Chicago knew that Colette had a twin sister – honestly, if I had such an unsophisticated tomboy sister, I’d keep me on the down-low too. But even if I wasn’t a liability, I traveled so much for work that we were rarely in the same city at the same time – and we never went out in public together. Basically, she was Bruce Wayne and I was Batman, because of life hack #323: Always be yourself, unless you can be Batman, and then always be Batman.

  The butler’s expression was pleasant and polite. “It’s nice to see you again too, ma’am. Shall I take your wrap?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, pulling the thin cashmere shawl around my shoulders. It was the only thing that would save me from all the potential boob-spillage of the evening and was therefore as necessary as the mask and bat ears.

  I stepped into the entry hall and nearly tripped at the sight of all the fanciness. The room was painfully elegant, with white marble tiles on the floor and warm wood paneling on the walls. There was a fireplace surrounded by an exotic stone mantle, and a real wood fire that warmed two chairs which had been artfully placed in front of it. It wasn’t even a room; it was a space designed to intimidate and impress guests into feeling honored that they’d been graced with an invitation.

  No amount of architectural plans could ever do justice to a space like this, and I had to remind my awe to sit down so I could pay attention to the details. Figuring out the story from the details was what I did best, which is why I had the mind of a master criminal – without the inclinations of one. Mostly.

  I knew I’d lingered in the hall too long when I heard the butler greet someone else at the door. “Come in, Mr. Masoud. Mr. Gray will be glad to see you.”

  I turned instinctively to see who else Gray had invited to his inaugural house party, and almost tripped again at the sight of the Disney prince who had just entered the hall. Seriously, the guy was a dead ringer for Aladdin, and he was beautiful.

  “Thank you, Marcel. It’s good to see you.” Mr. Masoud’s voice sounded exactly how a Disney prince would speak, too – in a vaguely accented, probably educated in Europe, quietly cultured tone.

  “I’ll just take your coat, sir?” The butler said with quiet dignity.

  Mr. Masoud smiled wryly as he handed over a topcoat that was probably made of cashmere. “Please call me Darius.”

  Fancy name for a fancy man, and interesting company for a guy like Gray to keep.

  Maybe I was painting the son with the brush of the father, but I had my doubts about Sterling Gray. The man had installed a panic room in his thirteen-thousand-square-foot mansion, and he’d told his architect to wire a wall for an art alarm. The panic room ID’d him as a man with enemies, and the art alarm was almost certainly for the painting I was there to steal. Neither of those things inclined me to be charitable toward him.

  I turned to avoid Darius Masoud’s gaze as he entered the hall, and found myself looking at the elaborate stone fireplace. I tried not to notice him when he stepped up next to me, which was approximately as successful as not noticing a scorching flame. The man radiated heat, and I almost fanned myself when he spoke.

  “The stone looks as though it has rivers of blood running through it. A bit disconcerting, isn’t it?”

  I turn to stare at him, and I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open too, just to complete the expression of WTF on my face.

  The Disney prince sighed when he saw my face. “As am I, no doubt, for having observed something so morbid. Right. I’ll just go then,” he seemed to say to himself, “before she has me removed from the premises.”

  “Talking to yourself isn’t helping the serial killer vibe,” I said, because I have the subtlety of an elephant in a hot pink tutu.

  He didn’t immediately bolt, so I must have surprised him, which was novel. I usually inspired something closer to fear with a side of self-preservation. Men were especially susceptible to this, probably because I looked so much like my sister at first glance, which didn’t prepare them for the utterly inappropriate things I said.

  He seemed to actually look at me then, and his gaze gave me sweaty butterflies. I’ve determined they’re a thing, since I don’t get simple, fluttery, girly butterflies like most straight women do when a ridiculously handsome guy notices them. My butterflies flap around so hard they make me feel slightly nauseated, which inevitably leads to a mild case of the sweats. Ergo, sweaty butterflies.

  “I can promise I’ve never referred to myself as Precious, if that helps,” he said in his low, accented voice that made the little bastards flap harder.

  “I don’t know. Are you more of a Buffalo Bill ‘Precious,’ or a Gollum ‘Preciousssss?’ Because that might determine your creep-factor.” I seriously needed help. The sheer nonsense I was spouting in the face of such pretty Disney royalty was staggering, and if the look of confusion on his face was any indication, Mr. Darius Masoud was about thirty seconds away from making his polite excuses and beating a hasty retreat. So I got there first.

  “Sorry, I just remembered I have to pee.” Oh, that was much better. His expression was morphing from confusion into amusement, and I pressed my lips together to keep from upping the mortification factor any further. “Excuse me, please.”

  I hurried down the corridor toward the sounds of conversation and wondered if the laughter came from behind me or ahead. I was clearly not fit for polite company, much less gorgeous, rich, high-class company. I entered a reception hall the size of a ballroom, thinking I’d be able to lose myself in a crowd, and then practically screeched to a halt. Chandelier people – the kind who dripped glittery things and tinkled with laughter – filled the room. They were that special breed of people who chatted easily, laughed at all the right moments, and moved gracefully from group to group like best friends. My fee
t felt rooted to the thick silk carpet that was covered in an elegant vine pattern and looked far too expensive to walk on.

  Then my imagination kicked in, as it always did, and I pictured tendrils of ivy creeping across the carpet to wrap around my ankles and hold me fast. And because that image was so compelling, I began to feel the silken leaves weave themselves around my legs. I pictured thorns budding from the vines to prick my skin and send a deadly neurotoxin sliding up my veins to paralyze my lungs until the lack of air made me black out and fall to the ground, which would tear Colette’s hot pink gown on the thorny vines and send boobs spilling out everywhere.

  “You’re not breathing,” the Disney prince said quietly in my ear.

  Oh no, no, no, no, no! I actually tried to press my lips together again to stop the words, but they slipped on the pink oil slick and opened of their own accord. “Of course not. The neurotoxin from the deadly vines around my ankles has paralyzed my lungs, and I’m pretty sure I only have a few moments left to live,” I said.