Lover
Undercover
a Love Undercover novel
Samanthe Beck
Table of Contents
Other books by Samanthe Beck
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Private Practice
Chapter One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any
form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit
Edited by Heather Howland and Sue Winegardner
Cover design by Heather Howland
ISBN 978-1-62266-977-6
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2013
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks
mentioned in this work of fiction: AC/DC; “You Shook Me All Night Long”; Volkswagen Beetle; Dumpster; Spiderman; “Love
to Love You Baby”; Academy Awards; Ikea; GMC Yukon; Boy Scouts of America; USMC; Skype; Honda; BMW 7 Series;
Toyota Highlander; “Kiss”; Levi’s; Laundromat.
To Mom.
Chapter One
There’s no way on God’s green earth I’m going to dance naked in front of a bunch of
strangers.
Kylie Roberts’s own words came back to haunt her as she stood in the darkened stage
wing at Deuces, the strip joint…er…gentlemen’s club, where her twin sister, Stacy, usually
worked as a featured dancer.
Until she broke her leg, anyway.
Eyes closed, Kylie tried to block out the bone-jarring thump thump thump of the music
and transcend to a calmer, more peaceful place in her mind. No luck. It was awful enough
knowing she was about to step out on the stage in front of a crowd of leering men, peel
off her clothes, and dance topless around a pole. Did every part of her black biker-chick
costume have to inflict bodily punishment, too?
Her toes protested the restricting fit of her sister’s thigh-high leather boots with their
four-inch heels. Beneath a belted leather jacket barely long enough to skim her crotch, a
silver-studded bikini top offered absolutely no support and precious little coverage for her
normally well-secured 34-Cs. She hardly noticed the intrusive elastic of the matching G-
string, because her bikini area still stung from the ruthless waxing Stacy had administered
that afternoon.
Only until Stacy’s leg heals, Kylie silently vowed, and only because they couldn’t pay the
rent on their Hollywood apartment without the money her sister made at Deuces. True,
Stacy was the one who insisted on living in Hollywood—one of the highest-rent districts in
a city known for high rents, no less—but Kylie had gone along with the arrangement,
even though her income as a yoga instructor barely covered a third of the rent.
Kylie adjusted her bikini top and ran through her options one last time. Picking up more
yoga classes wouldn’t come close to covering the shortfall. Moving was out of the
question. They couldn’t scrape together first and last month’s rent, plus a security
deposit, on a new place. Calling home for funds wouldn’t work, either. Their mom
constituted the only other branch on the Roberts family tree, and even if Debbie Roberts
had any extra money—which she didn’t—she wouldn’t send it to them. She’d tell her
daughters to come home.
And on that particular point, Kylie and Stacy agreed one hundred percent. The only
thing more unacceptable than being homeless in LA? Returning to their tiny, backward
hometown of Two Trout, Tennessee, as the penniless failures all the naysayers predicted
they’d be.
Of course, when they left home, neither of them knew Stacy’s road to fame and fortune
as an actress and dancer would include a stint dancing topless at an upscale club along
West Hollywood’s Sunset Strip. And never in a billion years would Kylie have guessed her
path toward building a successful yoga practice and opening her own studio would include
posing as Stacy, dancing shifts at Deuces while her twin’s leg mended.
Kylie sighed. At least Stacy hadn’t injured her leg doing something reckless and
irresponsible, as she was prone to do. She’d gotten hurt at work, when an inebriated
customer had pulled her offstage for an instant lap dance. One ambulance ride and an X-
ray later, Stacy had received her diagnosis—broken tibia. She’d be in a cast for six to
eight weeks. Without even consulting Kylie, Stacy had phoned the club, told them she
had a slight sprain, and would be ready to dance by the following Friday.
And now, here Kylie stood, about to step onto the same rough-and-tumble stage.
Exhaling slowly, she wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs, belatedly recalling Stacy’s
admonition not to touch her skin after she slicked up with body oil. Shoot, she thought,
staring at the greasy sheen on her palms. How was she supposed to dance on a pole with
slimy hands?
Panicking, she wiped her hands on the blackout curtain that shielded the backstage
area. Then she peeked through and watched a tall redhead with gravity-defying double-
Ds grab the pole at the end of the stage and lower her flossed butt over a ringside table
so the men surrounding it could shove bills into her G-string.
Oh, God. Collecting tips signified the end of a performance. She was next. Her already
nervous stomach churned like a washer on the spin cycle.
The redhead—Ginger, Kylie deduced, based on Stacy’s less-than-flattering descriptions
of the other dancers—sidled over and stopped beside Kylie.
“Good crowd tonight,” Ginger said, waiting while a runner gathered her discarded
garments from the stage. “The high rollers up front booked me for a lap dance. But don’t
worry, Snowflake, there might be a few leftovers for you.”
The stagehand ran over with Ginger’s clothes, and Kylie let them pass. She didn’t care
about leftovers. All she wanted to do was live through the next three and a half minutes.
Over her thundering heartbeat, she heard the DJ ask the audience to give a big round of
applause for Stacy.
The house lights lowered. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to get beyond
the light-headed sensation threatening to overtake her.
The music started—AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” She opened her eyes and
stared down her only remaining choices. Titty bar or Two Trout?
She stepped onto the stage.
The spotlight blinded her, and for one hysterical second, she froze like an ill-prepared
fifth-grader called to the front of the class. Then Stacy’s voice replayed in Kylie’s mind,
like a high-pitched drill sergeant, coaching her through the routine exactly as they’d done
all week.
Strut to the center of the stage. Bend over and roll your hips in a big, wide circle. Smile,
for Christ’s sake. You don’t have to waste an ounce of charm on anyone backstage, but
when you’re out in front of the customers, smile like you’re having the time of your life.
Now, undo the belt, slide it free, and snap it.
The belt whipped through the air with a loud slapping sound. The audience went wild.
She couldn’t see them because of the glare of the lights, but she heard them. They
gathered at the end of the runway, where the pole waited. The. Pole.
Stacy called the pole dance a dramatic way to command the audience’s attention and
maximize tips—in essence to wield power over her quarry. It just showed how different
they were beneath their oh-so-similar facades. Kylie couldn’t think of anything less
powerful than twirling around a pole half-naked, for money. Humiliating and terrifying,
yes. Empowering? Not so much.
Borrowing from yoga, she centered herself in the present, letting go of useless worry
about the next moments. She’d deal with them when they arrived.
The routine moved her gradually downstage, where the lights weren’t so glaring. She
could make out the ringside tables now, all fully occupied by men. Short, tall, dark, light,
apparently the appeal of a woman dancing naked spanned the diversity of ages and
backgrounds.
Despite the packed house, her gaze snagged on one man. Double-take gorgeous in a
tall, dark, and dangerous way, his broad-shouldered, athletic build gave him presence
even in the crowded club. But it wasn’t his looks that caught her attention. It was his
stillness. In a sea of drunk, rowdy guys, he was an island of cool, collected calmness. He
exuded the same controlled energy she sought through yoga.
Dark, seen-it-all eyes locked on hers. Recognition—one observer to another. The other
men looked at her, but this man saw her.
Her stomach quivered in reaction, and her thighs tensed. In the midst of fear and
mortification came a strange shock of…excitement, followed quickly by shame. What kind
of woman got excited about cavorting naked in front of a complete stranger, especially
one who liked to spend his evenings in a club like Deuces? A sick woman, for sure, but
humiliating as it was, she couldn’t deny the secret thrill as his eyes moved over her body.
No eye contact, she remembered Stacy warning. Stay focused on the dance.
Right. The dance. Unfortunately, she’d reached a part of the performance she dreaded
almost as much as the pole.
Dance your way over to the edge of the stage, squat, and loop the belt around the
nearest guy’s head. Pull his face between your knees and do as the song says…shake him
all night long.
Wondering if it was possible to die of mortification, Kylie scanned her options. She
considered the dark-eyed observer sitting alone at his table, but quickly abandoned the
notion. She needed someone harmless. He did not qualify. Instead, she zeroed in on the
front table, where a boisterous group of naughty-boy hedge-funders had spent the
evening partying and throwing around money. In their midst sat a slightly drunk, clean-
cut blond man in his mid-thirties. He stared at her like an eager puppy as she draped the
belt around his neck and reeled him in. The room erupted in applause and catcalls. She
dropped him back into his chair with a nudge of her boot to his chest.
Without permission, her attention wandered back to the dark-haired man. One of the
guys at the hedge-funders’ table nudged him and made some comment. Without breaking
eye contact, he slowly nodded.
Heat burned her cheeks. Edging away, she pushed her focus toward performing each
move, and blocking out the embarrassment of twirling around the pole and stripping off
her top.
By the end of the routine, Kylie spun over the crowd in nothing but boots and a G-
string. The men at her feet went crazy, waving bills in the air.
Stacy’s coaching reverberated through her head. Okay, now it’s payday. Sink to your
knees and do a slow, sexy crawl along the tip rail.
She did it, fighting the urge to jump up and run as strange hands tucked bills into her
boots and G-string. Finally she rose, pivoted, and gave the audience a sassy wave—as if
she loved prancing around nearly nude while men ogled her and shoved money in her
underwear. As if she didn’t want to throw up, burst into tears, and take a hot shower…not
necessarily in that order. Hands on hips, she pranced offstage.
The crowd’s enthusiastic applause told her she’d pulled it off—so to speak. She sagged
against the wall, rolled her head to the side, and belatedly noticed the paper towel
dispenser affixed to the wall. She did not want to know why they kept those there, but
she grabbed a few towels and wiped the rest of the oil from her hands while she waited
for her clothes. In less than a minute, the runner hustled over with her things, shoved
them at her, and disappeared before she could mumble “thanks.”
One dance down, thirty-six to go. The grim thought chased her as she made her way to
the dressing room. Please God, let Stacy get her cast off early.
She’d just retied her bikini top when the club’s manager shouldered his way into the
narrow space. Vernon Firth resembled a bulldog, all droopy eyes and sagging jaw, and
looked as incongruous as one amid the girlie clutter of the dressing room.
“Ari, get your ass to the stage,” he said to the only other dancer in the room.
The haughty Russian flounced out with her nose in the air. Kylie pulled the tips from her
outfit and pretended not to watch Vern in the mirror as he waddled her way.
“You looked pretty good out there—little stiff maybe, but the customers didn’t seem to
mind.”
She lifted an eyebrow and tried to emulate the patented Stacy Roberts confidence.
“No?”
“Not so much. The big shots up front reserved you and Ginger for a pair of lap dances.
She’s out there now. After Ari wraps up, you go do the second guy.”
Vern turned to leave, but when she didn’t move or reply he glanced back and gave her
an impatient look. “Problem?”
“No. I’ll be right there.”
Apparently satisfied, he left.
With shaking hands she put her tips in her lockbox, tucked it in her locker, and took a
deep breath. Okay. She could do this. Stacy had talked her through the ins and outs of a
lap dance, and played the part of customer while Kylie practiced. Three minutes of
gyrating over the guy’s lap. Flash her breasts at the end.
Her sister’s words of wisdom floated through her mind. Paste on a smile, say hello, and
then ignore him and get on with the dance. Keep the chitchat to a minimum.
He couldn’t touch, except to tip her when it was over. Of course, if he found her dancing
“uplifting,” Stacy had warned there might be some incidental contact. Because the
thought made her cringe, she focused on the payoff. A lap dance put fifty bucks in her
pocket.
“Hey, Snowflake, you’re on. I’ve warmed them up for you,” Ginger said as they passed
on the floor.
Kylie eyed the front row. “Wait. Which one is mine?”
The redhead tossed her flaming mane behind her shoulders and pointed. “They wanted
to surprise their new friend at the table next door. Enjoy.”
Ginger sauntered off, but Kylie barely noticed. Her gaze fixed on her client, the dark-
haired man. Lord, anybody but him. How was she supposed to “ignore him and get on
with the dance”? He commanded attention.
Before she could resolve the question, Ariana’s performance ended and the fringed gold
curtain came down.
Showtime. Smiling so wide it hurt, she slunk toward her target, using the hip-rolling
walk Stacy had taught her. The guys who’d booked the dance clapped as she approached,
and a few surreptitious fingers pointed to the dark-haired man at the table beside them.
She stopped in front of him and stared at his chin. A nice chin. Square. Maybe a little bit
stubborn.
“Hi. I’m Stacy, and I have a surprise for you.”
She felt his eyes on hers but didn’t shift her gaze.
He smiled. Slow. Amused. It brought an endearing softness to the rugged angle of his
jaw. “I think you’re looking for one of those gentlemen over there.”
His low, unhurried voice exuded testosterone. Keeping her smile in place, she shook her
head. “No. They arranged for me to dance for you.”
Her client looked over at his benefactors. “Gee, thanks guys. You shouldn’t have.”
Moving closer, she reached around and grabbed the back of his chair. In the process,
her fingers accidently ruffled thick, cashmere-soft hair, and she fought an urge to sink her
hand into its mink-toned depths. Not good. “Ready?” she asked, still avoiding his eyes.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Funny, she felt the same way. A tremble wanted to work its way up her spine when the
DJ queued the music. She suppressed it and moved into position, straddling his lap. Her
boots brushed against hard, muscular thighs. She dipped her hips toward the fly of his
black pants, and leaned in until her bikini-straining breasts almost touched his chest.
His indrawn breath made her think he was checking out the view, but when she glanced
at him, their gazes collided. She immediately dropped her eyes to his chest and
concentrated on her moves.
A few moments into the proceedings, his husky voice endangered her focus. “Come
here often?”
“Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, from ten ’til two.”
“Busy girl.”
“You have no idea. Heads up, handsome.”
“Trevor.”
“Sorry?”
“My name is Trevor.”
Alrighty, then. She braced her weight on one leg, swung the other over his head, then
straddled his lap again, this time facing away from him. Hips low, she arched her back
and insinuated her body over his in time to the music.
From the corner of her eye, she watched his attention drift to her butt, then scorch a
trail of heat along her spine, across her shoulders, and surprisingly, to her face.
“Very limber.”
“Glad you’re enjoying the show, Trevor.”
“Absolutely. In fact, you need to lift up a little or…ah…”
Too late. She felt some of the “incidental contact” Stacy had warned of, and jerked
away, almost losing her balance in the process. To cover the flub, she untied the bow at
the back of her bikini, spun around, and flashed him. She settled above his lap again,
giving him even more room this time, and crossed her arms over her breasts. Her eyes
sought his.
“Nice save,” was all he said, but those intense eyes seemed to see right into her mind.
She gripped the chair with one hand, leaned back, and tossed her hair away from her
face. When she came up, she fixed her smile firmly in place and stared resolutely at his
chin. “Happens all the time.”
Her nonchalance fell short of convincing. “How long have you been dancing here?”
Two hours. “Two years.”
“Really?” He frowned, and she noticed an almost invisible, incongruously vulnerable
white scar etched along the corner of his upper lip. “That surprises me. And not much
surprises me.”
Now it was her turn to frown. “Don’t you like my dancing?”
“I love your dancing. I love it so much you better lift those amazing hips a little bit
more.”
She complied. “We want to keep it legal.”
That earned her an odd look. “Always.”
Thankfully, the song ended, so she didn’t have to come up with a reply. She slowly
drew away from him, keeping an arm over her breasts.
“Thank you for the dance.”
“I think that’s my line,” he replied, smiling at her, or himself, or the absurdity of having
a barely clothed stranger shake her hips in the general vicinity of his lap.
The waitress arrived with another round for the other table. Kylie used the moment to
retie her bikini and reinforce her wall of detachment. When the waitress moved away, the
blond man lifted a fresh bottle of champagne and waved Kylie over. “Join us for a drink,
gorgeous?”
Her eyes drifted back to Trevor. Inconceivably, part of her wanted to say yes, just so
she could stay nearby. Which proved the sooner she got away from him, the better. “No,
thank you. I don’t drink while I’m working.”
“Probably a good policy,” Trevor replied. He pressed a folded bill into her palm, and
added, “Don’t work too hard, Stacy.”
No chance. Stacy isn’t working at all, she thought irritably. Outwardly, she brightened
her smile and extended it to the adjoining table. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”
C’mon boots, start walkin’.
Two table dances, one stage performance, and another lap dance later, she practically
cried with relief to be done with those boots. Screaming arches and numb toes made
walking to her car a challenge, even in her thick-soled flip-flops. She might have crawled
if not for the witness.
One of the club’s bouncers accompanied her. Benny reminded Kylie of a big, blond tank
—low forehead, lantern jaw, no discernible neck separating his head from the mountain
of muscle comprising his body.
“You were real good tonight, Stacy.”
Benny’s IQ rivaled his biceps’ circumference, according to Stacy. It was an impressive
number, for biceps. But he knew his job, followed instructions, and kept his hands to
himself, so most of the girls liked him.
“Thanks, Benny. Busy night, huh?”
“Yeah. We’re always busy on a full moon Friday.”
Kylie tipped her head up. Sure enough, a huge, glowing orb hung in the sky. Had to
give Benny credit for noticing. She would have overlooked it entirely.
“I guess you’re right.” They reached Stacy’s shiny yellow VW Bug. Kylie watched him
scan the lot while she disengaged the lock and opened the door. She appreciated his
vigilance, but wanted to move him along, so she got in and started the engine. He
continued to stand by the car. Manners forced her to lower the window.
“Something else on your mind?”
“I saw Gary talking to you before your shift. He get outta line?”
Deuces’ smarmy, sandy-haired bartender had told her if her ankle started to bother her,
he had a special therapy guaranteed to take her mind off everything below her G-spot.
Stacy had warned her about Gary, calling him “obnoxious and always on the make.”
“Gary was Gary,” she replied diplomatically.
“Uh-huh. Let me know if he crosses the line. I’ll take it to Vern. Couple of the other girls
complained about that guy’s mouth.”
“Thanks, Benny. That’s sweet of you, but not necessary.” Absolutely not. During her six-
to-eight-week stint as Stacy, she didn’t intend to make any waves. “Thanks for walking
me to my car.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The thought brought a big, jagged lump to her throat. Six more weeks of
this would kill her.
Halfway home her cell phone chimed. She dug it out of her bag, checked the caller ID,
and immediately pulled over.
“What’s wrong?”
Stacy’s laugh flowed over the line. “Nothing’s wrong. I called to see how the night
went.”
“I survived. I’ll be home in, like, ten minutes. Why don’t we talk then?”
“I’m not home. I’m at…what’s your name again, sweetie?”
Kylie saw red. “What do you mean, you’re not home? How’d you get anywhere? You
can barely walk. You can’t drive. And even if you wanted to, I’ve got your car and your
license.”
“And I’ve got yours.”
“Stacy!”
“Calm down. I didn’t drive. But I was bored out of my mind, so I hobbled down to BJ’s,”
she answered blithely, mentioning the sports bar just a block away from their apartment.
“That’s where I met my new friend. BJ’s closed, so now we’re at his place.”
“Stacy, you better be home by the time I get there. I mean it. You are not allowed to
go out and…make friends while I dance your shifts.”
“Touchy, touchy. How much did you earn tonight?”
“Almost three hundred. Get home right now or I’m keeping it.”
Her sister whistled appreciatively and ignored the threat. “You had a good night. I knew
those boots would make money.”
“We’ll need every penny for my orthopedic surgery. Those suckers are…oh, dang it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I left them in the dressing room at the club.”
“Those are four-hundred-dollar boots. Go back and get them.”
“Four hundred dollars! No wonder you don’t have any savings. And no way am I driving
back to Deuces. I’ll get them tomorrow night.”
“They’ll be long gone by then. The other dancers have sticky fingers. Please, Ky? If you
go back right now, you’ll probably catch Vern.”
Kylie rested her head against the steering wheel. Shit. “Phone the club and tell them to
wait.”
“I’ll call right now. Hurry!”
“I’m…hurrying,” she said to a dead line. Calling herself every kind of idiot, she drove
back to Deuces. The club was dark by the time she pulled into the parking lot, but the full
moon and the perimeter lights got her up the short flight of stairs to the back door. She
tried the handle. Locked. Banging on the door produced no response.
A scraping noise from across the parking lot drew her attention. She squinted into the
distance. Was there something, or someone, by the Dumpster?
Impossible to say, but one thing was suddenly all too clear. Hanging out alone behind a
strip club at two thirty in the morning qualified as a bonehead move. She’d get the boots
tomorrow. If they disappeared, too damn bad. Stacy could buy a new pair of boots. A
sister would be tougher to replace. She ran down the steps and back to the car, flip-flops
echoing like gunshots on the asphalt.
As she pulled away, her headlights washed over the back of the lot, bringing the
Dumpster into view, as well as—oh, jeez—a prone figure on the pavement. It looked like
a man, though his head was turned away from her.
A passed-out drunk? The unnatural angle of his body worried her. She slowed and
honked. Not a twitch. A dark puddle of…liquid spread over the pavement around his head.
Maybe the poor man had slipped, cut his head on the Dumpster, and knocked himself
unconscious? Probably a barback from the club, taking out a load of empties.
She put the car in park and lowered the window. “Mister? Are you okay?”
Smart Kylie. If the horn didn’t rouse him, your voice should do the trick. Okay, okay,
okay. Just go take a look. She got out and stood on wobbling legs, clutching her phone.
God, it smelled awful. Like a Dumpster and…something else.
“Mister,” she croaked, touching his shoulder. He didn’t respond. She gave him a little
shake. Still nothing. Carefully, she stepped around him and crouched by his head.
“Sir?”
Vacant eyes stared at her from a battered, bloody face. She screamed, stumbled back,
and slammed her skull into something solid. Stars exploded before her eyes. A hollow
clanging rang in her ears. She screamed again, even as she realized she’d run into the
Dumpster and not a bat-wielding thug. Biting back hysteria, she scrambled up.
Adrenaline flooded her system, jolting through her like an electrical current. She
overshot vertical, landed on her knees, and clawed her way to the car, trying to outrun
the vision of the man’s bruised, swollen face.
Not even a face anymore. Whoever he was, she didn’t recognize him. Nobody was
going to recognize him. Ever again.
In the car she wasted several moments frantically searching for her phone before
remembering she already had it in her hand. Dialing 9-1-1 took three tries. Finally an
operator answered.
“Please,” she whispered, so breathless she sounded as if her lungs had sprung a leak.
“Please send an ambulance. I think he’s… I think he’s…dead.”
Things moved dizzyingly fast from there.
A cavalry of cops and paramedics arrived within minutes. Lights flashed, radios
crackled, uniforms moved in and out of her line of vision. Somehow she ended up sitting
in the back of an ambulance, holding a bag of ice to her head, watching with dreamlike
detachment while activity swirled around her. Tracking it made her eyes hurt, so her
attention strayed to something stationary—the body. For someone who’d probably
gasped his last breath alone in a parking lot, he had a lot of company now.
A couple of paramedics knelt beside him first. With a few frighteningly efficient touches,
they pronounced him dead. Then the police moved in, displaying the same frightening
efficiency. They taped off the scene, took pictures, asked questions.
She answered as best she could, but there wasn’t much to tell and she struggled to
concentrate with all the buzzing in her ears. Did she recognize the man? No. Had she
seen anyone else? No. Did she work at Deuces? She hesitated. Did she?
A deep, strangely familiar voice answered. “Yeah, she works at the club. She’s worked
there two years.”
Kylie turned, and keen brown eyes captured her gaze. The same deep, all-seeing eyes
she’d stared into during her very first lap dance.
Chapter Two
Trevor McCade cursed fate as he met shell-shocked blue eyes. He knew those eyes
traveled in close company with the most heart-stopping albeit fake smile he’d ever seen,
and the most mouthwatering—and beautifully real—body. Instead of the biker-girl bikini,
she now wore a white T-shirt and cropped pink workout pants, but the comparatively
sedate ensemble didn’t much distract from the spectacular curves beneath.
He’d been trying to get the whole irresistible package out of his head since leaving
Deuces hours ago. Eight months ago, sanitation workers had found a businessman named
Alex Montenegro in an alley a block away, beaten to death. Trevor had inherited the cold
case just last week. With no solid leads, he had decided to check the club out on an
unofficial basis, pretty much because it was the only edgy establishment in the vicinity.
He’d walked out of Deuces feeling like his gut might have been wrong this time, but now,
because he’d been masochistic or just plain stupid enough to answer his phone on his
night off, here he was, investigating another homicide. And here was Stacy, in front of
him again, this time in an official capacity. Or, more accurately, in his official capacity.
He’d been a cop for nine of his thirty years, and a homicide detective for the last three.
He’d seen plenty of violence and depravity, but it hadn’t erased his compassion for the
innocent or the vulnerable. And for whatever reason, something about the woman in front
of him struck him as innately innocent and inherently vulnerable. A neat trick, considering
her profession tended to leave its practitioners as hardened and dispassionate as, say,
homicide cops.
“Stacy?”
She gave him a strange look and started to say something, but then caught herself.
Nerves, he judged. Understandable. Cops made people jumpy. Homicide cops made
people very jumpy.
“Yes, Officer…Trevor?”
Oh yeah, definitely cautious. He tapped the badge clipped to his hip. “Detective. Trevor
McCade. You okay?”
She stared at him for a moment. Then her gaze flicked down to his detective’s badge,
and then over his shoulder, to the scene. “I’ll live,” she said softly.
She would, but he wasn’t liking her pale cheeks or the way her attention kept drifting to
the vic. Those eyes said shock. He shot a questioning glance at the paramedic standing
nearby. The sturdy brunette nodded and murmured, “We’re watching her.”
“How’s your head?”
She took a moment to process the question. Long blond eyelashes cast shadows on her
cheeks. “It’s okay. I ran into the Dumpster.”
He ran careful fingers over the bump. “Ouch.”
“It’s nothing.” Those baby blues tried to dart back to the body, but he kept his hand at
the base of her head and shifted closer, blocking her view.
In the club earlier, she’d worn full makeup and infused all kinds of crazy volume in her
long white-blond hair. Now, wearing no makeup, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail,
she looked incredibly young and fragile. Light freckles dusted her nose. Full, unadorned
lips trembled open as she drew a breath.
Wanting to give her something to concentrate on besides a dead body—which they’d
get to soon enough—he said, “You know, I figured you’d made me as a cop tonight.”
Her brow scrunched. “Why?”
“During our lap dance you wanted to keep it legal. I thought maybe I made you
nervous.”
“Did I seem nervous, Detective?”
He couldn’t restrain a grin, remembering how she’d gasped and jumped when he’d
stood at attention. “Yeah. You might have seemed a little nervous. Why don’t you call me
Trevor, since we know each other so well?”
She moved her head away from his hand and frowned. “We don’t really know each
other very well.”
He fought an urge to brush his fingers over one smooth, pale cheek. “Oh, you might be
surprised. I know you’re Stacy Roberts. You’ve worked at Deuces for two years, and right
now, you’d dearly love to be anywhere but here.”
Her expression turned hopeful. “Can I go?”
“Sorry, no.” He watched the hope wilt out of her face, and actually did feel sorry. “I
need to ask you some questions about what happened tonight. What you saw.”
She frowned again. “I want to help, Detective. Honestly, I do. But I’ve already told the
other officers everything I know, which isn’t much. Someone took my statement. I
reviewed and signed it.”
He knew she was tired. Fatigue painted light purple shadows under her eyes. But
getting her statement tonight, watching her reactions with everything still fresh in her
mind, would be far more valuable than collecting the information secondhand from other
officers or arranging an interview tomorrow. “Can I trouble you to run through it again?
For me.”
Her shoulders slumped a little, but she summarized her movements from the time she
left Deuces until she found the body. When she recounted approaching the victim, her
voice thinned and her breathing went shallow. He’d worked homicide long enough to
know it wasn’t a good sign.
“Did you recognize him?” He kept his voice low and level, hoping to fast-forward her to
a less traumatic point in the evening.
“No. I thought he might work at the club but…” She glanced over at the body and her
eyes glazed.
He crouched until they were eye level and slipped his hand under her ponytail so he
could rest his palm against the nape of her neck. Sweat covered her cold skin. “Easy,
Stacy. Take a couple nice, deep breaths for me, okay?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “His face was just a bloody…mess.”
Impossibly, her skin went paler. She blinked, reached out blindly, and grabbed a
handful of his shirt. “We have to stop spinning.” Then her eyes did a long, slow roll
toward the back of her head.
Hell. Way to go, McCade. “Stacy.” He said it loudly—loud enough to have her dilated
pupils looping back to his. Keeping his hand at her neck, he eased her limp body down to
the floor of the ambulance. The paramedic hurried over with a dirty look, a cold
compress, and some smelling salts. He ignored the look and laid the cold compress across
Stacy’s forehead. The smelling salts he pocketed. Hopefully they wouldn’t need them.
“That helps,” she mumbled and closed her eyes.
Her color improved. Trevor took a seat next to her in the back of the ambulance. “Can
you open those big blue eyes for me, Stacy?”
She complied, shielding her eyes with a hand. A clear, steady gaze met his.
“You’ll feel better if you stay hydrated. I’ll help you sit up when you’re ready, and you
can drink some water.”
“I’m ready. I’m all right.” Her words sounded a little fuzzy, but her eyes remained clear
and trained on his. Stacy Roberts might appear as fragile as a porcelain angel, but he
already knew she was tougher than she looked. She’d stopped in the middle of the night,
put herself at risk out of concern for her fellow man—and received a nasty reward for her
bravery. Most women—and men, for that matter—would be heavily sedated by now. He
couldn’t help admiring her guts.
Or the rest of her, which was, as of now, strictly off-limits. Keeping that in mind, he slid
his hand under her shoulders and tried to repress the memory of her long, smooth back
undulating in front of him.
“Okay, here we go.” He helped her into an upright position, and somehow ended up
with an arm around her shoulders. The soft weight of her breast had nowhere to rest
except against his side. Her cheek found a cushion on his chest. Clearing the tightness
from his throat—and doing his best to ignore the tightness in vicinities farther south—he
looked down at her. “How’s that?”
“I’m all right,” she repeated, and took a deep breath. “You smell nice,” she added, her
voice a bit fuzzy, which told him she wasn’t exactly back to normal yet.
He laughed, mostly because he couldn’t smell anything except her—a sweet, tropical,
positively edible scent. Whatever she’d slathered on her skin begged to be licked off, and
his mouth watered to do the job.
You already have a job. Keep your mind on it.
“Tell me right away if you feel like you need to lie back down. See the paramedic over
there?” He pointed and waited until she followed his gesture. “She thinks you’re gonna
faint on me, but I’m betting no.”
“I’m not going to faint.” To prove it, she straightened and squared her shoulders. Her
movements were as steady as her voice, which made him think she might be right.
“Good girl.” He pulled a bottle of water out of a cooler tucked against the wall of the
ambulance, cracked the lid, and handed it to her. “Think you can handle a few more
questions?”
She looked less sure about that, but took a sip of water and nodded.
“We’re almost done. I promise. Getting back to the victim’s identity, I know you said
you didn’t recognize him. Not surprising, under the circumstances. What’s surprising is we
found his ID in his wallet. His name was Carlton Long. Ring any bells?”
She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, then sighed and shook her head. “No.
I’m sorry. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a Deuces employee. I’m really not on a first-
name basis with many people at the club. It’s not what you’d call a social workplace.”
“I’ll bet.” He glanced up and caught Detective Ian Ford’s deceptively lazy green stare.
Ian whipped his slightly overgrown blond bangs off his forehead with a quick jerk of his
head, and sent Trevor a questioning look. We done here?
Trevor nodded and shifted his attention to Stacy. “The officers have your contact
information?”
“Yes,” she answered, staring at her feet.
“And you’re not planning any out-of-town trips in the near future, right?”
That brought her head up. “Am I a suspect?”
“You found the body. From an investigative standpoint, that makes you a person of
interest. But, no, I wouldn’t call you a suspect.”
Wary eyes turned curious, so he explained. “Mr. Long was five-eleven, almost two
hundred pounds, and, in my educated opinion, beaten to death. Limited defensive
wounds suggest he didn’t put up an epic struggle, but he fought some. Unfortunately for
him, his attacker was bigger, stronger, and overpowered him quickly. You’re what, five-
six, maybe a hundred and ten pounds, soaking wet?” Without waiting for her
confirmation, he went on. “Other than a bump on the head, you don’t have a mark on
you. So, yeah, my remarkable powers of deduction tell me you didn’t do this to him.”
“I see.”
“We appreciate your cooperation with our investigation. I don’t have any more
questions right now. Is there anything you’d like to add to your statement? Additional
details? Corrections or clarifications?”
She paused, but then shook her head, and he got the feeling she was hiding something.
Although he doubted pressing his hunch would yield any results, he pulled a business card
from his pocket and held it out to her. “If you think of anything you want to add—no
matter how minor—contact me.”
For a long moment she simply stared at the card, and he could almost hear her inner
debate. There was something else. To his frustration, if not surprise, she took the card
and said, “Am I free to go?”
Shit. Sometimes it sucked to be right. “Yep. You’re free to go. Would you like us to call
someone to pick you up, or have an officer drive you home?”
“No, no. That’s not necessary.” She hopped out of the ambulance. “I can drive myself. I
don’t have far to go.”
“Uh-uh. Bad idea. A few minutes ago you nearly passed out. Fainting and driving don’t
mix.”
“I’m good now. Honestly. Check my pulse, pupils, whatever. I can’t leave my car here. I
need to be somewhere first thing tom…today.”
He assessed her. Admittedly, she seemed steady. Wired and stressed, but not about to
conk out. “Okay, fine. Far be it from me to stand between a woman and her wheels. Go
wait in your car. I’ll have a black-and-white follow you home. You can take off as soon as
you see it in your rearview mirror.”
She exhaled a pent-up breath and started walking toward her car. Then, like a
schoolgirl remembering her manners, she turned back to him. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by driving home safely and contacting me if you decide to add anything to
your statement.”
She slipped into her car and saluted. “Will do.”
Yeah, right. Maybe she’d drive home safely, but he knew with a bone-deep certainty
she’d never contact him again of her own accord. Why not? He stared after her, frowning.
Because something about the entrancing Stacy Roberts didn’t quite add up.
…
Kylie gripped the wheel and drove home with the care of a teenager taking her driver’s
exam. Through the rearview mirror, she watched the patrol car follow close behind. Like a
shark stalking a guppy, she thought uneasily.
Dear God, what have you gotten yourself into?
Well, she’d lied to the police, for one. She hadn’t planned to, exactly. In fact, when the
first officers had questioned her, she’d been in such a daze, she was pretty sure she’d
given her name. When they’d asked to see some ID, she’d opened her wallet and handed
them her driver’s license, completely forgetting she had Stacy’s. By the time she’d tuned
in to the proceedings enough to realize the mistake, one disturbingly observant Detective
Trevor McCade stood in front of her, clearly recognizing her as Stacy Roberts, low-flying
lap dancer.
Certain she could do her pathetically small part to help them investigate poor Mr.
Long’s death and be on her way, she’d rolled the dice and let the mistake stand.
Confessing she’d posed as Stacy would only have raised a bunch of questions and possibly
gotten them in trouble with Deuces…and maybe the authorities too? Impersonating
someone sounded shady—possibly illegal.
Little did she know finding the body made her a “person of interest.” Now here she was,
involved in a murder investigation, trapped in a lie, facing a detective whose piercing
brown eyes told her he knew she wasn’t telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth.
Sweating like a fugitive, she pulled into the narrow, stacked parking spot in front of the
apartment she and Stacy shared. Their dark apartment, she noted with a scowl. The
place would be lit up like the Sunset Strip if Stacy were home. Even at…she glanced at
the clock on the dash and groaned…four in the morning. Guilt immediately washed over
her. Yes, she’d be sleep-deprived the rest of the day, but at least she’d have a day.
Carlton Long couldn’t say the same.
The patrol car pulled to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Kylie stepped out of the
car, forced a smile of thanks to her lips, and waved to the officer behind the wheel. He
waved back, but stayed put while she climbed the stairs to their second-floor unit. After
opening the door, she waved again and exhaled a long, relieved breath when the black-
and-white slowly pulled away.
She trudged inside, kicked the door shut, and hit the wall switch. Harsh yellow light
from the living room’s ugly overhead fixture bounced off cracked, tobacco-stained plaster
walls.
Home sweet home. Stacy and she had done what they could to make the place livable.
Cheaply framed but colorful prints of dancers graced the dingy walls. A faded rug they’d
found in a thrift store covered scuffed hardwood floors. More secondhand furniture and
flea-market finds filled out the rooms.
She dropped onto their slipcovered sofa, which leaned more toward shabby than chic,
and set Stacy’s heavy hot-pink bag on the floor. Every muscle wept with relief. An
aggrieved little voice in the back of her mind warned that in less than an hour and a half
she had to be showered, changed, and on her way to her 6:00 a.m. yoga class.
Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she closed her eyes, inhaled for a count of
ten, and tried to enter a sitting savasana.
Where the hell was Stacy?
Her eyes snapped open as she released the breath in a single, undisciplined burst.
Wherever her twin was tonight, she obviously wasn’t coming home, despite—or maybe
even because of—Kylie’s demand. Typical. Stacy did exactly as she pleased, whenever
she pleased, and left Kylie to deal with the fallout.
Growing up, Stacy had borne the brunt of the disapproving glares and cruel comments
from Two Trout’s vicious gossips, ensuring for the most part they left Kylie alone. In
return, she’d assumed the role of Stacy’s behind-the-scenes rescuer, good for everything
from completing homework to a 2:00 a.m. pickup from a party three counties away.
The dynamic didn’t work so well as adults. She loved her sister, and knew Stacy loved
her, but they enabled each other’s worst habits. So why had she let Stacy talk her into
this ridiculous switch?
Her mind replayed their conversation from five days earlier.
Kylie, Deuces is a top-tier club. It’s very exclusive, and competition for featured dancer
slots is intense. If you don’t dance my shifts, I’m out of a job.
Her suggestion that Stacy find another job, preferably one that didn’t involve sliding
around a pole half-naked, had fallen on deaf ears.
Name another gig where I can rake in enough to cover our expenses and still have my
days free for auditions. Without a high school diploma, my options are limited.
Kylie had held her tongue instead of pointing out that her twin chose to drop out of high
school their senior year. The decision still boggled Kylie’s mind.
Then again, school hadn’t exactly been a picnic. Growing up as the result of a reckless
night of passion between their town tramp of a mom and some pretty-faced drifter she
could never quite pin down invited comment, to say the least. The fine citizens of Two
Trout had zero compassion for such irresponsibility. They considered Debbie Roberts a
bed-hopping bimbo and assumed her daughters were cut from the same cheap cloth.
Stacy had rebelled by meeting quite a few of their low expectations—though not as
many as the busybodies liked to think. Between fact and rumor, she’d gained her “wild
twin” reputation, and a bone-deep aversion to authority in any form. Kylie, the “quiet
twin,” had done her best not to give anybody anything to talk about. She’d dressed
conservatively, spent her spare hours working at the library, and never, ever dated or
partied.
Sadly, none of her restraint made the slightest difference. The cynics of Two Trout
assumed blood would tell and it was only a matter of time before she fell off her straight
and narrow path.
Yeah, well, what did they know? Just because tonight she’d made her debut as a pole-
dancing stripper, found a dead body, lied to the cops—that didn’t prove anything.
Actually, it proved things had to change.
Kylie dragged her tired bones off the sofa and made her way to her closet-sized
bedroom. She turned on the light and dropped her bag on the floor inside the door. Her
phone tumbled out, and she saw she had a missed call. Three guesses as to the mystery
caller, she thought as she picked up the phone, plopped down onto her bed, and listened
to the voice mail message. Sure enough, Stacy’s voice came over the line.
“Sorry, can’t make it home tonight. My ride fell asleep, and I don’t have enough cash for
a cab. I hope you made it back to Deuces in time to grab the boots, but I’m not holding
my breath ’cause I couldn’t reach anyone at the club when I called. Oh well. You can get
them tomorrow after your morning classes. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
Kylie hit delete. Tonight, while she’d been risking her dignity—and, oh yeah, her neck—
to keep them from hurtling off their own fiscal cliff, Stacy had only managed to break
away from her latest bar-hound long enough to worry about overpriced boots?
Enough was enough. Kylie had worked hard to build a following for her yoga classes,
and recently accepted a teaching slot at one of the biggest, most respected studios in
West Los Angeles. Professionally, things were starting to come together. If she continued
to fill her classroom, she’d earn real money for a change, which in turn meant she could
start planning the next step—her own studio. But she couldn’t very well plan her future if
she constantly allowed Stacy and her habit of getting into trouble distract her. And
working at a strip club for the next six to eight weeks qualified as one big, messed-up
distraction.
Anger fueled her through her shower, her commute, and her morning classes. Not a
terribly enlightened motivator, but surprisingly effective. She was driving back to her
apartment for a much-anticipated nap—without a stop at Deuces for the stupid boots—
when her cell phone rang. She grabbed the earpiece from the dash, inserted it, and said,
“Hello?”
“Hello,” a deep, familiar voice replied. “This is Trevor McCade.”
His cool, sexy smile swam before her eyes as her heart stalled and then nose-dived
straight to the pit of her stomach. “Detective,” she replied on a rushed breath. “What can
I do for you?”
“We have some follow-up questions. Can you come down to the station?”
Her blood chilled. Down to the station? That sounded bad. “Today?”
“Yeah. I know your shift doesn’t start until ten tonight. I’m betting you can work us in
sometime before then. If not, I’m sure if my partner and I come down to Deuces,
management will let you take a break to speak with us.”
The traffic light up ahead turned from yellow to red, and Kylie hit the brake just in time
to avoid slamming into the car in front of her. Concentrate!
She took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. Nothing good would come out of
making the police question her at Deuces. Better to meet with them this afternoon. How
long could it take, given that she didn’t know anything?
With her fantasy of a long nap evaporating before her gritty eyes, she watched the
signal change, hit the gas, and replied, “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Chapter Three
Trevor tapped an evidence folder against his leg and watched from the monitoring room
as Ian escorted Stacy into an interview suite. The days of the stark white sweatbox with a
two-way mirror were gone, replaced by superior technology and psychology. With its
integrated audio and video components and blue-toned corporate conference room decor,
interview subjects enjoyed the illusion of privacy, and might forget they were
participating in a police interview long enough to let their guard down and give up
information.
All smiley, friendly good-cop, Ian pulled out a chair for their guest. Once she was
seated, he perched on the conference table and attempted some small talk. With his
rolled shirtsleeves, loose tie, and easy charm, he exuded relaxed calm. More like a desk
jockey at happy hour than a homicide detective conducting an investigation.
Stacy’s replies, on the other hand, were stiff and cautious, and her body language
matched. She kept her arms folded protectively across her chest. Although dressed in a
casual white workout tank and stretchy cropped pants the exact color of her eyes, she
somehow managed to look uncomfortable.
After wearing her guard down infinitesimally with his relentless pleasantness, Ian left to
fetch her a bottle of water. Her stiffness gave way to fatigue almost as soon as he left.
She straightened her long legs, crossed them at the ankles, and leaned back in her chair.
A moment passed. She shielded her mouth with her hand and surrendered to a jaw-
dropping yawn. The gesture coaxed a smile from him. Who covered their mouth when
yawning in an empty room?
Finally, she leaned forward, rested her arms on the table, and pillowed her head on her
biceps. Within minutes her slow, regular breaths told him she’d fallen asleep. Poor baby.
She probably hadn’t gotten much last night. Stumbling over a homicide victim tended to
have that effect on people.
Ian sauntered in and nodded to Trevor. “How’s our girl? Aw, look at that…a sleeping
angel.” He palpated a hand over his chest and grinned.
“Yeah, she’s a heart-stopper.”
“That she is,” Ian agreed. “But while she looks like a slice of heaven, she lies like hell.
Nothing Vernon Firth told me this morning jibes too well with her ‘never heard of him,
don’t know him’ line on Carlton Long. She’s either a liar or an idiot.”
“She’s no idiot. What’d you find when you ran her?”
“Not much. Drives like a maniac and parks wherever she wants, but other than the
parking violations and speeding tickets, her record is clean. I found a sealed juvie, but it’s
nothing.”
“How do you know?”
“I spoke to the local deputy and he remembered her well enough. They picked her up
for partying a few times—underage drinking, a little weed. She’s trouble with a lower-
case t.”
“Local deputy, meaning not here in LA?”
Ian nodded. “She’s a transplant. Born and raised on the wrong side of the tracks in Two
Trout, Tennessee.”
“Sounds rustic.”
“It’s a speck on the map. The municipal website puts the population at just under two
thousand. Father unknown, but according to the deputy I spoke to, the mom is alive and
well and living in Two Trout. No brothers, one sister, so not a lot to look at in terms of
family.”
Trevor watched Stacy on the monitor and wondered what convinced her to trade the
wrong side of the tracks in Two Trout for a Hollywood strip club. Another small-town
hopeful trying to make it big in Tinseltown, discovering that the shot comes at a very
steep price?
“Basically, nothing I uncovered in her past or her family tree sets my Spidey sense
tingling,” Ian concluded. “I’ll leave the data on your desk if you want to take a look?”
Trevor shook his head. Ian was thorough and his instincts reliable, even if his
detective’s badge wasn’t yet six months old. “No need. Nothing’s tingling for me either.
What about her job, or personal life?”
“Vern confirmed she’s been at Deuces for almost two years, like she told you, and he
says she’s one of his most popular dancers. Not the warmest, friendliest gal with the rest
of the staff, but she always shows up on time and ready to work, and doesn’t bring a lot
of personal drama with her like some of the girls. Consistent with that observation, he’s
never caught so much as a hint of a jealous boyfriend, obsessive ex, overprotective
buddy, or strange stalker-type hanging around.”
“No boyfriends?” Trevor raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Plenty of boys, but no friends. Vern implied she likes variety in her personal life and
rarely goes back for second helpings of anything she’s already sampled. Claims he tries to
stay out of his peoples’ business, but in his experience, she doesn’t stick with the same
guy long enough for anybody to develop an attachment. Also, as far as he knows, she
doesn’t hook up with the customers.”
“Has she ever hooked up with anybody on staff at Deuces?”
“Vern says no. Frankly, I got the impression she’s not real popular with her coworkers.”
Trevor turned back to the monitor. “Doesn’t look like she’s losing any sleep over it.”
Ian handed him two bottled waters. “I’d say it’s time for her wake-up call.”
Trevor took his folder and the waters, and with his back to the door, lifted his chin in a
salute. “Join in if the mood strikes.” With that, he pushed out the door and, bracing
himself for…he couldn’t say exactly what, walked toward the interview room.
She didn’t stir when he entered, not even when the door swung shut behind him. He sat
across from her, placed the water bottles and evidence folder on the table, and cocked an
eyebrow at the camera in the corner of the room. A muffled moan pulled his attention
back to the sleeping woman.
“Stacy?”
She shifted in her sleep, evading some phantom pursuer, and cried, “Don’t…oh, my
God!”
Concerned, he touched her arm, and kept his voice calm. “Shh. You’re dreaming. Wake
up.”
She jerked upright, completely disoriented. Her cheekbone bore a red imprint from her
arm. Wide, jumpy eyes flew around the room and finally settled on him.
He fought an impulse to smooth his hand over her cheek and tell her everything was
okay. Everything wasn’t okay. Instead, he cracked open a bottle of water and pushed it
toward her. “Bad dream, huh?”
Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands in a way he found strangely endearing,
she released a breath and nodded. “Yes. Sorry.”
“No apologies necessary. I understand. You had an ugly shock this morning.” When she
offered a small, pained smile, he cracked the cap on his own bottle of water and got
down to business. “I know you’re anxious to find justice for Mr. Long and I appreciate you
coming in this afternoon. I have a few additional questions for you, based on information
gathered earlier today.” Picking up the remote control for the camera and recorder he
added, “Do you mind if we record this?”
She licked her lips and shook her head. “Obviously, I want to do what I can, but I warn
you, I don’t have anything new to add to what I told you last night.”
Trevor forced his mind away from speculation about whether her lips tasted as lush and
sweet as they looked. “Why don’t I tell you what we’ve learned first, and then we’ll see if
you can shed any light?” He took her silence as agreement. “Ian spoke to Vernon Firth
this morning.”
No discernible reaction to that piece of news.
“Interestingly, Mr. Firth recognized the victim. He characterized Carlton Long as an
extremely loyal customer. In fact, according to him, Mr. Long frequented Deuces for a
very specific reason. Can you guess why?”
Guileless blue eyes met his. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a clue.”
“Really? That’s strange, because Mr. Firth indicated that you were the reason Mr. Long
came to Deuces on a regular basis.”
“Me?”
Her surprise struck him as completely genuine. She either didn’t see his answer coming
or she was a very good actress.
“Yes. That’s what he said.”
“I think maybe Vern’s mistaken, or drew some kind of wrong impression.”
“We’re not ones to take people’s impressions at face value either, so we looked into it.
Mr. Long’s credit card receipts confirm Mr. Firth’s belief.” He opened the evidence folder
and pulled one out. “Over a three-month period, Mr. Long purchased several private
dances. Mr. Firth walked us through the service codes Deuces uses and we noted that the
vast majority of those purchases involved dancer 1469.” Tapping the line item on the
receipt copy, he flicked his eyes to hers. “That’s you.”
She squinted at the receipt. “Yes.”
“So, Carlton Long has been one of your regular clients for at least three months, and
yet, last night you told me you didn’t recognize his name. I find that curious.”
Stacy took a long drink, while her eyes strayed down and to the right—a classic
indication of someone formulating a story. “I’m not good with names. If I’d seen his face,
without the…trauma, I might have recognized him. The name by itself?” She executed a
jerky shrug. “It just didn’t click.”
“I hear what you’re saying. Business is business.” He tucked the receipt back in the
folder, and then scratched his chin. “The thing is, Stacy, I’m not quite buying it, because I
noticed something about you last night.”
She took another sip of water, sloshing a little due to her shaking hand.
“When you work,” he continued, “you’re very aware of your audience. You take in
details and retain them.”
There went those eyes again—down and right.
“That’s, um, kind of an illusion, Detective. Customers want to feel special, like they’re
getting personal attention. I hate to burst your bubble, but for the dancers, the clients’
names and faces all blend together.”
Trevor rubbed his jaw and made a show of considering her explanation. “Maybe for
some dancers they do, but I sense not for you. You’re an active observer, strategic even.”
She used the nail of her ring finger to worry the cuticle of her thumb and shook her
head. “No, not really. Like I said—”
“Last night, during your stage dance, you sized up everyone in the front row before
choosing your dance partner. You correctly assessed your mark as a little drunk and
available for some audience participation, but not so drunk as to risk getting out of hand.
To make those kinds of decisions, you have to be observant and smart.”
Full, unadorned lips parted, as if to offer an automatic denial, and then closed. She took
a breath and relaxed her shoulders. “The man happened to be sitting in the right place at
the right time. Nothing more. I’m a dancer, not a trained observer.”
“I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Of course, you’ve made some bad
calls too, like your choice last week.”
“My choice last week?”
Again, he noted her genuine confusion. “Yes. Last Saturday you selected Mr. Long as
your dance partner, but instead of playing nice, he got overexcited and pulled you
offstage. Mr. Firth said you sprained your ankle as a result of the spill and took this past
Thursday off in order to give yourself an extra day to heal. I hope you’re feeling better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Good.” He gave himself a moment to simply look at her, into her, beyond the line of
bull she persisted in feeding him, but she kept her expression locked tight. “Forgive me,
Stacy, but I need to run through these facts one more time. Last night, when I told you
the victim was Carlton Long, no bells of recognition rang in your head. Correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s hard to keep track of every Tom, Dick, and Carl.”
“Despite him being a long-standing customer? Despite him spending over five thousand
dollars for private dances before the night of your accident?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Handling the charge cards and payments is
someone else’s job. The dancers don’t deal with it, so names don’t necessarily come up.”
“You’d given him at least one private dance a week for the last three months. Are you
telling me his name never came up during all that time? Wouldn’t you want to address
such a devoted client by name?”
“Maybe he called himself Carl once or twice, Detective. I meet a lot of men. You stop
retaining names after a while. I don’t really remember.”
“A regular client who pulls you offstage and injures you so badly you need a full week
to recover doesn’t stand out?”
“Of course I remember the incident, but…” She shrugged.
He leaned forward until he could look her in the eye. Hers were wide and unhappy.
“Sorry, but I’m still having a tough time with this. You pick up details and you have a
good memory. Last night when I showed up at the crime scene, you recognized me and
remembered my name. I’m not even a regular customer, let alone one who’s spent
thousands on your private dances. How do you explain your remarkable recall with me?
Eyes down and right, like clockwork. “You’re a cop. Cops don’t blend in,” she replied, a
little desperately. But he had to hand it to her. She had a marginally plausible answer for
everything.
“So, you’re not good with names, or faces?”
“Even if I was good with faces, how would I have recognized Mr. Long? His face was…
ruined.”
“True enough.” He sighed and shook his head. “The medical examiner’s preliminary
report sheds some light on his last few hours. Someone hit him on the back of his head
with a blunt object—likely a liquor bottle—and fractured his skull. That blow pretty much
punched his ticket. He couldn’t put up much fight when his assailant slipped on the brass
knuckles and went to work on his face. Needless to say, it wasn’t quick or painless.”
Her uneven breaths and shimmering eyes made him pause.
“Poor man,” she whispered.
Everything inside him believed she meant it. Her horror, her compassion, both struck
him as genuine.
“I agree. Being beaten to death is a harsh end. It’s also a fairly unusual death,
statistically speaking. There were two hundred reported homicides in Los Angeles County
last year, but only a handful of the male victims were beaten to death. If I look for similar
crimes locally, within the last three years, I get a real short list.” He rolled his shoulders
and lifted his water bottle to his lips. “Sometimes the similar crimes angle is a dead end.”
“You have a difficult job, Detective.”
“Trevor,” he corrected and took a long drink. Lowering the bottle, he shifted topics. “So,
you think if Mr. Long had sustained less blunt force trauma, you might have recognized
him as a Deuces patron?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try another face and see what you recognize.” With that, he opened the evidence
envelope again, pulled out a photograph from his cold-case file and tossed it on the table
between them. “Recognize this man?”
She picked up the photo and stared at the well-groomed, swarthy man, as if
memorizing for a test. Finally, she dropped it and shook her head. “No.”
“His name is Alex Montenegro. Sound familiar?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Is that a no?”
“Yes, that’s a no.” Her irritation came through loud and clear.
“Vern indicates he was also one of your regulars, until about eight months ago. At that
time, the LAPD discovered his body in an alley a block from Deuces. He’d been beaten to
death, just like Mr. Long.” Trevor tossed out another picture of Mr. Montenegro, this one a
lot less flattering.
Her eyes darted to his. “I thought you said the similar crimes angle was a dead end?”
“I said sometimes it’s a dead end.” Relaxing in his chair, he folded his hands behind his
head and smiled. “Not this time, as it turns out. Speaking of similarities, Vern says Mr.
Montenegro behaved improperly during one of your private dances and security escorted
him out against his will. Do you remember the incident?”
“I don’t know…vaguely?”
“A disappointing answer from such an observant woman. Vern couldn’t remember
exactly what went down, but he thinks the incident occurred during what ended up being
Mr. Montenegro’s last visit to Deuces. Tell me, Stacy, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“A jealous ex? An overprotective man in your life who isn’t real happy with your career
choice?”
“No. No,” she insisted when he continued to stare at her. “What are you getting at?”
“I’m getting at two men, beaten to death in a manner so similar it’s practically a
signature, whose only other connection appears to be their enthusiasm for Deuces…and
you. That’s either an incredible coincidence—and I don’t believe in coincidence—or you’re
involved. For several reasons, not the least of which is all the heat you walked into by
finding and reporting Mr. Long’s body, I doubt you’re knowingly involved.”
He waited a beat, to gauge her reaction to his statement, and caught the faintest
flicker of relief cross her face. “Don’t take too much comfort from staying off the suspect
list, because if I’m right, you’re in an even more precarious situation. You’ve caught a
killer’s eye. So far he’s going after your poorly behaved clients, but I can’t help wondering
what happens if he decides you’re the one behaving poorly.”
His words rounded her huge, blue eyes, but she didn’t crack. Instead, she dropped her
gaze to her watch. “I’ve answered your questions as best I can. Am I free to go?”
“What’s your hurry? Somebody extremely dangerous is watching you closely, if my
theory is correct. Maybe you’d like to consider the implications for a moment?”
She didn’t respond, but her expression conveyed such apprehension, uncertainty, and
plain old misery, he couldn’t stop himself from trying again.
“Hey.” He softened his voice. “You’re in a risky situation. I need your help to get you
out.”
She glanced his way, but said nothing.
“Is there anyone hanging around Deuces who makes you nervous—a client or a
coworker you dated, or who wanted a date and didn’t get one? A guy who’s controlling,
possessive, or just not quite right? Now’s not the time to protect someone you feel sorry
for. Protect yourself.” He let concern lace his voice. Not hard. He was extremely
concerned. Duty compelled him to keep her safe, but his desire to do so went well
beyond a professional aim to protect and serve. He’d developed a soft spot for this
resourceful little stripper with a core of old-fashioned decency.
“There’s something you’re not saying. I can tell.” Knuckle under her chin, he tipped her
face up and held her wary, frightened gaze. “Please, talk to me.”
The signs of her indecision played across her face for several moments. Ultimately,
though, she shook her head. “I can’t—”
“God, you’re a tough one.” For the second time now he’d convinced himself she was
about to trust him.
“I’m not,” she shot back, voice quavering. “I’m so far from tough it’s frightening.”
“Stacy, we can keep you safe—”
“You don’t understand. I can’t tell you anything more because I don’t know anything. I
don’t know who killed Carlton Long or the other one…Alex Montenegro—”
“Impressive memory for someone who claims to be terrible with names,” he pointed
out softly.
Her expression froze, then shuttered. She pulled away and stood. “I’m leaving now.”
“Fine. We’ll continue this discussion tonight at Deuces.”
That stopped her at the door. She swung around and stared at him. “Detective, I’ve
answered your questions. The whole point of coming here this afternoon was so you
wouldn’t come to the club tonight.”
“I know.” He smiled as he said it, showing her he wasn’t particularly concerned with her
lack of enthusiasm for his company. “I also know you’re our only link between two
unsolved murders. So unless and until something else breaks, I’m your new best
customer. Better get used to me.”
…
“You’re stoned if you think I’m going to the cops,” Stacy declared with a humorless laugh.
“I might as well lock myself up and throw away the key.”
Kylie stopped pacing a threadbare path over the worn rug covering the scarred
hardwood of their living room floor and stared at her sister, who sat on the sofa with her
cast-encased leg propped on their dinged Ikea coffee table. Having just recapped a high-
volume account of the last twelve hours of her life, her twin’s flat-out refusal to come
clean to the police about their switcheroo threw her for a loop.
“Stacy, this is not like me taking your place for one of Mrs. Higgins’s algebra exams. It’s
a murder investigation, and I don’t know the right answers. I told them I didn’t recognize
Carlton Long’s name, but it looks like a big, fat lie, given he was one of your best clients.
The good news is, despite all the holes in my statement, they don’t think you’re
knowingly involved in the murders.”
“Good. We’re home free, Ky. Why mess things up now?”
So Trevor doesn’t come to Deuces every night and watch me dance, she wanted to
scream, but bit the words back and offered up a more rational explanation. “Because it’s
illegal to lie to the police? Because you might know something important you don’t even
realize, or maybe have some detail tucked away in your memory that will unlock the case
for them? Do you want me to keep going? This is nonnegotiable, Stacy. We’ve got to call
Detective McCade, explain what we did, and talk to him. Don’t be afraid. You’re not a
suspect.”
Stacy’s face lost every bit of color. Even her lips went pale at Kylie’s words. “No, Kylie,
you’re not a suspect. You come across as innocent and trustworthy. They could have
found you standing over both dead guys, bloody brass knuckles in hand, and somehow,
they’d still believe you had nothing to do with it. I’m different. My whole life, all I had to
do was breathe and I’d be accused of doing something wrong. If we come forward now
and tell these detectives about our little fraud, I’m screwed.”
And there it was, the crux of her sister’s refusal. “This isn’t Two Trout. These detectives
don’t operate on preconceived notions. They look for the truth and back it up with facts.
And the fact is, you didn’t commit these murders. But they happened, and you can’t afford
to hide your head and pretend otherwise.”
“Please, Ky, keep being me,” Stacy begged. “I’m no good with police. I don’t trust them.
Remember how it was in Two Trout? The second anything bad happened, the cops
always showed up at our door, wanting to question me. And I always said something
wrong, even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.”
Kylie wanted to deny the assertion, but she couldn’t. Their whole lives, her sister had
always been guilty until proven innocent. Over the years, run-ins with teachers, social
workers, and yes, on occasion, Two Trout’s finest, had formed Stacy’s distrust of the
establishment—and those run-ins involved nothing as serious as murder.
As though she sensed her sibling’s wavering certainty, Stacy went on. “You’re handling
them so much better than I ever could. Thanks to you, I’m not even a suspect. I promise I
don’t have any information that could possibly help this investigation. If I did, I’d tell you.
I remember Alex, and I remember Carlton, but I have no idea who killed them. I’m not
the link. There’s got to be some other connection the cops haven’t figured out yet. Maybe
they will, if we don’t distract them with our situation.”
“Stacy, I’m not trying to scare you, but they think you’ve attracted the attention of a
killer. If they’re right, you’re in danger, and as long as I’m pretending to be you, I am,
too.”
“We’re not in danger, because I’m not the connection,” Stacy said firmly. “Trust me, Ky,
I can spot the freaks from a mile away, and I’ve never gotten that vibe from anyone at
Deuces, clients or employees. Besides, if this Detective McCade is at the club every night,
what can happen?”
She didn’t want to think about what might happen with Trevor at Deuces every night.
“Please, Ky? Please don’t throw me to the cops.” Stacy wrapped her arms around
herself and shivered. “I’ll end up convicted of something. I’ll lose my job.” Tears welled in
her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “Afterward, no reputable club will touch me. My
performing career will be over before it’s really started. None of this will bring Carlton or
Alex back or get anybody one step closer to finding out who killed them.”
Irrational fear had taken control, Kylie knew, but logical or not, her sister really was
scared. Kylie couldn’t help wanting to comfort her. She sat on the couch and slid an arm
around her shoulders. Stacy covered her face with her hands and leaned in, seeking
support.
“Okay,” she sighed, defeated. “I’ll handle the police.”
Stacy sniffed loudly, wiped her cheeks, and gave her a grateful look. “You will?”
“Yes, but this is the absolute last time we resort to an identity swap to get out of a
jam. Things have to change. We need to take responsibility for our own lives.”
“Last time. I swear. I’ll do anything you want, Ky. Just name it.”
“You have to help me if I’m going to pull this off. I need to be a much more convincing
Stacy, for starters.”
“I’ll help.” Stacy smiled through her tears. “By the time I’m done, even you won’t
believe you’re not me.”
Chapter Four
Halfway through her second featured dance, Kylie completed a slow twirl around the pole
and her gaze slammed into Trevor’s. She tightened her grip and slowed the turn so she
didn’t stumble. His controlled expression gave nothing away, but the sight of him
watching her like a hawk from the back of the audience stretched her already-tight nerves
until they quivered like overwound violin strings. Deep breathing didn’t do much to ease
the painful tension.
Why wouldn’t she be tense? She’d spent the whole evening hyperalert, wired from
drinking too much caffeine and stressed because she imagined a killer monitoring her
every move. Call her uptight, but constantly scanning her coworkers and customers for
signs of homicidal tendencies made her edgy.
Yet despite her vigilance, she hadn’t seen Trevor arrive.
Now that he had, a different sort of edginess took hold. Her focus contracted.
Everything around him faded to an indistinct blur while the dark, velvety weight of his
stare stroked her like a touch, igniting little fires everywhere it lingered—her lips, her
breasts…lower. Somehow, she managed to complete the dance, but her wobbly legs and
shortness of breath couldn’t be blamed on exertion.
Backstage, while waiting on her clothes, she worked on bringing her heart rate back to
normal and accepting some uncomfortable truths. Trevor held power over her, and not
simply because he was investigating a murder and she was walking a razor-thin line
between witness and suspect. No, it came down to something much more personal—and
worrisome. When he looked at her, feelings she’d buried and left for dead a long time ago
pulsed to life. Sexuality and sensuality heated and mixed. The molten concoction flowed
to all her erogenous zones—zones she would have sworn never existed before now.
Being the “good twin,” the “let’s not give ’em something to talk about” girl, demanded
self-control. Their mom had chucked her independence, rearranged her priorities, and
clung like a burr to any man in a nicely packed pair of Levi’s who gave her a second
glance. Determined never to measure her worth by her relationship status, avoid any
whisper of scandal, and prove to everyone a Roberts woman could make something of
herself, Kylie had resolved to be the boss of her hormones.
The testament to her success? She’d left home a virgin. And although liberated from the
prying eyes of Two Trout’s gossips, five years in LA hadn’t broadened her experience in
any noteworthy ways. While Stacy seemed bound and determined to prove she could pick
men up and toss them aside without breaking stride, Kylie was too busy pursuing her
goals to date. Her yoga classes took up practically all of her bandwidth.
She pulled on the outfit and glanced down at herself. Thanks to this latest fiasco, Kylie’s
lean, flexible body had been transformed into something ripe and seductive. A lacy black
push-up bra boosted her breasts to heretofore unimaginable heights. A matching G-string
and thigh-high stockings created a lace-embroidered invitation to stare at her crotch.
Someday in the future, when she owned her own studio and Stacy had a legitimate
entertainment job, maybe she’d be able to rearrange her priorities. Stop spending all her
time working and rescuing Stacy, and find a nice guy to…um…show her some of life’s
sweet mysteries. But so far, nobody had much tempted her.
Until now, whispered a brutally honest voice as she shrugged into a thigh-grazing man’s
white button-down shirt and draped a blue and silver striped tie around her neck. Trevor
definitely tempted her. Those hormones she thought had dried up and blown away like an
untended garden were dropping roots and sprouting like crazy.
“Crazy” being the operative word. Now was the wrong time, and Trevor, the wrong
man. Appalled with herself, she shoved her black fedora on her head, turned, and nearly
screamed as she ran smack into Vern.
“Jesus, you scared me!”
Vern rolled his eyes and smoothed his shirt. “What’sa matter? Last night’s excitement
got you jumpy?”
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“I’m always jumpy when cops come around asking me questions.” He paused and gave
her a serious look. “The detective who came to see me this morning told me they’d be
speaking to you. Handle them on your own time. I’m telling you now, if I see more cops
around here, things will get ugly.”
Kylie swallowed the urge to tell him tonight’s audience included at least one homicide
detective. “I intend to cooperate.”
“I’m not saying don’t cooperate. Hell, I’m cooperating. They asked me for a list of all
your regulars for the last year, based on private dance receipts, and I’m going to get
them their damn list. Soon as I do, they’re going to ask you about those guys. If you don’t
want the LAPD scaring away your best clients, I suggest you convince them they don’t
need to talk to every single one of them.”
Lord, how was she supposed to prepare for this? She was going to have to memorize all
Stacy’s regulars—what they looked like, their personalities, what type of…entertainment…
they preferred. Impossible. To Vern she said, “No problem.”
“Good. Then maybe we can focus on work for a second. You’ve got a thirty-minute
private dance in VIP room two. He’s not a regular. Go make him one. Benny is already in
there reviewing the rules, so unload your tips and hustle over. If you can’t get another
thirty minutes out of him, you’ve got just enough time to give grandpa at table seven a
lap dance. If the private extends, you’re done for the night. I’ll have Lee Ann do the old
guy.”
Before Kylie could reply, the honey-haired Southern belle stepped out of the dressing
room at the end of the hall. “Lee Ann!” Vern barked and lumbered toward his next target.
Dread knotted her stomach as she hurried toward the dressing room. She’d been
hoping against hope to avoid private dances. Public ones were bad enough. Pushing
through the door, she smiled absently at Ariana, nodded to Ginger, crossed to Stacy’s
vanity, and stopped short. Stacy’s overpriced boots sat on the vanity, safe and sound.
Surprised, she scanned the room. Ariana noticed her look and responded with a
haughty smile. “Yes, Stacy, last night before I leave, I find your boots over there by the
lockers. I figure you forget them…not like you to forget your things. I think, ‘Ari, these
boots will not be here tomorrow unless you lock them up.’ So I do.” She raised a shoulder
and let it drop. “Now I take them down and give them back to you.”
Kylie stared at the Russian. “Thank you. These boots were new and expensive and, to
be honest, I never thought I’d lay eyes on them again. If you hadn’t put them in a safe
place, I’m sure I never would have.”
Ariana lifted her nose in the air and looked down at Kylie through lowered, heavily lined
eyelids. “Thank you for letting me borrow body oil last night.”
“Any time.” The way Stacy had described her coworkers left Kylie with the impression
they were all viciously competitive and out for themselves. Not so true, apparently.
At least the precious boots were safe. She wished she could say the same for herself.
With shaking hands she transferred her tips from her costume to her lockbox and tried to
get herself calm and mentally prepared for the private dance.
“Private” wasn’t really accurate. Deuces mandated a bouncer stay in the room. At least
Benny was bouncing for her rather than Ramon, the other security team member working
tonight.
Ramon had been on stage duty the night Carlton Long pulled Stacy offstage. He’d left
his station mid-dance to take a call, which broke club rules and, indirectly, her sister’s leg.
Stacy dismissed Ramon as “a lazy weasel who never has your back,” but the vast
nothingness in his dull black eyes bothered Kylie almost as much as his unreliability.
Then again, who was she to judge? For the next few weeks, she’d be dancing next to
naked around a pole, on a table, over some guy’s lap, or up close and personal in the VIP
room—the most profitable option by far, which is why she had to do this private dance.
Panic skated through her at the thought of providing such intimate and blatantly sexual-
themed entertainment, but there was no way around it. She and Stacy had bills to pay.
Besides, quitting now would look suspicious.
To calm her jittery nerves, she reviewed Stacy’s instructions. They played in her head
while she made her way to the VIP room with all the enthusiasm of a dead man walking.
A private performance takes the fantasy to the next level for the client. One-on-one
attention from the girl of his dreams. The performance is what we call “full contact,”
though he’s not allowed to touch you anyplace personal. You, on the other hand, can
touch him anywhere above the belt, and you can sit on his lap.
My clients tend to want an artistic experience. Carlton, for instance, liked to undo my
top, but otherwise, wasn’t into a lot of contact. He preferred to sit back and watch while I
touched myself and put on a show for him. He enjoyed…theatrics.
Not just dancing, but acting, Kylie thought facetiously. Still, at the end of the day, it
remained just a fantasy. For whatever comfort that offered. She opened the red leather-
upholstered door to the VIP room, steeled her nerves, and stepped inside.
Deuces’ upscale ambience extended to the private rooms. Dark colors and low lights
called to mind a gentleman’s study. But rather than shelves of books and a desk, the
room boasted mirror-paneled walls, a comfortable leather chair, and a small table for
holding drinks. Tucked in a shadowy corner sat a utilitarian wooden stool for the bouncer.
Benny stood in front of the client, reviewing the VIP room etiquette. When he stepped
to the side, her heart stuttered in her chest. Trevor sat in the chair, enigmatic eyes fixed
on her.
Benny glanced at her and tipped his head. “We’re on the clock.” With that, he retired to
the corner and literally faded into the background.
She stood rooted to her spot by the door, unable to move.
“Hello, Stacy.” Trevor’s low greeting sent a tremor down her spine. “I don’t want to tell
you how to do your job, but I’m guessing you need to come a little closer.”
…
Stacy marched over to him, eyes flashing. The energy coming off her in waves announced
one thing. She was ready to rumble. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her furious whisper reminded him of an alley cat trying to intimidate a pit bull. Her
coconut-vanilla scent reminded him of sex on the beach, somewhere tropical and
isolated, preferably deserted, except for them.
He shoved that thought aside and smiled up at her in his best impersonation of an
eager client—a disturbingly easy role. Through his teeth he said, “I’m getting a private
dance, just like any avid customer.”
“You’re not a real customer.” She kept her voice low, but her temper came through loud
and clear.
“I’m as real as they come. I’ve paid the money, I’ve agreed to the rules. And now”—he
leaned back in the chair like a guy about to enjoy a private dance—“I’m ready for my
performance.”
Ready might have been an overstatement. Her plain man’s button-down, striped
necktie, lace-trimmed stockings, and shiny black heels fucked with his head, not to
mention a few other things.
She stared a hole through him for a long second, and it occurred to him she might
refuse. But then she reached behind him for the stereo programmer. Donna Summer’s
“Love to Love You Baby” moaned from the surround sound. Music selection complete,
Stacy took her position straddling his lap and slowly rolled her hips in time with the
music.
“Anything particular on your wish list tonight?”
Tons, but this wasn’t about him. He needed to keep his mind on the investigation.
“How’d you dance for Carlton?”
“Carlton liked a sensual dance, if I remember correctly.”
God bless Carlton. “Okay. Give me what you’d give him.”
She lowered her lashes, which he couldn’t interpret. Was she afraid? Resigned? Sleepy?
Nimble fingers undid the knot on the tie at her throat. She swirled the strip of silk around
her shoulders, down her arm, and let it fall to the floor. The collar of her shirt draped
open, revealing and abundance of smooth cleavage nestled in a lacy black bra.
He wanted to drag his own tie down and tear open the top few buttons of his shirt. The
damn thing choked him. He couldn’t concentrate.
She moved her hips over his lap, barely brushing him. His cock immediately sat up and
took notice, reminding him control and self-discipline had their limits. But her reaction
surprised him a lot more than his own. Pink invaded her cheeks. She raised her hips
slightly and focused her attention in the vicinity of his mouth.
“How’d you get this?” she murmured, tracing her index finger lightly along his upper lip.
His tongue itched to follow the path of his finger. Most people never noticed the thin,
almost invisible, white scar, but whenever someone did ask, he usually dismissed the
question with a bullshit answer.
“Domestic disturbance call, back when I was a rookie,” he said, before he fully realized
he planned to tell her the truth. “We showed up and separated a couple tearing into each
other right there in their front yard. Huge guy, and he’s got this scarecrow of a woman in
a headlock. She’s kicking and screaming, trying to twist out of his grip. We waded in. I
took the guy, and my partner took the female. Anyway, she slipped out of his grip, I turn
around, and—wham—she slugs me in the mouth. Her ring scratched that little reminder
right where I can see it every day.”
Her eyes shifted to his and lingered for beat before dropping to his mouth again.
“Reminder?”
“Yeah. Don’t underestimate someone’s capacity for violence just because they look like
they couldn’t hurt a fly.”
She brushed her fingernail lightly along the scar, in what he recognized as an instinctive
effort to sooth a hurt. Didn’t matter. The uncalculated gesture affected him almost as
much as her outfit, her dance, all the artifice. All the blood in his body settled heavily
between his legs. Get your head out of your pants. You’re investigating a murder, for
Christ’s sake.
“You learned the same lesson, I think.” At her raised eyebrows, he said, “The other
night, with Long, when he pulled you offstage.”
“Carlton didn’t mean to hurt me. It was an accident.”
Okay, safe ground, finally. Discuss the victim. Learn his habits. “He wasn’t a problem,
normally?”
“No. Nor was he particularly touchy. He liked to watch the dancers.”
“You, in particular.”
She shrugged, somehow incorporating the gesture into her slow, rhythmic sway. “I
guess.”
“And this is what he liked? You, standing over him, moving your body close to his?”
“Carlton liked to participate in one aspect,” she whispered.
Judging by the look on her face, he was screwed. Safe ground eroded under him even
as he formed the question that had to be asked. “How?”
“He would help me with my top.”
Trevor managed to swallow—an effort to relieve the tightness in his throat—but his
voice held a distinctly thick quality when he replied, “Got it.” He raised his hands and
began undoing the buttons on her white shirt, silently ordering himself to keep his eyes
on her face.
She lowered her hands from where they rested on his shoulders so he could push the
shirt down her arms. It hit the floor like a hushed sigh, barely audible over the music.
Then, because his eyes had a fucking mind of their own, they dropped to her impossibly
gorgeous breasts, displayed to perfection by the lacy black bra. The music receded, and
for several seconds, the only noise he heard was the sound of his breath rushing in and
out of his lungs.
“This, too?” he finally managed, the words little more than a low rumble. The thought
of unclasping the bra and freeing her breasts made him light-headed. Or maybe that was
the lack of blood flow to his brain. He wished they’d crank up the air in this place.
She nodded.
“I’m on it.” All in the line of duty, right? The whole point was to make this look real. He
reached around and his fingers brushed the back clasp. Could be his hands were shaky,
but the damn thing eluded him. He put his palms on top of her thighs and settled her on
his lap. “You’re a moving target. Sit still for a minute.”
Her hands returned to his shoulders. He leaned forward to complete his assignment,
inadvertently rasping her shoulder with his jaw. Her little shiver of reaction sent a bolt of
heat straight to his groin. Sweat rolled into his eyes. He squeezed them shut and counted
to ten, trying to get himself under control.
“There we go,” he murmured, opening his eyes and leaning back. Stacy didn’t move a
muscle, but her shuddery exhale sent the bra straps sliding down her arms, revealing her
breasts in all their glory. Choking back a groan, he lowered his hands to his sides, but he
couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of her, all up close and personal.
Her small, pink nipples tightened under his stare. The reaction seemed to startle her.
She inhaled sharply and crossed her arms over her chest. Knowing it made him just like
every fool who’d ever forked over money for lap dance didn’t stop him from wondering if
she might be as affected by this as he was.
“What now? Would Carlton would touch you?” Wait. Shit. What if she said yes? Trevor
was only human, but there were lines here he couldn’t cross.
“That’s not allowed,” she said breathlessly. Reluctantly, insisted the idiot in his head.
“Aside from undressing me, Carlton preferred not to touch.”
“Ah. That’s right. He liked to watch.”
She nodded.
“You put on a realistic show, and he watched?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. I’m all eyes.” Keeping them on her face, he leaned back in his chair and
mentally recited the Law Enforcement Oath of Honor.
She rose from his lap and slowly tipped her head back until her hat tumbled away. Then
she crossed her arms behind her neck, lifted her hair, and let it cascade down her back.
The Oath segued into a prayer for strength.
Prayers wouldn’t be enough, he realized, when she splayed her hands on her rib cage
and slowly slid them up her torso toward her breasts. At the last minute, however, she
hesitated. Her eyes drifted to his. “Do you want me to…?”
The cynical part of his brain took charge, because he didn’t have any prayers left.
“You’ve got the innocent, virginal act down pat. It’s surprisingly effective.” Then the cynic
surrendered and all he had left was the truth. “Hell, yes, I want you to,” he whispered. “I
might die if you don’t.”
Maybe Stacy got off on tortured admissions, or maybe this was all part of the act, but
she closed her eyes, ran her hands over her breasts, and gave a little whimper that
vibrated all the way through him.
“Like this?” she whispered.
“That’s good. I mean…” Shit. “If that’s what Carlton liked.”
She strummed her fingers over the tight peaks and bit her lip as if to hold back a moan.
He stiffened in the chair and reached for her before he caught himself. “Jesus. Sorry.”
If she heard him, she gave no sign. She seemed to be off in her own world, somewhere
beyond those closed eyes. Real or simulated? Hard to say. Mesmerizing? Definitely. When
she sucked her finger into her mouth, and then rubbed her nipple, transferring moisture
to the glistening peak, he exhaled harshly, sending a burst of air over the tip. The skin
puckered, and a moan echoed low in her throat.
He groaned and shifted in the chair. Before he knew what she had in mind, she pressed
her hips down and rode his throbbing cock. In his overtaxed imagination, there were no
barriers between them. No lacy G-string, no dark-blue suit pants, just a slow, slick slide of
heated flesh against heated flesh.
They had to stop. He had to—oh, God. Her palm swept down her fluttering belly until
her fingers found the soaked lace of her thong. With one hand braced on his shoulder for
balance, she arched her back, thrust her breasts forward, and proceeded to rub and
stroke herself into a frenzy.
She was giving him, hands down, the sexiest show he’d ever seen. Her uncensored,
uninhibited movements sure as hell didn’t look like an act. Didn’t feel like an act. Worse,
he didn’t want this to be an act. The last thought shocked him into action. Abruptly, he
widened his legs. The move forced her thighs farther apart. “Stacy, we have to stop—”
Too late. Head back and teeth clenched, her entire body tightened against his. Her free
hand clenched his shirtfront while the busy hand between her legs stilled. She sucked in a
quick breath—as if she’d just walked into the biggest surprise of her life—and then came
with a long, shattering cry.
In that moment, Trevor knew that he was completely and utterly fucked.
…
“That was some performance.”
Trevor’s sardonic comment cut through Kylie’s churning thoughts. What the hell had she
just done? Had she lost her freaking mind, along with every last shred of decency and
self-control? Yes, she was under pressure. Yes, this man stirred up unprecedented
chemistry inside her and she had zero experience handling those urges. But indulging in a
sexual fantasy to get through a private dance, forfeiting control for some kind of escape,
was dangerous and humiliating. Shame burned hot enough to make her tremble.
She pried her eyes open and looked at him. What she saw in his face set her trembling
again, this time with panic. He knows. Ruthlessly, she cut the thought off. No, he
suspects. He doesn’t know anything you don’t tell him.
“I’m pleased you enjoyed it,” she said breezily, though it was more like a wheeze, and
started to climb off him. “Carlton always did.”
He caught her wrist, stopping her retreat. “All part of your show, huh?” His expression
mirrored the disbelief in his voice.
“That’s right.”
Before she could guess his intention, he brought her hand to his face. The same hand
that, seconds ago, had been nestled between her legs. He inhaled deeply, and her face
flamed. She tried to pull away, but he held on.
“If that was a performance, you deserve an Academy Award.”
“No holding,” ordered a firm voice from the corner of the room.
The interruption jolted her right out of her skin. Then recognition dawned and she
almost wilted with relief. Benny. Good old Benny. She’d forgotten he was there, but could
have kissed him on the mouth when his stoic instruction did the trick. Still watching her
like a hawk, Trevor unhurriedly released her wrist. The disbelief on his face continued to
challenge her assertion she’d been acting, but he said nothing more.
Get out, fast. She scrambled away and scanned the floor for her shirt. She found it
easily enough and shrugged the garment on, but shaking hands made dealing with the
buttons difficult.
“Need some help?”
The deliberate patience in Trevor’s voice bothered her almost as much as the feel of his
maddeningly steady hands trailing along her shirtfront, deftly securing buttons. His
movements caused the fabric to shift and rub. Under his miss-no-detail gaze, her nipples
sprang to attention.
Swatting at his hands, she added, “Cut it out.”
“Back off.” This time Benny’s disembodied voice sounded more menacing.
“I’m not holding her,” Trevor replied calmly, not bothering to turn around. He finished
buttoning her shirt and rubbed his thumb gently under her eye, where she’d tried to use
makeup to hide the dark, puffy circles left by lack of sleep.
The big man stepped out of the shadows. One look at his dogged expression and Kylie
realized she was about to have an even bigger problem. Hoping to avoid trouble, she
shifted away from Trevor’s touch. “Everything’s okay, Benny. We’re done.” Arms crossed,
hip cocked, she sent Trevor a look that silently dared him to contradict her. “Aren’t we?”
He nodded. “For now. Get some rest, Stacy. You’re going to need it.”
Chapter Five
Trevor looked up from his half-completed expense report and cocked a brow when Ian
stopped beside the desk. His partner had a closed file folder and an equally closed
expression. Behind him, the typical chaos of the detectives’ bullpen ran its Monday
afternoon course.
“Vern Firth came through with the customer and employee lists.”
Trevor leaned back in his chair. “How bad?”
Ian shrugged. “Not terrible. Seven male staff members, including Firth, during the last
year, and eleven Stacy regulars. I’m about half-done running the regulars for priors.”
“Anything interesting so far?”
Ian opened the file and handed him a stack of printouts. “Nada. Not so much as a
restraining order from a past girlfriend. Nothing to suggest any of these guys has a history
of disturbing behavior. They’re white-collar professionals—accountants, executives,
lawyers. An evening at Deuces isn’t cheap, but her regulars can afford the hit. Not saying
there aren’t any gainfully employed wackos out there, but if one of these men is our
killer, he pays someone else to do his dirty work or he keeps his violent tendencies on a
tight leash.”
Trevor leafed through the reports, giving the data a cursory scan. “Yeah. It’s a
possibility, I guess, but bashing someone’s skull in and then working them over with brass
knuckles doesn’t say cool-headed restraint to me…or hired hit. The face-work strikes me
as personal. A pro wouldn’t sign up for something so messy and inefficient. I think our
guy’s impulsive and relies on violence or the threat of violence to get his message across.
Someone who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, so to speak. The combination usually
leaves some kind of trail in the old permanent record—a domestic violence charge,
assault, battery, stalking. It doesn’t scream accountant.”
Ian inclined his head. “I agree. So, we finish the regulars and then focus on the
employees?”
“Yeah. Let’s finish the runs and see what we get.” Tapping the reports, he added, “In
the meantime, I’ll contact the lovely and talented Miss Roberts and ask her to come down
and chat with me about her biggest fans.”
“You think maybe she’ll remember some of them this time?”
He smiled. “Hope springs eternal. I do think I’ll be able to tell if one of them makes her
nervous.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I make her nervous, and I can read it plain as day.”
…
Don’t act nervous, Kylie ordered herself and stilled her restless hands by folding them in
her lap. Difficult instructions considering she once again sat in an LAPD interview room,
beside Detective Trevor McCade. Sitting next to him was a nerve-racking way to spend a
Wednesday evening, no matter what the reason.
Currently, silence stretched between them while he made notes in a file and she tried
to look anywhere besides the triangle of bronze skin revealed by his loosened tie and
unbuttoned collar. She tried not to dwell on their time together Saturday night—the way
his eyes had moved over her body. Despite her resolve to put the incident behind her,
she’d been reliving the encounter constantly, the unprecedented urges he’d drawn from
her, the addictive new sensations. Now, with the living, breathing man in front of her
again, her addled system jumped to high alert. When she found herself wondering how it
would feel to trace her tongue over the scar above his lip, she gave herself a mental
shake, fixed her attention on her hands, and assessed the course of the interview so far.
On the bright side, she was doing better with his questions this time…at least she
thought she was. Thanks to Stacy’s “clients 101” crash course, she’d arrived for the
interview armed with names, descriptions, preferences, and impressions.
On the not-so-bright side, she’d been a little surprised to learn that despite the intimate
dances Stacy gave these men, her twin really didn’t know any more about her best clients
than Kylie knew about her yoga students. Her sister considered all the men “nice,” by
which she apparently meant docile and mildly pathetic. Stacy truly didn’t have information
that would be helpful to a murder investigation.
Kylie’s attention wandered back to Trevor, and stalled there when she realized he was
watching her. He gave her his easy half smile, and her insides fluttered so badly she had
to force herself not to press a hand to her stomach.
“Your memory seems to have improved tremendously in the last couple days,” he
observed, shifting closer.
“I’ve had plenty of time to think about my clients since Saturday. You’d be surprised
what you can remember about someone when you’re considering whether he might be a
killer.”
He closed the file folder and nodded. Lighter, sun-burnished strands of his hair gleamed
under the fluorescent lights. “Let’s cut to the chase then. Do any of these men worry
you?”
“No. My VIPs are harmless.”
His brows shot up, speculatively. “I don’t know if we can trust your judgment there.
After all, Long and Montenegro weren’t exactly harmless. One pulled you offstage. The
other did something during a private dance that convinced you to have him bounced.”
She’d said as much to Stacy and was prepared to provide the same reply she’d
received. “Carlton was drunk when he pulled me offstage. He didn’t normally drink much,
but for some reason he overindulged that evening. The alcohol made him clumsy and
overeager. He never intended to hurt me, he just forgot to let go when he took his seat.
If the stage bouncer had been doing his job, the whole thing never would have
happened.”
“And Montenegro?”
Embarrassment more than nerves had her fingers toying with the silver “om” pendant
dangling in the vee of her light gray T-shirt. “Alex wanted to, ah…” Heat swept her
cheeks, but she forced herself to spit it out. “He wanted to do a sort of spanking thing
during a private dance. I don’t know what the other girls let a client get away with, but I
don’t allow that kind of contact. I told him no. A few minutes later he tried it anyway.
Ramon didn’t do anything—no big shock because Ramon is off in his own world most of
the time—so I cut the music and told Alex if he didn’t keep his hands to himself I wouldn’t
dance for him anymore.”
“He took it badly?”
“No, he took it like a mischievous boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But the
disruption finally attracted Ramon’s attention and I guess he got worried I was going to
tell Vern he sat around and did nothing while a customer manhandled me. He made a big
scene and escorted Alex out of the club so he wouldn’t look derelict. I didn’t want Alex
bounced. Ramon did that on his own.”
Trevor’s steady gaze met hers. “Would you characterize his reaction as impulsive and
violent?”
“I’d characterize it as a shortsighted attempt to cover his butt.”
“Why shortsighted?”
“Deuces is an upscale club. The bouncers are expected to be discreet and professional
when dealing with a disturbance, not create an even bigger one by dragging a customer
out by his collar. I heard through the grapevine Vern gave Ramon grief for handling the
incident as he did.”
“So Alex made Ramon appear unprofessional? Maybe put his job in danger?”
“I don’t know if I’d say his job was in danger.”
“But he didn’t look good?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Who was working the stage when Carlton pulled you down?”
Kylie opened her mouth to reply, and then stopped as the answer hit her. Shocked, she
turned to Trevor. He nodded encouragingly.
“Ramon.” She barely managed a whisper.
“Carlton made him look incompetent at his job.”
She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. “Yes. I found out later Ramon left
the stage unattended to take a personal call. Totally against policy. I think Vern
threatened to fire him if he ever did it again.”
“Ramon’s the link between Carlton and Alex.”
Kylie shook her head. “You’re saying Ramon killed two men because they caused
trouble at Deuces? Made him look bad?” She shook her head again, unwilling to accept
the theory. “That’s no reason to kill someone.”
“Welcome to my world.”
The utter calm of his voice made her realize he was serious. Unbidden, Ramon’s dull,
empty stare filled her mind. She shivered, but then straightened in her chair. “It can’t be
Ramon. He wasn’t working the night…” Her words trailed off as the fuller implication of
her statement sank in.
Trevor smiled, a panther closing in on his prey. “Ramon wasn’t working the night
Carlton was killed.” It was a statement rather than a question, but Kylie answered
anyway.
“No.”
“I’m liking it better and better. He’s got the size and strength for the job, he knew the
men, and now, he’s got motive and opportunity.”
She blinked, so stunned she hardly dared hope this particular nightmare might actually
be over. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“We’ll pick him up for questioning. In the meantime, if you could keep clear—?”
“Not a problem. I don’t work again until tomorrow night. But what about the other
dancers? Are they safe?”
“They’re fine. We’ve never established a link between the dead men and any of the
other dancers.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but held his tongue.
Instead he picked up the remote control and tapped a button that she assumed stopped
the cameras, then leaned back in his chair and looked at her. A strange awareness
simmered in the depths of his dark eyes.
Now her nerves rushed back, along with something else—something she didn’t want to
think about. Restless, she straightened the side seams of her gray workout tights.
“Thank you for your help, Stacy.” His expression, the timbre of his voice, triggered
butterfly wings in her chest.
“My pleasure.” Concerned by the weak, almost longing sound of her reply, which
echoed the weak longing in her heart, she stood. Time to put some space between
herself and Detective McCade.
He rose as well, and unnerved her by taking her hand. “It’s been my pleasure, actually.”
Her mind flashed back through a montage of erotic memories: Trevor watching her
onstage the first night she’d danced, giving him a lap dance…the private performance.
“Not entirely,” she admitted, as heat snuck into her cheeks.
She stole a glance from beneath her lashes. The raw desire she saw in his expression
warmed her face even more.
“You’re a beautiful, intriguing mystery,” he said quietly. “Scrupulously honest, but
clearly hiding something. An experienced exotic dancer who somehow manages to project
a sweet innocence. Nothing fits.”
“I’m not trying—”
“I know you’re not. That’s the hell of it. But I’ve always loved a mystery, and damn if I
can resist you.” In hypnotic slow motion, he tilted her face toward his and lowered his
mouth, stopping with his lips a mere hairbreadth from hers. Her eyelids drooped. She
inhaled in anticipation.
He hovered there, his warm breath feathering over her lips, while his big, strong hands
moved. One cupped her neck, and the other slid down her back with an intimacy that
made all the calculated eroticism she’d attempted at Deuces pale in comparison, and left
her hungry for more. Desperate to satisfy the craving, she gave a tiny warning cry, then
surged to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.
Such a simple thing, really—just lips against lips—but oh, she felt the magical electricity
of it all the way to her toes. Rather than sate her hunger, the gentle kiss was like a taste
of chocolate to a starving woman. She wanted, needed, couldn’t deny herself more. Her
fingers threaded through his hair and held on, as if she possessed the strength to keep
him in place if he decided to move. But he didn’t. He stayed absolutely still while she
brushed her tingling mouth over his upper lip, with its fascinating center dip and the tiny,
vulnerable little scar riding the outer edge.
When she strayed to his lower lip, captured it between hers, and slowly nibbled the
irresistible curve, he groaned, low and deep. The hand at the small of her back slid lower,
cupped her backside, and hauled her against him. Her breasts crushed against the warm,
solid wall of his chest, and all the barriers—her workout bra, her thin T-shirt, his dress
shirt—might as well have evaporated. She parted her thighs, so her soft, yielding parts
aligned intimately with the hard ridge straining the fly of his gray trousers.
A subtle tightening of his hand on her butt lifted her higher. The blunt head of his
erection found and pressed a pleasure button she barely knew she possessed.
She practically crawled up his body, curling her arm around his neck, wrapping her leg
around his hip, arching and opening so the place he’d discovered was his for the taking.
And he took, sliding back and forth over the throbbing spot, capturing her helpless sighs
deep in his mouth with a long, overpowering kiss. Heavy, luscious heat pooled between
her thighs. She needed to rub them together, or rub against him, or…something, but he
kept up the slow, steady stroke until she thought she might lose her mind.
A frustrated sound built in the back of her throat. Jamming the arch of her foot into his
calf for leverage, she rocked her hips against him in a frantic, imprecise effort to put
deeper, steadier pressure on the aching little spot he’d teased to unbearable sensitivity.
“I want…I need…”
His lips found her ear. “Easy. Easy. I know what you need. Don’t worry—”
A loud knock at the door reverberated like a shot in the quite room. Her eyes jerked to
his.
“Shit.” He breathed the word slowly, and reluctantly loosened his hold. “Excuse me for
a moment. I have to go kill someone.”
Arms crossed, she stayed where she was, facing away from the door, while he stepped
over to answer it. She recognized Ian’s voice, but was too mortified to look. One glimpse
of her and she feared he’d know Trevor had held, kissed, and caressed her to the very
brink of insanity. Even now her body trembled with deprivation, primed and ready and
unwilling to relinquish what, seconds ago, had hovered so exquisitely close.
After a brief conversation she didn’t bother trying to follow, the door shut. Moments
later Trevor rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” His breath fluttered the hair at
her temple as those strong, capable hands turned her to face him. “Bad timing on my
part.”
“Mine, too.” Not just the last few minutes, but the last few days. Had they met at a
different time, under different circumstances, who knows what they might have meant to
each other? But they’d met over lies and murder. The combination doomed their chances
for something else. Trevor upheld the law. He wasn’t the kind of man who would
appreciate being deceived.
It hurt, but there really was only one thing to do. Kiss him good-bye and get the heck
away.
He took her hand and smiled. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
Her return smile felt wooden. Somehow she kept it in place as they walked to the
street. The city lights glowed diamond-bright against a black velvet background of
evening.
Again he took her shoulders, turned her to face him. Held her captive with those
patient, perceptive eyes. “I want to see you again, Stacy, without this case between us.”
Hardest thing ever, but shook her head. “I’m sorry Trevor. I can’t. I wish I could but…”
But what? I’m not who you think I am. I’ve lied to you since the moment we met. Blinking
back tears, she settled on, “It’s not going to work.”
He stepped closer and she placed a restraining hand on his chest. She meant it as a
distancing move. Unfortunately her fingers ruined the gesture by curling into his shirt. He
cocked a brow at the mixed signal, but dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Don’t tell
me you don’t feel what I feel whenever we’re together, because I won’t believe it.”
She shook her head. “Lust isn’t high on my priorities.”
“If you think this is only lust, you’re kidding yourself. Aren’t you the least bit curious to
see where this could lead?”
Chin to her chest, she shook her head. “The cop and the stripper?”
“The cop thing is a problem for you, huh?” He jammed his hands in his pockets and
took a step back. “Fair enough. It is for some women. Lousy hours, less than extravagant
pay, occasional risk to life and limb.”
Some painful history there, she realized, and because of that, couldn’t bring herself to
take the easy way out. “It’s not your job,” she said quickly. “I think what you do is heroic.
Any woman would be lucky to spend time with you.”
“Any woman but you.”
“I’m not—” She broke off. Those consuming eyes of his interfered with her ability to
craft a lame explanation. Shifting her attention to the center of his chest, she tried again.
“I’m not at a place, at this point in my life, where I can date.”
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and stared at her for several
seconds. “You’re afraid,” he finally said, his voice a combination of disbelief and certainty.
“A woman brave enough to follow her conscience into a dark parking lot at two thirty in
the morning is scared to follow her heart toward something right in front of her.”
Her heart felt like an anchor at the moment, heavy in her chest, incapable of leading
her anywhere. When she didn’t reply, he dropped his hand and gave a small, humorless
laugh. “You’re a tough one, Stacy Roberts, and yet something this simple scares you to
death. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve been a bundle of contradictions from the
start.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and forced herself to take a step away. At least she didn’t
have to lie. She was afraid to pursue a relationship with him, just not for the reason he
assumed.
The jaded smile stole across his lips. “One look from those baby blues and I almost
believe you.”
Before she did something stupid, like burst into tears, she turned and started walking to
her car.
“Hey, Stacy, wait.”
Something reluctant and resigned in his voice stopped her, like he’d tried to talk himself
out of saying whatever he was about to say.
“Ever consider another line of work?”
She looked over her shoulder. He stood there, so big and solid and fundamentally good,
his concerned expression practically shattered her resolve. Land’s sake, this man cared.
Of course, thanks to her ridiculous charade, he was wasting his care on someone who
didn’t need—or deserve—it.
“Sometimes,” she replied. It seemed like a safe answer.
“I think you’ve got a lot of untapped potential. Someone so smart and observant could
go far in any career she chose. The stripping?” He shook his head. “It’s not for you.”
Yeah. Mustering up a smile, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. Some say I’m pretty tough.”
“As nails,” he agreed. “But you’re not the one I’m worried about. Have some pity on
those poor saps sitting in Deuces, kidding themselves into thinking for the price of
admission you’ll share some of your mysteries with them.”
She wanted to tell him “Deal,” just to wash the world-weary cynicism out of his face,
but it wasn’t her gig to surrender. “At least you don’t have to come down to Deuces and
pose as my client anymore.” That alone should have been a load off her shoulders, but
instead the realization sent her anchor of a heart sinking deeper in her chest.
Chapter Six
Customers packed Deuces, making Thursday feel more like a Saturday. Between two
twenty-first birthday parties, a bachelor party, and a bunch of guys in software sales out
to blow their bonuses, Kylie barely had time to miss Trevor—provided scanning the crowd
for his entirely too attractive face every ten minutes didn’t count as missing him. For
some stupid reason, she found herself hoping he’d show up. God, she was an idiot.
The thought repeated in her head like a mantra as she made her way back to the
dressing room after her second featured dance. You’re an idiot…an idiot…an idiot.
Absently, she pulled tips from her garter belt and white satin thong.
The door flew open. Ginger breezed in. “Christ, Snowflake, you’re an idiot,” she said
and tossed something at her.
Kylie caught the item and frowned. It was the gossamer baby-doll top that went with
the thong and completed her “naughty virgin” outfit. She’d forgotten to wait by the stage
for the runner to bring her discarded clothes.
“Oh. Thanks.”
Ginger braced a hip against the vanity counter, crossed her arms in front of her chest,
and met Kylie’s gaze in the mirror. “What’s with you? You haven’t been yourself lately.”
Kylie dropped her eyes and shrugged her top on, then focused on fastening the tiny
snap between her breasts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but these last few times we’ve worked together
you’ve been strangely nice. You say ‘hi.’ You say ‘bye.’ You even say ‘thank you.’ What’s
happened to the coldhearted ice queen we used to know?”
“Nothing happened. I’m working on my manners. No big deal.”
Ginger held up her hands. “Fine, fine. Forget I asked. But for what it’s worth, the girls
and I thought what happened to you a few weeks ago—when Carlton pulled you offstage
—was terrible. We went to Vern and told him to fire Ramon’s worthless ass. He didn’t,
naturally, because Ramon is one of the owner’s nephews, but we tried. Then last
Saturday, finding Carlton by the Dumpster? Awful. Like a nightmare. We figure you’ve had
a pretty tough patch lately. So, if there’s anything we can do to make things easier, just
let us know, okay?”
“Thanks, Ginger.” Kylie closed the lockbox and turned around. “I’m good, honest. Also,
you don’t need to worry about Ramon anymore. I think the police took him into custody
earlier this week, for killing Carlton and possibly another customer.”
Ginger’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “Are you sure? Last night he was—”
Before the redhead could finish, Vern pushed through the door and pointed at them.
“Let’s move it, ladies. Ginger, you’re giving the birthday boy at table five a lap dance.
Now,” he added, and stared until she hustled out of the room. The finger switched to
Kylie. “You’ve got a private dance in VIP room two. Benny’s bouncing. If the private
doesn’t extend, come see me. We’re busy, so I may be able to squeeze another client in
before we call it a night.”
“Great,” she said to Vern’s departing back, then stuffed her tip box into her locker and
slammed the door. On her way to the room, she could barely concentrate on the private
dance. She was too fixated on Ginger’s unfinished sentence. Last night he was…what?
Still puzzling the words, she slipped into the VIP room. The lights were low. Smooth,
smoky jazz simmered from the sound system, and the telltale gleam of a polished shoe
told her Benny already occupied his corner. Inhaling a deep breath, she turned to the
client chair—and stopped dead in her tracks.
…
The emotions flitting across Stacy’s face were worth the price of admission. Trevor read
surprise, followed by a hint of unguarded pleasure, overrun almost immediately by
concern, and then suspicion.
Her brows knitted and her lips formed a small frown. He imagined she thought it a
stern expression, and wondered what she’d think if she knew it gave him an instant hard-
on.
“Trevor, what are you doing here?”
“Would you believe I came to get a dance?”
She shook her head. “Ramon?” She said the name softly, mindful of their audience.
Now it was his turn to shake his head. He watched apprehension steal into her face and
found it less of a turn-on than the stern expression. Seeing no reason to include Benny in
the conversation, and every reason to bring her closer, he tapped his knees. “Sit down. I’ll
tell you all about it.”
Might have been then she noticed the bottle of vodka on the side table, two-thirds full,
along with two shot glasses, one full, one already empty. Considering her history with
over-served clients, he wondered if the bottle worried her. Then her anxious eyes flicked
to his, and damn if she wasn’t worried for him.
She hustled her sexy little self over until she could get in his face. He was having some
difficulty keeping his eyes on hers—they kept straying down to where her soft, perfectly
uptilted breasts challenged the confines of a lacy scrap of a top. The combination of
blush-pink skin and frothy white lingerie had him imagining a bride on her wedding night,
shy but eager to please. Too bad he couldn’t put the blame entirely on her outfit.
Whether he liked it or not, a wall had come down when he kissed her in the interrogation
room. They’d simply been a man and a woman, not a detective and a witness.
He was having a hell of a time putting the wall back.
“When you said you’d be picking Ramon up for questioning, I thought this was all over.
You wouldn’t be around anymore. What happened?”
Hands at her waist, he settled her on his lap. She was either too upset or too distracted
to object to him taking the initiative. Good thing, because the wedding night fantasy
definitely worked for him.
“Ian questioned Ramon. Turns out he had a decent alibi for the night Carlton was
murdered.”
“But how ironclad could it be? Carlton never set foot inside Deuces Friday night, so
there’s no telling when he showed up in the parking lot. Didn’t you say the exact time of
death was hard to pinpoint?
Trevor shook his head. “Hard to pinpoint, yes. Not hard to ballpark. Although Carlton’s
whereabouts Friday night are still in question, we know he died exactly where you found
him. There’s no blood trail or other evidence suggesting someone killed him and dumped
him there. One of the barbacks at Deuces took trash to the Dumpster around 1:00 a.m.
and there was no sign of Long at that time. You called 911 at two thirty. He died
sometime during that hour-and-a-half window. Ramon went to a club downtown on Friday
evening with his cousin and stayed from 10:00 p.m. until just after one thirty. Cocktail
waitress at the place remembers him well enough because he put the moves on her all
night. After they left, he drove his cousin home and then went straight home to bed.”
“He could be lying about where they went afterward.”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah, but at this point, with no eyewitness, no physical evidence, no
big inconsistencies in Ramon’s story, and not a hell of a lot of opportunity, we don’t have
enough to charge him.”
“So, is he in the clear then?”
“We’re watching him, and digging deeper into his background. Ramon could be
involved, he’s still got motive, but we’re a long way from ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’”
Her shoulders slumped as she blew out a nervous breath. “Well, shoot. I mean, don’t
get me wrong. I don’t want the man spending time behind bars for a crime he didn’t
commit. It’s just…I’d convinced myself Ramon was the killer. I was so relieved to consider
it over.”
He ran a hand along her back, in what he’d intended as a consoling gesture. The slide
of lace over skin turned it into something else. He dropped his hand. “I understand. But
we’re still pursuing all leads, and we’re not exactly starting from scratch. All the
connections we made earlier are still valid.”
The comment pulled her nervous gaze back to his face. “The earlier connections? You
don’t mean—?”
“I do. Deuces still connects Long and Montenegro, and just a bit more tightly, their
preference for you. Still more tightly, their bad behavior, related to you, almost
immediately before they were murdered. And now, thanks to you, we know there’s even
one more link.”
“Another link? I don’t understand.”
“You told us Carlton was drunk the night he pulled you offstage. Out of character for
him, but his credit card receipt confirms he bought a bottle of vodka that night. Alex
always paid cash, which is why the original investigators never linked him to the club in
the first place, but Vern says he got a buzz going pretty much every time he visited. He
started and stuck with vodka most nights, including his final one. We’re looking very hard
at all the regular customers, all the employees, over a twelve-month time frame. But that
kind of digging takes time, so, meanwhile”—he gestured to the vodka and smiled up at
her—“I’m going to order a lot of vodka, buy a lot of private dances, and you’re going to
treat me like you treat your best clients.”
“No.” She shook her head and attempted to retreat. “I can’t do this anymore.”
He simply leaned in, eliminating the space she’d tried to create. If the muscle in the
corner happened to glance over, they looked cozy and rule-abiding. He waited until she
stilled and focused on him again.
It took a few seconds. Finally, she raised her eyes to his and said, “What you’re doing is
not an investigation. It’s not even a plan. It’s suicide.” Her adorable chin trembled and
sent a funny contraction straight through his heart. “You’re crazy if you think I’m just
going to stand by and let put yourself squarely in a killer’s sights.”
She was worried for him. A wave of tenderness washed over him, startling him almost
as much as her concern. “That’s exactly where you are, Stacy. I thought you could use
some company.”
“Think again,” she shot back and struggled against him. “I’m telling Vern I won’t dance
for you anymore.”
“No, you’re not.” He flexed his quads and scooted her forward in his lap. Her thighs
draped over his, her plush breasts welled against his chest. The coconut-vanilla scent of
her made his senses swim. Following a wayward impulse, he leaned close and found her
ear with his lips, enjoyed a flare of satisfaction when she inhaled swiftly. “I’m not some
clueless client unknowingly painting a target on his skull. I know how to handle myself.
I’ve got training, and backup. Can you say the same about the next guy who comes
along?”
“What if there is no ‘next guy’?” Her words puffed over his cheek. “What if I quit?”
“Then, most likely, we never find the person who killed Carlton and Alex. No justice for
those dead men. I could live with that, Stacy, but I suspect someone this interested in
you won’t be shaken off so easily. If you take Deuces out of the mix, you’re the only one
left in his sights. Who knows what he does then? I’m not sure I can live with that.”
She jerked back and stared at him accusingly. “You’re trying to scare me.”
“I’m trying to educate you. You’re in a precarious position, and while you may not like
it, you’re staring at your best option for getting out unscathed.”
Blinking rapidly, she said, “There’s got to be some other way.”
“There’s not.” His voice was firmer than he intended, but he wanted to wipe the denial
off her face. “Now, if we’re done discussing all the unavailable options, hop on up and
give me the Alex Montenegro special.”
She eyed him another long moment, then slipped off his lap. “Alex’s routine,” she said
briskly. “That’s what you want?”
Her apparent calm didn’t fool him. Temper sparked in her eyes, telling him as clearly as
words she didn’t appreciate the trap he had her in. “It seems like the next logical move.”
Picking up the vodka, he poured a shot. “Like a drink first?”
“No. I don’t drink while I’m working.” Her voice held more ice than the chilled bottle.
“Right.” Not giving an inch, not tough little Stacy. He downed the shot. “So you said the
night we met. Nice to know some things never change.”
“Things have changed. Buckle up, Trevor.”
…
Thanks to her recent stint at Stacy University, Kylie knew exactly what the Alex
Montenegro special involved.
Alex was an ass man. Shake mine in front of him, and I practically hypnotized the guy.
All I had to do was sway around a bit and, bam! I earned a big tip—no pun intended.
The whole routine sounded ridiculous to Kylie, but Stacy swore it wasn’t just Alex who
got off on the number. This particular dance brought grown men to their knees. At the
moment, the idea of bringing Mr. I-Know-How-to-Handle-Myself down a notch or two
offered perverse pleasure.
After queuing the music to what Stacy called the soft-porn playlist, with its funky,
percussion-heavy tracks and breathy, mostly unintelligible lyrics, she walked over and
stood in front of Trevor’s chair, facing away from him. She planted her three-inch-high
white satin slides hip-distance apart. Their eyes met in the mirror for a few seconds of
eternity while she waited for the music to start. When the first beat pumped out, she did
a long, slow bend, all the way down, and wrapped her hands around her ankles. To her
surprise, Trevor snapped upright in his chair. She heard his sharp inhale, followed by a
low, unguarded, “Oh, Christ.”
A frisson of something new and highly thrilling shimmered through her. Power. An odd
thing to find while bent over, grabbing her ankles, but there it was. One look at his face
confirmed it—he was her slave.
The choreography ensured he stayed enslaved. While she danced and stripped down to
her thong, Kylie watched him in the mirror. His hot gaze seared up her calves, her thighs.
She felt it lick her breasts, simmer over her shoulders, and sizzle along the curve of her
spine. But always, always the burning intensity returned to her hips.
She became acutely aware of the thong—the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it triangle of white
fabric riding the very base of her spine, the thin tongue extending from the point and
disappearing between her buttocks. Although she didn’t have his view, she knew certain
moves gave him glimpses of the lace’s elusive path. A few offered him peeks at the whole
trail, to the untouched hideaway shielded behind another triangle of satin—a very wet
triangle. She fervently hoped he couldn’t see any telltale signs of her body’s reaction to
him.
She should have been embarrassed by the way being so exposed to him affected her.
But one look at his glazed, rapt expression and confidence surged, pushing aside
humiliation. Still facing front, she twisted at the waist, flipped her hair over her shoulder,
and stared back at him. “I’ve been a bad girl,” she cooed in a decent imitation of Stacy’s
deliberately provocative purr.
“What?” When those dark, captivating eyes lifted helplessly to hers, she brought her
palm down on her left buttock with a quick, loud slap.
“Oh God,” he said, and his eyes dropped to the cheek where a pink handprint formed.
“You like bad girls?”
“Huh?” he grunted, his eyes still glued to her ass.
Following Stacy’s itinerary, she inched backward until she straddled him, rested her
hands on his knees, and slowly lowered her hips so her backside brushed along his abs—
very tight abs. Something thick and hard rose up to greet her. She bit her lip to stifle the
shock and, yes, arousal, and…started to improvise. Bracing her weight on her hands, she
carefully adjusted until the heavy ridge rode the shallow valley between her cheeks. Then
she arched her back and clenched her butt, trapping him in a little hug.
His hands flew to her waist and gripped like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. She
couldn’t see his face in the mirror, but felt his forehead rest between her shoulder blades
and heard a low, tortured sound rumble from his chest.
“Stacy. We should stop now,” he said in a hoarse voice.
An urge to dominate burned through her, along with a strong tug of pure, unadulterated
desire. She leaned forward slightly, until his grip relaxed, then quickly repeated the move.
His muffled exclamation was halfway between a curse and a prayer. Their eyes met in
the mirror. His swirled with tension. Beneath her, his entire body vibrated with barely
controlled energy. She rotated her hips, grinding against him.
“Stacy,” he gasped her name. “Hold still. I mean it. You don’t know what you’re doing
to me.”
She didn’t. Not precisely, anyway. But she knew one thing. They weren’t stopping until
she’d done it. In the mirror, her lips curved into a familiar, yet startling expression—
Stacy’s wicked grin. She’d never seen it on her own face.
She turned her head, flipping her hair in the process, and looked at him. “The dance
isn’t over yet, Trevor.” She took one of his big hands and placed it on her butt, precisely
where the barest hint of pink lingered on her pale skin. “Mmm,” she hummed, and rolled
her hips, so her flesh slid under his palm. “You feel so good.”
Glancing at the mirror, she watched his eyelids drop like white flags, heard the
surrender in his agonized groan, and felt a rush of triumph. A few breathless seconds
later, however, he buried his face against the nape of her neck, his hand slid around to
her waist, and he jerked her hips down hard—so hard she felt the huge head of his
erection straining to get past her tight, fragile threshold. Triumph quickly faded as
awareness kicked in.
One little flex of his hand proved beyond a shadow of a doubt which one of them held
the power. Not her. She’d toyed with him, forgetting the formidable strength coiled in his
rock-hard body. If he chose to unleash it, he could take what she’d teasingly dangled
before him—without breaking a sweat.
His fingers tensed on her hip and sent the pressure between her legs to a critical point.
Pleasure, low and deep, twisted painfully tight. Something had to give. She feared that
something was her. Biting her lip to hold back an anxious, needy sound, she tried to shift
away from his restrained intrusion, but his grip held her fast.
“Christ, don’t move,” he growled. Leaning in, he pressed his chest against her back,
pushing her forward. Grappling for balance, she gripped his knees, twined her legs around
his firmly planted calves, and scooted her hips back hard and fast until the only thing she
could feel—the only thing she could think about—was the blunt, unforgiving thrust of his
erection against her quivering sex. Just when she feared she’d cry out from a combination
of agony and need, Trevor choked out a strangled curse, shuddered, and exhaled a long,
rough groan.
Involuntary tremors shivered through her as the pressure between her legs slowly
subsided, leaving her overstrained body weak with relief, yet aching with a sharp,
unfulfilled need. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and told herself to relax. She’d
done her job. Yes, doing so meant walking a tightrope between fantasy and reality, and
for a moment there, she’d nearly lost her balance. But she’d made it to the end in one
piece.
“Are you okay?” Trevor’s lips brushed her neck, lingered long enough to bestow an
openmouthed kiss along the tender curve where neck met shoulder. She fought back
another shiver, this time because tingling heat radiated along her sensitive nerve
endings. There was something seriously wrong with her.
His eyes found hers in the mirror and held.
“I’m fine.” Losing control. Losing Kylie and becoming…I don’t know who. She wanted to
stand, get some distance, but the weight of his fathomless gaze paralyzed her.
“You don’t look fine. You look like a lost little girl.” The cynical smile was long gone,
replaced by worry and something alarmingly close to compassion. “If I don’t watch it,
you’re going to break my heart.”
Even though she knew no real stripper would, she couldn’t keep from bringing her arms
up to cover herself. She tore her eyes away from his. He shook his head and sighed.
“Come on, what are you hiding? Whatever it is, I promise, telling me is the right thing to
do.” He sounded concerned and endlessly patient, then ruined it by saying, “Stacy, talk,”
in his firm, no-bullshit cop voice. The command reminded her about the distribution of
power again. The imbalance went beyond physical, it encompassed their entire dynamic.
“I have”—she stopped and swallowed the lump in her throat—“I have to go. Right
now.”
“Goddammit, Stacy.”
She shook her head and stood, intending to walk the short distance to where her top
lay on the floor, put it on, and get the hell out of there, but her legs wobbled and she lost
her balance.
Lightning fast, he bolted to his feet and grabbed her arm, steadying her.
The sudden movement caught Benny’s attention. “Back off,” he ordered from the
corner. Kylie realized from Benny’s perspective, it looked as if Trevor had stood up and
grabbed her.
“I’ll back off when the lady tells me to back off,” Trevor said. “Until then, you back off.”
Before she could find her tongue, Benny got up, walked over, and stood beside Trevor.
Apprehension coiled her gut. Trevor towered over her by more than half a foot, and
outweighed her by a good hundred pounds of solid, hard-packed muscle, but Benny had
him by at least three inches and fifty pounds.
“Now you’re confused about the rules,” the big man went on. “She don’t need to say a
word. You back off when I say so. I’m saying so right now.”
Trevor’s eyes never left hers. “What do you say, Stacy? Want me to back off?” He didn’t
let go of her arm.
Fear froze her heart in her chest. She knew what he was trying to do—provoke a
confrontation with Benny and get kicked out—and she desperately wanted to stop him.
Forcing a laugh, she shook her head. “Don’t be stupid.”
She smiled at Benny, and said, “Thanks. I’ve got this handled.”
Benny didn’t return her smile, but he took a step back and looked at his watch. “This
dance is over, and we close in fifteen minutes. Finish your business.”
Much to her relief, Trevor released her, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew a
folded bill, and held it out to her. A tip. Bile rose in her throat.
She closed her eyes and looked away. “I don’t want it.”
“Add it to the Stacy Roberts career change fund,” he said softly and she felt his fingers
slide the bill along her hip and tuck it into her thong.
“Come on,” said Benny, impatiently, from the door.
A few seconds later the door closed and she stood alone in the room. With unsteady
hands she retrieved her bra, and then opened the door. Somehow, she forced her shaking
legs to support her while she crossed the nearly empty club and walked down the hall to
the dressing room.
Inside, Ariana, Lee Ann and Ginger were removing makeup, combing out hair, and
changing into street clothes. She slipped through the chaos to her vanity and stared at
her reflection. Pale face, bruised-looking eyes, fever-red lips. Her gaze traveled down,
dispassionately, and took in the sight of her breasts overflowing the gauzy white
camisole, nipples visible beneath the sheer fabric. Her attention moved lower still, and
snagged on the bill tucked into the hip of her thong. Her stomach revolted. Dropping to
her knees, she grabbed the little trash can tucked next to her vanity, stuck her head in,
and lost her lunch.
Chapter Seven
“Snowflake, you’re not pregnant, are you?” Ginger crouched close and draped a cool,
damp towel across the back of Kylie’s neck. Arm braced on the rim of the waste can, Kylie
raised her head and looked at the women gathered around. Ariana handed her a bottle of
water. Lee Ann took her hand and tipped some breath mints into her palm. Her gaze
swung to Ginger. She sipped the water, tossed the mints in her mouth, and said, “No. I’m
not pregnant.”
“Something you ate?” Lee Ann drawled sympathetically.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately.”
“I know, sugar, stumbling on poor old Carlton, dead in the parking lot. We’re all queasy
about that.”
“You all need to be careful.” Kylie gave each woman a serious look. “The police don’t
know who killed Carlton, but they think it might have been another customer or even
someone who works here. Please keep your eyes open. Look after yourselves and don’t
take any risks.”
“Always,” Ginger said. “But that’s not what’s got your head in the trash, is it? I’m
guessing the cause is about six feet two inches of suited-up sexy. Your private dance?”
She sucked in a breath, coughed, and swallowed the mint lodged in her throat. “No.”
“Oh, Snowflake.” Ginger laughed. “You’re falling for a client.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’re all tied in knots over him. It’s so not like you,” Ginger insisted.
“Yes,” Ariana seconded. “You have been different, ever since the first night he came in.
He likes you so much he comes every night you dance. You get nervous.” She smiled and
nodded. “You like him, too.”
Lee Ann sighed. “So ro-mayn-tic!”
“It’s not like that,” she protested. Feeling trapped under the weight of three sets of
eyes, she sprang to her feet and grabbed her lockbox and started counting bills and
calculating her tip-out. “He’s totally buttoned-down and…traditional. For him, I’m a
temporary diversion. Stripper and client?” She shook her head and forced a hollow laugh.
“That kind of thing never works.”
“You do not know,” Ariana disagreed, and patted her shoulder as she passed by on her
way out of the dressing room.
“That’s right, sugar. Never say never. A friend of mine at a different club knows a
dancer who landed one of her VIP clients. Now she’s a housewife in Palo Alto,” Lee Ann
finished dreamily, and followed Ariana out the door.
Kylie rolled her eyes, whisked the fifty-dollar bill from her thong, and tossed it in her
pile. A manicured hand reached over and pulled the bill out. Irritated, she looked up at
Ginger.
“Don’t include this in your tip-out,” the redhead said. Nodding her head to the pile of
bills, she added, “That’s business. This”—she flicked the fifty—“was personal—a gift.”
Kylie arched an eyebrow. “You, too?”
Ginger shrugged and dropped the fifty on Stacy’s vanity. “What? I like ro-may-ance as
much as the next girl.”
Me, too, she thought sadly as she watched Ginger leave. Unfortunately, “romantic”
didn’t really describe the current situation. Dirty dancing for a hot cop who would
probably toss her in jail and throw away the key if he knew she’d lied about her identity
and impeded his investigation? Not romantic. Try scary, dangerous, reckless.
You’re falling for him.
Okay, yes, the girls were right. The feeling went beyond attraction and into something
deeper and far more elemental. But finding it now, with Trevor, didn’t help her
predicament. It made already-difficult circumstances darn near impossible.
The dancing was hard, but not as hard as she’d first imagined. Self-consciousness faded
after a while because the customers didn’t really see her, they saw a willing canvas upon
which they projected their own fantasies. Dancing at Deuces equated to a strange
Halloween party. She wore a costume and pretended to be something she wasn’t. And
everyone more or less bought the pretense, except Trevor.
He’d seen through her act right from the start. Looked at her, looked for her, and
seemed genuinely intrigued by what he found, instead of projecting an identity or
expectation onto her. A thrilling and unnerving experience, that. Especially for someone
who so often faded into the shadows cast by her wilder, more outrageous twin.
Of course, Trevor thought she was Stacy. In a bizarre way, her sister still held the
spotlight, even with a guy she’d never technically met. Kylie wondered how much of
Trevor’s interest really stemmed from the “Stacy” role she was playing rather than
herself.
Her shoulders slumped. No way to know. Maybe this was why all the experts warned
about founding a relationship on a lie?
He sensed the lie. That much she knew. She might intrigue him, even attract him, but
he didn’t trust her. And while everything inside her yearned to come clean—to trust him
with their secret—she couldn’t confess without breaking her word to Stacy.
Her phone rang. She dug in her bag until she found it, and checked the caller ID. Speak
of the devil.
“Hi, Stacy.”
“God, you sound like you just learned there’s no such thing as Santa. What’s wrong?
Slow night?”
“No, actually it was busy. I’m just tired, I guess.”
“Yeah, but even so, Ky, it’s not like you to sound so depressed. It’s freaking me out.
You’re normally Miss Zen and Centered, even lately, with the cops and all. What’s put you
in such a dark place?”
“I don’t know,” she said evasively, then felt bad. Stacy was usually too busy with her
own dramas to notice anyone else’s. She must really be worried in order to ask twice.
Maybe the time had come to confide in her twin for a change? Kylie sighed. “I’ve been
feeling some things, and, um, wanting some things I really shouldn’t—”
“Hot damn, it’s finally happened. Saint Kylie’s thinking about having sex, aren’t you?”
She blinked. Leave it to Stacy to home in on the hormones and ignore the emotions.
“It’s more than just sex.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re getting hung up on someone at Deuces.” Her sister’s words
conveyed genuine dismay.
“He’s not really part of the Deuces scene. Not normally, anyway.”
“Oh, Kylie.” Stacy’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “Not the cop. Have you lost
your mind?”
Kylie shut her eyes. “Maybe.” More to herself than Stacy, she groaned, “What am I
going to do?”
“Ugh! You need to do the deed and get him out of your system,” Stacy stated firmly.
“You think so?” It sounded risky. What if “doing the deed” had the opposite effect, and
instead of getting Trevor out of her system, she grew even more attached?
“I know so. Chemistry screws up your brain sometimes, and makes you think you’ve
found a soul mate instead of a playmate. As soon as you give this cop a tumble, satisfy
the itch, you’ll start to lose interest. Once, twice—sometimes the third time’s the charm—
but trust me, you’ll work him completely out of your head. I’m kind of an expert in this
area.”
She couldn’t argue.
“Come home and let’s talk,” Stacy urged. “I’ll help you solve a problem for a change.”
…
“There goes your girl,” Ian observed from across the table. Trevor stared out the window
of the all-night diner across the street from Deuces, and watched the yellow Bug zip down
Sunset. He tracked her until the taillights disappeared into the kaleidoscope of lights on
the strip. What was she thinking right now?
Turning back to Ian, he said, “Yep.”
“Any impressions from tonight?”
“My impression is…we’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah, like two dead guys, and no suspects. I’ve never seen such clean backgrounds in
my life. None of her regular customers or any of the long-term employees has significant
priors. Hernandez and I interviewed them, but nobody pops. Either the alibis hold or
there’s just nothing in their demeanor or responses that raises any suspicions. Kinda hard
to know where to focus.”
“I know. Ramon might be our guy. His alibi doesn’t clear him. He could have made it to
Deuces in time to off Long if every single thing went exactly his way, but—”
“But if he had that kind of mastery over the space-time continuum, he wouldn’t be
working as a bouncer.”
Trevor couldn’t help but smile, despite the depressing lack of leads. “I’m still leaning
toward an employee rather than a client, because of the timing of the attacks. Our guy
knows when to strike so nobody will see him. To me, that says employee.”
“Me, too. I like the bartender.”
“Gary Swinton?”
“Yeah. He comes across as pretty laid-back, but the dancers say he hits on them
constantly, despite being told to cut it out. Size-wise, he’s up to the job. Plus, you know,
the killer seemed to know both men were good and drunk, and a bartender would be
aware of exactly how much they’d ordered. Finally, forensics says the initial head blow
looks to be from a liquor bottle…”
“So, you’re guessing the bartender, in the parking lot, with the vodka bottle?”
Ian grinned. “Yep. And you?”
Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be Benny. Could be Vern.”
“Vern?” Ian’s voice rang with skepticism. “He’s kind of a geezer for this type of crime,
don’t you think?”
“Statistically speaking, yeah. But he’s in good shape for a guy in his midfifties. His build,
his knowledge of the clients and their disruptive incidents, all support the theory.”
“Maybe, but I don’t get the sense he’s inappropriately interested in any of the dancers,
including Stacy. He’s interested in them making money for the club, and that’s about it.
Now Benny, he’s definitely got the size and strength. But his biggest muscle is not the
one between his ears.”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to lie in wait, club someone on the head, and then
beat them to a pulp.”
“True. Whenever you’ve pushed his buttons during any of the private dances though,
he’s never really lost his cool. Do you think he’s got the unbridled temper and…I don’t
know…inherent violence this type of crime requires?”
“Not sure.” Trevor ran a hand through his hair, trying to stimulate his sluggish brain. “I
do know what we’ve done so far isn’t working, in terms of forcing our guy out of the
shadows.”
“You don’t think continuing to pose as a difficult customer will inspire the killer to make
a move?”
“It hasn’t so far. That’s our second problem. I need to be more than just a difficult
customer. Long pulled Stacy offstage and sprained her ankle. Montenegro slapped her—”
“On her superior posterior.”
“Right.” He shook his head. “I can’t do anything physical like that.” Kiss her, touch her,
let her drive him right out of his mind? No problem. There were rules, and then there
were rules.
“Not for real. But can’t you and Stacy put on a show? Down a few shots, and then get in
her face and start yelling. She shoves you, you shove her back.”
He spread his hands out on the table, palms down, and shook his head again. “Stacy’s
another problem. She won’t cooperate.”
Ian’s brows knitted. “Why not? Is she worried about her safety?”
“More worried about mine, I’d say.”
“What? She’s met you. More importantly, she’s met me. How can she possibly worry
knowing I’m watching your back? Did you tell her what an amazing partner I am?”
He hid his smile behind a sip of coffee. “I’ll have to work on her.” Thinking a moment,
he added, “Maybe create an opportunity, too. Tomorrow night I’ll hang out after closing
and drive her home.”
“What if she says no?”
“She won’t. I’ll tell her I need to speak with her about the investigation, which is true.”
“So, you think her self-appointed protector will watch you two leave together and the
sight will push him over the edge?”
“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. But somebody always walks the girls to their cars, so
at least one person from Deuces will see us leave together. According to Vern, Stacy
doesn’t hook up with customers, so word of her breaking tradition should spread pretty
quickly. If the killer doesn’t see us tomorrow night, possibly he’ll hear something through
the grapevine. That alone might be enough to compel this guy to make a move on me.
Especially if I can convince Stacy to come in to work on Saturday and tell everyone I
turned out to be a prick. Then, if I show up Saturday night and cause even a hint of
trouble, our killer’s not going to have a choice. He’ll have to take me out.”
“Could work,” Ian agreed. Then his lips curled into a lazy grin. “You know, for someone
getting a private dance every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, you’re in an awfully
big hurry to close this case.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a problem, too.”
Ian’s easy laugh rolled out. “She is one very sexy girl. Anytime you want to trade
places, let me know.”
“Dream on.”
“Oh, I do. Believe me, I do.”
Chapter Eight
Trevor sat in a VIP room at Deuces, sipping vodka, waiting for Stacy and fixating on a
whole bunch of stuff that had nothing to do with the job. What would she be wearing?
How would she dance for him? How was she holding up?
Ramon occupied a dark corner in the back of the room, but for some crazy reason, the
possibility of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound homicidal nut-job lurking nearby didn’t
distract his thoughts from Stacy. A half hour of private time with her had quickly become
the high point of his day. Among his fellow detectives, he had a reputation as a focused
investigator, even a bit of a workaholic. But Stacy scrambled his priorities so badly he had
a hard time remembering the real purpose for his visit—a minor matter of solving two
murders.
The door opened and Stacy walked in. No, that wasn’t right. She glided through the
door in a cloud of vanilla and coconut, looking sleek and sexy. The black cap and large
silver-rimmed aviator sunglasses of her stylized chauffeur’s outfit concealed her hair and
eyes, adding an air of mystery. She wore a black jacket that fit like a second skin.
Beneath, it looked as if she wore nothing except a narrow black necktie. Leather driving
gloves covered her hands and a tiny black G-string covered the essentials. The tall, shiny
boots he remembered so fondly from a week ago encased her endless legs. When she
turned around to shut the door, he enjoyed the way the tails of her coat shifted to offer
glimpses of her delectable ass.
Then she turned to face him and sagged against the door. Something in his chest
contracted, quick and sharp. Tough little Stacy held up, but it cost her. Thanks to the
sunglasses, he couldn’t really gauge just how much, and that frustrated him. He wanted
to see her eyes.
“Hello, Trevor.” Her husky voice held a note of resignation. “What would you like
tonight?”
“I’d like you to take off the hat and shades.”
She shook her head, dislodging the hat so it tumbled to the floor, and pushed away
from the door. “The glasses stay. What kind of dance do you—”
“Fifty bucks to lose them.”
Her lips pursed into the stern pout that always got him right by the balls. “This isn’t an
auction. I’m not taking the glasses off.”
He gave her the cop stare, and he prided himself on having a good one, but he got
nothing back except his own reflection in the damn mirrored glasses. “Why do you work
here, Stacy? For the satisfaction of a job well done?”
“I work here to make money,” she clipped out.
“Strange how you’re turning mine down with some regularity then.”
Her lips parted, ready to fling a response, then slowly closed. She shrugged. “You’re not
a real client. I don’t want your money.”
“I’m way beyond a client and you know it. You also know what’s going on here is
undeniably real.”
Her face actually paled at the observation. She couldn’t look more skittish if he’d pulled
his gun and aimed at her. Fair enough. Rules applied, even in their unusual game. He
ought to stick to them, for both their sakes. Physical intimacies everyone expected. There
were recognized plays in this particular sport. Emotional intimacies were out of bounds.
Lowering his chin, he inhaled deeply. “Come here.”
“I don’t want to.” Her protest barely qualified as a whisper.
“I want you to,” he insisted, and patted his leg like an owner signaling a recalcitrant
pet. Apparently he was trapped in the role of asshole tonight.
Reluctantly she obeyed. When she neared, he parted his legs. She stepped between his
knees and perched lightly on his thigh, clearly prepared to bolt at the least provocation.
“Relax,” he breathed, nuzzling her ear, slightly light-headed from her nearness, her
scent.
“I can’t,” she choked out. Then she burst into tears.
Shit. Completely freaked, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, until her
head rested in the hollow of his shoulder and she more or less collapsed against him.
“Don’t,” he begged. “Baby, I’m the oldest of three boys. I can handle a fist to the face, an
elbow to the ribs, even a flying tackle. But a woman’s tears? They scare me, straight to
the bone.” His confession provoked a quick little hug from her, but the waterworks
continued unabated. The way she shook in his arms, the misery in her quiet sobs, simply
ripped him apart.
He pulled her glasses off, folded them one-handed, and slipped them into the breast
pocket of his black button-down. Bringing his hand back to her cheek, he lifted her face
and carefully wiped the tears with his fingertips. One look and he understood her
insistence on the glasses. Even in the low lights, he could see shadows under her eyes.
“Stacy, baby, don’t cry. Please.”
If anything, she cried harder. Pressing her face to his chest, she gripped his forearm.
“Don’t say my name. Don’t say anything. Just…give me a minute.”
Helpless, he alternated stroking her hair and running a hand over her back while the
storm of tears battered her. He wasn’t a good judge, but it seemed to go on a long time.
When he couldn’t take any more, he cupped his hand at the base of her head, eased her
face away from his chest, and leaned close. “Shhh.” He let his lips brush under one
swollen eye, tasted salt and soft skin. She shuddered and a small sound escaped her
throat. Eyes closed, arm tight around his neck, she tipped her head back into his hand
and offered her lips.
An offer he couldn’t refuse. Trailing his mouth over her damp cheek, he traced the
tracks of her tears to the corner of her mouth, swept his tongue along the delicate
crevice. Her lips parted. He delved—but gently, cautiously. Her tongue crept closer, slid
over his almost tentatively, and then retreated. He held his breath as she approached
again. This time her tongue tangled around his, and she sighed. He answered with a
tortured groan, and his control slipped away.
Time spiraled while he lost himself in her. Her strawberry-sweet lips, the luscious
depths of her mouth, that hot, hungry tongue eagerly tasting everything it could reach.
Other subtle inputs registered further back in his mind: the weight of her breasts against
his chest, taut nipples jutting through the jacket and his shirt. The curve of her hip
wedged tight in his lap. When she closed her lips around his tongue and sucked long and
slow, his dick sprang to attention and thrust hopefully against her thigh, as if to say, “Me,
too!”
Without breaking the kiss, she shifted slightly and, next thing he knew, fondled him
through his pants. On a strangled groan, he drew back and, against her mouth, said, “We
need to talk.”
“Don’t talk,” she pleaded, lips brushing his while, down below, he throbbed to life in her
hand. Even as his imagination replaced her hand with her soft, moist mouth, his mind
tried to apply the brakes. Yes, undercover work allowed physical intimacy within certain
boundaries, but a hand job exceeded the limits. Too bad his dick didn’t care.
Clinging to reason, he tried again. “Stacy, stop. I need to talk to you.” His voice held a
thread of desperation—a plea—but she wasn’t in a merciful mood. She gripped him hard,
and drew her clenched fist slowly up his shaft, wringing an agonized curse from him.
“Let me,” she whispered, more a demand than a request. “Tell me what you want.”
He wanted to tell her to stop; needed to tell her to stop. Instead, he grabbed her waist,
buried his face in the warm, fragrant curve of her neck, and begged. “Christ, do that
again. A little faster.”
She did, again and again. Not so much expertly as attentively, like every shudder and
twitch of his body fascinated her. He barely registered her reactions, too distracted by the
pressure building between his legs. He must have made some sound of protest—or
warning—because she squeezed his balls and repeated, “Let me.”
“Jesus. I—okay.” In less than a minute, he was an inarticulate mess, begging in one-
word bursts of “faster…harder,” and fighting a nearly overpowering instinct to push her
down onto her hands and knees, tear off the scrap of lace between her legs, and thrust so
deep inside her she’d think they were conjoined.
She leaned in, closed her lips around his earlobe, and bit down. Bright light flashed
behind his clenched eyelids, the few brain cells he had left imploded, and he came with a
strangled groan.
A flat voice behind him called out, “Time’s up. Fifteen minutes to close.”
She kissed his slack mouth. He tried to move his lips and capture hers, but wasn’t quick
enough. She was already sliding away. “I need to talk to you.” Christ, his voice sounded
like tires on gravel, and achieved about the same traction. Stacy slipped out the door.
…
“Thanks for the escort, Gary.” Kylie dug the keys out of her bag as they started across the
parking lot.
“No problem, Stace. Nice job tonight. I notice you picked up a new regular.”
Trevor. Her stupid heart skipped a beat. “Yeah.”
“Ramon says he likes to bend the rules.”
Word was getting out. The realization sent claws of alarm skittering up her spine. “He’s
fine. Good tipper.”
As they closed in on the yellow Bug, Gary said, “Don’t let the good tips get in the way
of your good sense. If this guy crosses the line, you let me know.”
“Stacy, I need to talk to you,” a deep voice cut in from the shadows on the other side of
the car. Trevor was little more than a dim outline, but she’d know him anywhere.
“It’s quarter to three,” Gary barked. “Talk to her tomorrow. We’re closed.”
Trevor ignored the blond man. “I’ll drive you home.”
Eyes on Trevor, she told Gary, “It’s okay.” To Trevor, she said, “I can’t. I’ve got to be
somewhere first thing tomorrow. I need my car.”
Crossing his arms on the roof of the Bug, he looked at her, his expression inscrutable.
“All right, you drive me home.”
“Get in.” She tapped a button on her key fob and popped the locks.
As Trevor got in, Gary whispered, “Ah, dammit, what are you doing? You don’t get
involved with the clients. Never mix business and pleasure. I thought you were smarter
than this.”
“Gary…” She crossed her arms and banked her frustration. “It’s not what you think.
Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
“I used to think so, but lately, Stace, I’m not so sure.” With that, he stalked off.
Yeah, well, join the club, she thought miserably as she opened the driver’s side door
and climbed in. She slammed the door, started the car, and drove to the exit. Finally,
because she couldn’t ignore him any longer, she turned and faced Trevor. “Which way?”
…
Straight to hell, Trevor thought, where he’d been since last Friday night, when he’d
arrived at the scene of a homicide and found himself drowning in the deepest blue eyes
he’d ever seen.
Those same eyes faced him now, holding a fascinating mixture of anger, desire, and
fear. Anger and desire he could handle, give back in spades, but the fear clutched at him.
Was she afraid of a killer at large? Afraid someone might discover whatever secret she
guarded? Or was she afraid of him?
Instead of asking, he gave her directions to his place, and then sat back and let the
silence balloon while she drove. Sure, it was a psych 101 tactic, but often effective.
People—women particularly—grew uncomfortable with prolonged silence. Discomfort
compelled them to fill the void with conversation, and once the words started flowing,
revealing monologues often followed.
Not Stacy. He stared at her profile as the minutes ticked away. Apparently it would take
more than silence to crack her tough little shell. Uninvited, images of how he’d like to
crack it filled his mind. He wanted her under him, wanted to bury himself inside her,
wanted to hear her scream his name as she came.
Maybe his breathing changed, or maybe she read his mind, but she glanced over at him
with big, wary eyes. “Stop looking at me like that.” Her voice sounded a little breathless.
“I’m not on the job.”
“What, you think just because you’re not airbrushed with makeup and wearing some
skimpy costume you don’t turn heads? You’re a beautiful woman. Truth is, you’re even
more beautiful now, in a T-shirt and”—he eyed her tight black pants—“whatever the hell
those things are. You don’t need to dance around in heels and a G-string to make me
want you.” He gave her a moment to let that sink in. “Turn right up here. I’m the third
house on the right.”
She drew in a shaky breath and looked at him again. “Do you? Want me, I mean?”
“You know damn well I do,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. The
deliberately naive question reminded him this was some kind of act on her part.
Stopping in front of the flagstone driveway of his Laurel Canyon bungalow, she turned
to him. Her eyes homed in on his fly. He felt the weight of her stare as palpably as a
touch, and his body responded accordingly. Her sharply indrawn breath assured him she
noticed, even in the darkened interior of the car.
“You have the same effect on me,” she confessed. Without seeming to realize it, she
leaned closer. Her lips parted. “I’ve never wanted—”
Him either. They lunged at each other, mouths ravenous. He cupped her jaw in one
hand, splayed the other along the back of her head. Her fingers dove into his hair and
held on. When her hot mouth started roaming his chin, taking hungry nips from his jaw,
he pulled her over the seat, sprang the door, and half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the
car. “Inside,” he ground out between kisses. “Now.”
Somehow they made it across the front yard and in the door. As soon as he got the
damn thing closed, he backed her up against it. Hands planted on either side of her head,
he leaned in and captured her lips again. Sweet as berries, soft as cream against his
tongue.
He feasted like a starving man until they were both breathless. Slightly dizzy, he pulled
back, hit the lights, and looked at her. Heavy-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, and damp lips
greeted him. A pulse beat erratically at the base of her throat. Then those slumberous
eyes blinked open and wide, dilated pupils fixed on him.
Her hand curved along the back of his neck. She tipped her head back and whispered,
“Please,” with such a mixture of longing and despair, something tightened in his chest.
Something in the vicinity of his heart. Lowering his forehead to hers, he tried one last
time.
“Tell me what you’re hiding. You can trust me.”
She closed her eyes. Her fingers curled into his shirt. “I wish I could tell you,” she
breathed. “I can’t. I promised someone—”
“If this person cares about you, they don’t want you to put yourself in danger.” He drew
back slightly to gauge the effect of his argument.
She simply shook her head, and then leveled a conflicted gaze on him. “It’s nothing like
that. I’m not holding back information that would solve this case.”
“But it’s related. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so nervous. Tell me.”
“I can’t.” She winced as she said it. “I have to, um, take the fifth.”
His hands tightened on her arms. “Are you involved in something illegal?”
The wince turned into a look of pure misery. “I don’t know. Maybe. But talking about it
won’t help you find a killer. It would just look”—troubled eyes fled from his and took
refuge somewhere over his shoulder—“bad.”
He took her chin and pulled her attention back to him. “Bad for whom?”
“For everyone.” Tilting away from his grasp, she shook her head and gave him a weak
smile, filled with regret. “I should go. This is a terrible idea. I’m no good for you. Getting
involved with me is going to land us both in trouble.”
She was right. Getting tangled up with her bent all kind of rules, but when she turned
and opened the door, all he thought was, Hell, no. Following instinct rather than reason,
he reached over her head and slammed it closed. She jumped, but stubbornly faced the
door.
He leaned in, trapping her with his body. Inhaling her familiar scent, he said, “You’ve
taught me something about myself.”
Into the swelling silence she released a pent-up breath. “What’s that?”
“I like bad girls.” He grazed his teeth along her neck, provoking an aroused little moan
from her. “One in particular, I can’t resist. I may have to take you into protective
custody.”
He braced her palms on the door, nudged her feet apart with one of his, and then sent
his hands under the hem of her T-shirt, up the silken ladder of her ribs. She moaned
again when he cupped her breasts. Her hips shifted restlessly against him when he
squeezed.
“Oh, God. Are you frisking me?” Helpfully, she stepped out of her flip-flops. “I’m
unarmed. I promise.”
“You were born with weapons, and you know it.” Tugging her bra out of his way, he
feathered his fingers over her puckered nipples. Her low, guttural cry of appreciation went
high and sharp when he pinched lightly. Before she could recover, he grabbed the bottom
of the shirt, whisked it over her head, and then coaxed her arms higher so he could pull
the garment off.
After pressing her forearms to the door, he kissed his way down her back, pausing to
unhook her bra. She shivered as it sprang open. Kneeling behind her, he sent his hands
around to her breasts again and got to work there while his tongue slid over the curve of
her spine.
“The thing is…,” she panted.
He rested his hand low on her stomach and swept his tongue under the band of her
leggings. Her abs tightened beneath his palm. He scraped his teeth along her skin. “Thing
is?”
Her forehead bonked against the door. “Ah…jeez. The thing is, I’m really not—”
Without further warning, he yanked her pants down, baring her spectacular ass to his
view, save for the little black triangle of her thong.
“Oh!” she gasped.
He cupped her cheeks, thumbs riding along the undersides and lifting slightly. Then he
ran a finger under the back of her thong, all the way down between her parted thighs.
Toned muscles trembled. “You’re really not what?” he prompted, brushing his lips against
her smooth flesh.
He sank his teeth into one luscious cheek, slid his finger beneath the panties and
straight to the slick little pad of flesh throbbing for his attention. Her whole body stiffened
and she gasped, “Oh, Lord. I’m really not a bad girl. I’m not. I’m not,” repeating the
denial like a rosary prayer.
Nibbling and licking his way to the other cheek, he used one hand to work the tights off
her legs while the other stayed busy delving between her thighs, circling and retreating.
She arched and writhed in a dance he found far more erotic than any routine she
performed at Deuces.
“I know,” he murmured. Hand on her hips, he spun her around, and knelt there until her
dazed, blurry gaze locked on his. “I know,” he repeated, and nudged his face between her
legs, then turned and kissed the inside of one trembling thigh.
“Trevor,” she panted, “I’m not…I don’t know…”
“Shhh.” He kissed the other thigh, and then watched her as he hitched that thigh over
his shoulder and kissed her in between—where she was soft and wet and incredibly hot.
“Please…” Her head fell back. Her hands sank into his hair, fingers curving to overlap at
the back of his head while her body arched up to meet his mouth.
“I’m about to please you,” he assured her. Then he dragged her panties aside and used
his tongue.
Her knees buckled when she came, but he caught her, held her tight, and devoured
every sweet, fluttering pulse of her orgasm.
Chapter Nine
Before Kylie could catch her breath, Trevor swept her into his arms and started walking.
Rich earth tones, wood trim, and old leather swirled in her vision like a merry-go-round of
colors and textures. Then he lowered her onto a continent of a bed, switched on the
bedside lamp, and stepped back to look at her. Even in the dim glow from the lamp, she
couldn’t miss the hunger in his eyes.
She also couldn’t miss the fact that their clothing situation remained as uneven as ever.
There he stood, fully clothed, while she wore not a stitch.
The realization brought her to her knees, still weak from the soul-rattling experience of
her first non-self-administered orgasm. She planted a hand in the middle of his chest.
“Wait.”
He drew back. “Don’t you want to come again—with me inside you?”
Oh boy, did she. Caution had officially fled the building, leaving reckless desire in
charge. “Yes. Absolutely yes. But first…” Her shaking fingers scrambled over the buttons
of his shirt. The feel of his muscular chest frayed her patience and in the end she simply
tore the shirt open. His startled, aroused growl nearly drowned out the clatter of buttons
on polished hardwood.
She shoved the shirt down his shoulders, drinking in the sight of his broad chest,
striated abs, and firm, flat stomach. “You’ve seen me naked, or nearly naked, plenty of
times, but I never get to see you. I never get to touch your skin.” Determined to rectify
the inequity, she indulged herself now, running her hands over his warm, hard body. It
wasn’t enough. Somehow he sensed this, because he leaned in, knelt on the bed, and
took her lips. Kissing him back, she leaned in, too, until her tight, aching nipples brushed
his chest. Their moans mingled in the quiet room.
“You feel so good,” she whispered.
He choked out a laugh, even as his arm came around her back to support her. “You
don’t know the half of it.”
“I want to,” she said against his chest, while her impatient fingers tugged his belt. “I
want to know all of it.” Desperately. If wanting him, surrendering to the want, was wrong,
so be it. Stacy, her mom, heck, everyone she shared DNA with, gave in to these cravings
whenever they struck. For once in her life, she would take the same freedom.
Hands tangled as he helped her unhook his belt and open his fly. Reaching in, she
found him straining toward her invading fingers with an enthusiasm that matched her
own. Shoving his clothing away, she closed her hand around him. Dear heaven…all of
him.
Slowly, she let her eyes slide down. Her hand looked slim and delicate around his
enormous erection. She’d felt it before, through his clothes. Those furtive explorations
really hadn’t prepared her for how big he was. Huge, thick, and hard as granite.
Excitement and trepidation fizzed in her chest.
“Trevor—”
He wrapped his hand over hers. “Jesus, it’s insane what you do to me with just a
touch.”
Overwhelmed, she rested her forehead against his chest and gave in to the impulse to
stroke him. Breath burst from his lungs in a tortured whoosh. His scent, a heady mix of
soap and pure, elemental male, invaded her nostrils at the same time his low groan
invaded her ears.
The next moment, her world twirled as Trevor flipped her flat on her back. She popped
up on her elbows and stared at him. His face was dark with concentration as he opened a
foil packet. Something quickened inside her at the sight of his hands on his penis, deftly
rolling on the condom. Heat intensified between her thighs. She clenched them together
to try to ease the sensation, but it didn’t help. Seeking relief, she opened her legs, offered
herself.
He crawled forward until he knelt in the vee. “How do you like it?” he whispered.
She didn’t know. She only knew she wanted it. Urgently. “I don’t care. Please,” she
begged, and fluttered her legs in a restless motion.
He slid his hands along the insides of her thighs, parting her legs even more, exposing
her aching center and leaving her utterly vulnerable. She bit her lip, but an edgy moan
escaped.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” And he did. One hand resting on her thigh, the other
wrapped around the base of his erection, he ran the tip over her throbbing sex, and then
pushed gently into her.
Pleasure swelled at the point of penetration, coiling and contracting with every shallow
thrust of his hips until, stretched to her limit, the sensations sharpened to an almost
painful intensity. Another moan tore from her throat, this one half ecstasy, half plea for
mercy.
“Christ, you’re tight,” he ground out. She writhed under him, straining to find relief, but
his big hand clasped her hip, holding her still. “Let me—” Hooking an arm behind her
knee, he hitched her leg up high until her calf rode his shoulder. He sank a little deeper.
His beautiful, intense face receded as her vision grayed along the edges. One more
second and she’d break into a million pieces from the sharp, thrilling combination of pain
and pleasure.
Oh, God, help me, she prayed. Maybe she prayed out loud, because Trevor reached
down between their joined bodies and strummed his thumb over her unbearably sensitive
center. At the same time, he angled deep and drove into her.
For one suspended moment, their eyes met. His lips moved and she heard his rough,
shocked, “Jesus, Stacy.” Then sensations blasted through her like a shock wave. Eyes
closed, head thrown back, she spasmed helplessly, endlessly. With a low, tortured sound,
he plunged again, and she shattered in his arms.
…
Trevor stared at the woman asleep in his bed, and because he couldn’t help himself,
brushed his fingertip lightly over her soft, slightly kiss-swollen lips. She was a beautiful
contradiction, this provocative yet alluringly innocent stripper.
The innocence hadn’t been an act—or not completely. The last time he’d taken
someone’s virginity he’d been a sweaty-palmed teenager, but it wasn’t the kind of
experience a man forgot. Until tonight, the woman nestled beside him had been a virgin.
Not the sex-for-sport man-eater Vern had described to Ian. That left only two options.
Either the people at Deuces didn’t know her at all, or the woman beside him wasn’t Stacy
Roberts.
A detail shook loose from the stack of facts stored in his brain. Just a small piece of
information Ian had offered when he first ran their almost-witness. No brothers. One
sister. He’d barely heard it at the time because they were looking at male relatives. They
weren’t interested in her sister.
He was now. Careful not to wake his exhausted bedmate, he slid out of bed and made
his way to the dining room he’d converted into a home office. He sat at the small desk
with his laptop, spotted his Yukon parked in the driveway through the curtains, and sent
out a silent thanks to Ian. After entering the security codes, he accessed the online file for
the Carlton Long murder. He scrolled through the file directories to witnesses, opened the
folder, and scrolled again until he located the subfile for Stacy Roberts. Clicking the file,
he paged through the scanned reports and homed in on the immediate family. He
perused the information, reacquainting himself with her date of birth. Then he came to
the sister: Kylie Roberts. Exact same birthday.
Twins. He banged his fist against the desk before he could stop himself. How could they
have missed this? He’d bet his left nut they were identical twins. He’d ante up the right
one on the hunch the woman asleep in his bed was none other than Kylie Roberts.
The deduction explained a lot. Like why, for him, the dry facts about Stacy never
reconciled with the living, breathing woman. Why a seasoned stripper came across as an
enticing but inexperienced novice, and turned out to be a virgin. It explained why she
hadn’t recognized Carlton Long or Alex Montenegro during the first interviews, but later
remembered exactly which routines she’d used with each of them. He’d interviewed Kylie.
Then she’d run to Stacy and learned what she needed to know so she’d be prepared the
next time they spoke. And she had been prepared, impressively so.
The pieces continued falling into place in his mind as he shut down the computer and
walked back to the bedroom. The woman tucked under his covers made a small,
distressed sound in her sleep.
He sighed. No wonder her dreams troubled her. On top of finding herself at the center
of a murder investigation, she’d been living a lie, posing as Stacy. The bigger question
—why—demanded an answer. Thinking back on their conversation earlier in the evening,
he realized she’d been absolutely right about one thing. This was going to be ugly.
Chapter Ten
Kylie’s internal clock woke her at four thirty. Immediately, she realized Stacy’s “get him
out of your system” strategy didn’t do the trick right away because her happy body
wanted nothing more than to snuggle in next to Trevor’s big, warm frame and revisit
every inch of him. Her mind, however, stubbornly insisted she get her butt moving.
The voice of reason, which had been so quiet last night, now pointed out that by
sleeping with Trevor she’d taken a foolish and dangerous risk. She wasn’t the person he
thought she was, and the more time she spent in close, intimate contact with him, the
sooner he’d figure it out. He was way too perceptive. And after everything she’d
experienced in his arms last night, this morning she was way too susceptible to him, too
vulnerable to pull off a Stacy act. Better all around to make a quick, quiet exit.
Carefully, she eased off the bed. Her heart stalled for a moment when she heard him
shift on the mattress, but his breathing remained slow and even, and soon he stilled.
Mouthing a silent thank-you to the patron saint of women slinking from strange beds, she
searched the dark bedroom for her clothes before remembering they were somewhere by
the front door. His shirt, however, lay on the floor by his side of the bed. She crawled
over and picked it up.
She was crouched there with one arm in the shirt when the light clicked on and a deep,
sleep-rough voice broke the silence. “Going somewhere?”
Wincing at the indignity of being caught mid-slink, she slipped her other arm into the
shirt and concentrated on the buttons. Her hands weren’t quite steady. He had that effect
on her.
“I have an early appointment. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I’ve been awake for a while. After last night, I wouldn’t want you to leave without
saying a proper good-bye. It wouldn’t seem right.”
She stood and blew her hair out of her eyes, then looked at him. Big mistake. Propped
up on his pillow, with his disheveled hair, sleepy eyes, and raspy jaw, he was hard to
walk away from. Because every hormone she possessed clamored to crawl back in bed
with him, she responded more brusquely than she intended. “Okay, fine. Good-bye,
Trevor.”
“Good-bye…Kylie.”
Oh, shit. She stared at her feet. “You knew.”
“Not until last night.”
“What gave me away?”
She heard the rustle of sheets and the creak of bedsprings. Then his hand was under
her chin, forcing her to face him. “Stacy Roberts isn’t a virgin. I practically have sworn
affidavits attesting to that fact. You were, until a few hours ago.”
She closed her eyes against his probing stare. Stupid of her, thinking he hadn’t noticed.
He noticed everything.
“Look at me, Kylie.”
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and saw the concern in his. Guilt surged through her.
She’d lied to him, arguably impeded his investigation. She didn’t deserve his concern. His
next words only compounded her guilt.
“Are you okay? Physically, I mean?”
Shame heated her cheeks. “Yes. I’m fine. Please, don’t give it another thought.”
He looked at her for a long second, those dark, assessing eyes roaming her face.
Apparently what he saw convinced him she was telling the truth, for once, because finally
he nodded. “We’re both going to give it a lot of thought and some discussion, but it will
have to wait until later. Right now, we’ve got other matters to deal with.”
Oh, Lord, here it comes. He’s going to arrest you. Her stomach roiled. A bead of sweat
trickled down her spine. “How bad—how bad is it?”
“It’s not good,” he clipped out, all tough, authoritative cop again. “This morning I’ve got
to move quickly and by the book. We’re going to get dressed, then I’m going to read you
your rights and escort you straight into an interview.”
“I need to call—”
“No calls, unless it’s an attorney. Meantime, Ian’s going to pick up Stacy, and she’ll get
the same drill. Depending on how things shake out, we’ll see where we go from there.”
An attorney? Oh, God, this was bad. Fear snaked through her, leaving an icy trail of
panic.
“My work,” she managed to whisper around the lump in her throat. “I’m a yoga
instructor. I have a class starting at six.”
He retrieved his cell phone from the nightstand and handed it to her. “Call a substitute.
Use my phone, so I can verify the number later.”
Trembling hands made dialing an ordeal. Her voice shook so badly her substitute
sounded as worried as she felt by the end of the call.
Trevor took the phone from her freezing fingers, and then wrapped his hand over them.
She shivered a little at the sudden warmth.
“Kylie, there’s something else I need you to do for me.”
Scared and miserable, she choked out, “I’ll try.”
“Trust me. I have a job to do, but everything I said before still stands. I want to help
you. Trust me to do both.”
She nodded, but they both knew she really didn’t have a choice.
…
In the end, he had to help her dress. She was just too shaken up to manage on her own.
Once he’d gotten her strapped into the passenger seat and started steering his Yukon
down the canyon, her shakes abated some, though her pallor remained a troubling gray.
Halfway to the station, Ian called to advise him that Stacy was in custody. Even before he
hung up, she peppered him with questions.
“Is Stacy okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Does Ian realize he needs to be careful? She has a broken leg.”
“He’s a trained detective. He noticed the cast.” Immediately, he regretted the sarcasm.
The morning was tough enough already. Glancing at her, he noted her stiff posture and
felt like an ass. He reached over and covered the tense, white-knuckled fist closest to
him.
Her hand relaxed under his, and she rested her head against the seatback. “I wish”—
she turned her head until she faced him—“I wish everything was different.”
The words sounded so wrenchingly wistful, he knew with sudden certainty he wasn’t
the only one who’d sensed the connection between them, the strange soul-to-soul
recognition he’d felt that very first night.
“Ian will make sure Stacy is comfortable. He’s got a knack for putting people at ease.”
She nodded and expelled a slow breath. “Will Ian conduct her interview, then?”
“No.” He pulled into his spot in the station parking lot and stopped the car. “For many
reasons, not the least of which is what we did last night, Ian will interview you. I’ll
interview her.”
She grabbed his arm. “You need to understand something about Stacy.”
“Kylie, stop.” He pried her hand off his arm and held it for a second. “You can’t do this
for her. Everything I need to understand about Stacy, I need to get directly from her.”
“You might not,” she said urgently, “because she’s scared. This is her worst nightmare.
She’s terrified you’re going to arrest her for the murders. I’ve told her she’s irrational, but
she can’t help it. She’s got an almost inborn distrust of authority. It stems from how she
grew up, how people treated her where we grew up.”
Suddenly bone-weary, he stared through the windshield and sighed. “I have some
experience dealing with nervous, hostile interviewees. You’re going to have to trust me to
ask the right questions and draw the right conclusions. All I want is the truth. I don’t have
any interest in hanging these murders on anyone except the actual murderer.”
“I know you don’t.” Her fingers tightened on his arm again. “I’m just trying to explain
that she’s scared and defensive.”
Impatient with the whole situation, he asked, “What’s a scared, defensive woman from
the backwoods of Tennessee doing working as a Hollywood stripper? And why the hell
would you enable her by filling in?”
Kylie let go of him as if he’d stung her. “Besides the fact that if I didn’t fill in, we’d be
homeless?”
“You’ve got a home in Tennessee.”
“Stacy’s a dancer. She’s trying to achieve her dreams and become a star. That won’t
happen for her in Two Trout.”
“She’s off to a hell of a start.”
Kylie scowled at him. “Sure, plenty of people would say working at Deuces doesn’t
qualify as legitimate dancing, and consider it proof she doesn’t have what it takes to
succeed, but it’s not true. She’s an amazing entertainer. She’s had lots of auditions and
callbacks. Even at Deuces, her artistry stands out. Those routines require more skill and
technique than your average bump and grind. For her, dancing encompasses more than
mere movement… She embodies a character, tells a story.”
“You’re a fan,” he observed quietly, unable to hold on to his anger.
“I believe in her talent, and in her. She’ll get there.”
“I hope she does. But first, she needs to get through this. The sooner we get started,
the sooner we get done.” With that, he exited the car, came around, and opened the
passenger door. She hesitated and gave him an uncomfortable look.
“Trevor, I want you to know, you were the only person I danced for like…the way I
danced for you.”
Impossibly, he felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, seeing her sitting there, so
prim and awkward. “I know,” he said softly, and helped her down. She flashed him a
nervous look, and then, because he hadn’t cuffed her, preceded him into the station. He
directed her to an interview room. With the recorders on, he recited the Miranda rights
and secured her agreement that she understood the rights as they had been explained to
her. Doubtful, considering she didn’t immediately request an attorney, but he knew Kylie
wanted to cooperate so he didn’t press.
Ian opened the door, stepped in, and said, “Suite B. Recorders are on and ready to go.
Miss Roberts declined a lawyer, so she’s all yours.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Standing, he gave Kylie one last look. Huge blue eyes stared back at
him from a sheet-white face. Not exactly a confident, trusting expression. With a tight
smile, he said, “See you later.” On his way down the hall he hoped her anxious eyes and
pale face wouldn’t haunt him through her sister’s interview.
Hours later, he stepped back out into the hall, closed the door, and exhaled a long
breath. Equal parts exhausted and relieved, he walked to Kylie’s room to check in with
Ian. At his knock, Ian came out, pulled the door shut behind him, and asked, “What did
she have to say?”
“Stacy said she had nothing to do with the murders and she doesn’t have the first clue
who beat Long and Montenegro to death.”
“And you believe her.” Ian said it more as a conclusion than a question, but Trevor
answered anyway.
“Yeah, I do. If she knew who’d murdered those guys, she’d kill him herself for depriving
her of two of her best clients.”
“Sentimental girl.”
“In her own way, she misses them. Maybe it’s more accurate to say she misses their
patronage, but that’s damn near the same thing in her mind. Whichever, it’s pretty clear
she didn’t feel driven to punish them for their misbehavior at Deuces. She’s too focused
on the bottom line to let, as she termed it, ‘some stupid, drunk behavior’ get to her.
Certainly not enough to put someone up to killing them. If she were inclined to kill
someone for those incidents, Ramon would be dead.”
“Not that she has the physical capacity to do the kind of damage done to those men,
but does she happen to have alibis?”
“Montenegro’s murder was too long ago. She doesn’t remember where she was. She’s
alibied for the night of Long’s murder. Aside from the broken leg—date and time verified
by the ER—she spent last Friday evening at a bar, made a friend, and went back to his
place after last call.” He shrugged. “I’ll check it out, but it’s going to hold.”
“What did she say about the whole Stacy/Kylie switch?”
“It’s an old fallback for them. Since they were kids, if she was in a jam, she’d ask Kylie
to take her place. She swears nobody at Deuces knows Kylie’s been dancing her shifts for
the last two weeks.”
Ian nodded. “That’s exactly what Kylie said. And you know what? I’ll bet they’re right.
Even for identical twins, the resemblance is amazing.”
“There are subtle differences. Kylie’s eyes are a deeper blue, her lips less pouty.” More
shapely…more expressive.
Ian grinned. “Yeah, classy versus sassy. But nobody at Deuces is looking at eye shade
or lip definition.”
“Probably not. The personality differences are less subtle.”
“Still waters and roaring rapids—but nobody’s looking at their personalities either. Given
that their switch remains undetected, we gonna let the charade continue?”
A part of him wanted to say no. The knee-jerk, protective part preferred to bundle Kylie
onto a plane with a one-way ticket back to Two Trout, or somewhere else far away,
where she’d be safe. But he didn’t control her and, considering she’d been willing to pose
as a stripper to stay in LA, he knew damn well she wouldn’t easily abandon the life she’d
built here just because he asked her to. And if she stayed, then pulling the plug on their
switch simply shot their investigation in the foot. They were close to forcing the killer to
make a move. He felt it. They just needed to push this guy a little more.
“We keep going. If Kylie were underage or something along those lines, I’d have a
different opinion, but as it stands, her dancing there doesn’t violate any vice laws. We’re
not responsible for talent management at Deuces. If they don’t realize they’ve got a
substitute stripper, that’s their problem. Kylie’s a crucial part of the undercover op. Our
act may be the only way we’re going to catch this killer.”
“I’m on board, you’re on board. But is Kylie on board?”
The thought of Kylie dancing until two after only a couple hours of sleep and all the
trauma of the morning made his conscience bleed, but he nodded. “She will be. I don’t
want to lose whatever attention I attracted by leaving with her last night. I want to keep
pressing this guy’s buttons until he crawls out of his hole and tries to bash my skull in.”
Just then Kylie opened the door. The words “bash my skull in” echoed down the narrow
hall while she looked up at him, fear and worry etched across her face.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’ve got his back,” Ian said. “Nothing’s going to happen to him.”
Not helpful, if her expression served as any indication. Nor was his safety what he
wanted her thinking about. “Come on.” Trevor took her arm and steered her down the
hall. “We’re done here. I’ll take you back to my place to get your car.”
She dug her heels. “Wait. Where’s Stacy?”
“She’s being released too,” he explained, continuing to tug her across the parking lot to
the Yukon. “Ian will drive her home.”
Glancing uncertainly toward the station, she hesitated. “I should wait for her and—”
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said quietly. “Away from here. Don’t worry, Stacy’s in good
hands.”
She swallowed, shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked at him. Finally, she said,
“Okay.”
While they buckled up and got under way, he considered where to start, but Kylie
jumped in with questions of her own.
“You don’t suspect Stacy of having anything to do with the murders?”
“No. These were a couple of her most lucrative clients. She doesn’t have a motive to kill
them.”
He heard her small sigh of relief, and while he didn’t want to burst her bubble, he felt
the need to point out some less optimistic findings. “I guess you could consider that the
good news. The bad news is everything Stacy told us about her coworkers, VIPs, and the
rest of the suspect pool jibes one hundred percent with what you said. Which means the
interview brought us no closer to finding the killer.”
“I’m sorry.” She was. He could hear it in her voice; see it in those sad, tired eyes. “Am I
in trouble for pretending to be Stacy? Obstructing an investigation?”
Now it was his turn to sigh. “I suppose if I wanted to, I could make something of it.” He
glanced over and caught her eyes. “But I don’t.”
He watched as something—more relief, yes, but something else—flickered across her
face.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I know I deserve to be brought up on whatever charges
are available. I’m sure you’re angry with me.”
Ah, hell. Gratitude and guilt. Not exactly what he’d been going for. Reaching over, he
took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers. “No, Kylie, I’m not. Am I disappointed it
had to happen this way? Yes. However, I do recognize you were as honest with me as
you felt you could be without betraying Stacy, whom you were trying to protect. From
here on out though, you need to be completely honest with me, okay?”
“Yes. Of course.” Sounding abashed, she added, “I promise.”
“Good. To give you honesty in return, you passing for Stacy impacted our investigation
very little. We might have identified Carlton as a client the night he died rather than the
next day, but otherwise…” He shrugged.
She squeezed his hand. “Well, still, I’m very grateful. I wish there was something I
could do to make amends.”
Perfect entry to his next topic. Linking his fingers a bit more tightly with hers, he
replied, “Your wish is granted.”
She shot him a wary look. “You want me to continue dancing for you, so you can keep
putting yourself out as bait.”
“Yes, but there’s more. We need to up the stakes or this charade isn’t going to work.
Both Alex and Carlton manhandled Stacy—for want of a better term—and created a
scene. That’s the next step. I think if we stage an altercation at Deuces, it will trip this
guy’s trigger. He’ll come after me.”
The fingers between his went stiff and still. He pulled his attention from the road briefly
to see her reaction. Eyes full of fear and dread stared back at him.
Her concern warmed something inside him, deep in his chest, even as her reluctance
made him want to tear out his hair. After steering the Yukon through a turn and onto his
street, he pointed out as matter-of-factly as possible, “I’ll be ready for him, Kylie. I’ll be
armed. Ian will have my back.”
She turned away. Facing the passenger-side window, she said flatly, “What did you
have in mind?”
Chapter Eleven
Kylie sat on the leather sofa in Trevor’s sun-dappled living room and coached herself
through some deep, calming breaths. He sat directly in front of her on his sturdy wooden
coffee table, his elbows resting on his thighs, his knees nearly brushing hers. Patiently, he
waited for her to say something.
His plan was simple really—at least her part. Risk-wise, it was all on him.
“Where will Ian be?” she asked, amazed her voice sounded so steady when her heart
threatened to pound its way through her chest.
“Parking lot, unless I give him a signal to close in. I can’t have him too close. We want
to give our guy an opportunity to make a move. He’ll go for me in the parking lot,” Trevor
said, all calm, confident cop.
“What if he doesn’t? If he doesn’t go for you at all, I mean. Then are you done?” She
couldn’t keep the hope out of her voice.
“Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”
“That’s no answer.”
“You want me to say we’ll give up? We can’t, Kylie.” Frustration vibrated from him.
“There’s a murderer roaming free. You want me to say we’ll switch me out, put another
detective undercover instead and see if the killer takes the new bait? Would you like that
better, giving another detective private dances?” The frustration swelled to something
she couldn’t readily identify…something sharp and dangerous.
She looked down at the space between their knees, and then let herself get distracted
by the way his soft, wash-worn jeans molded his thighs. She’d promised honesty, so she
would give it to him. “In some ways, yes.”
After a pregnant pause, he asked, “Why me?”
Confused, she raised her eyes to his. “Why you…what?” Although after seeing his
expression, she was afraid she knew.
“Why me last night? You’ve waited all this time, probably declined countless men.”
Yep, that’s what she’d been afraid he meant. “There really haven’t been countless
men,” she offered lamely.
Those dark, penetrating eyes held hers. “Why me?” he repeated quietly.
Honesty, she reminded herself. “Because I wanted to, um”—she cringed a little and
rushed on—“get you out of my system.”
For a moment he just stared at her. Then the side of his mouth kicked up in the
lopsided smile—his jaded, can’t-be-disappointed smile. “Like a virus, huh?”
“No.” She reached over and placed a hand on his hard, muscular thigh, and squeezed as
if through touch she could somehow explain what she couldn’t fully articulate in her own
head. “Like something I shouldn’t get used to. Like something that feels real because of
the situation, but probably has more to do with hormones and adrenaline and some
pretty intense circumstances.”
Talking about it definitely wasn’t helping. Emotions tangled in her chest, and words just
kept tumbling out of her mouth. “Like something that wasn’t meant for me in the first
place—not the real me.”
Oh God, you actually used the phrase “the real me.” Stop now . She sprang to her feet.
“I have to go.”
Trevor got to his feet as well, and stood close, kind of trapping her between the sofa,
the coffee table, and the big, muscular barrier of his body. With every warning about eye
contact Stacy had ever given her screaming through her mind, she looked up at him.
The lopsided smile still lingered, but now there was a hint of amusement in those see-
all eyes. “You think I don’t know the difference between Stacy and you?”
“No. I just…” Just what? Impatient with herself, feeling trapped, she spun and stalked
around the other side of the coffee table and headed to the front door. He beat her there.
Ever the Boy Scout, he opened and held it for her. The fact that he was clearly holding
back a laugh ruined the gallantry of the gesture, in her opinion, and suddenly she wanted
to kick him. Her. Saint Kylie.
“I don’t even know me anymore, Trevor. There’s no way you do.” Proof in point, she
barely recognized the testy voice coming out of her mouth.
“Yeah, well, I guess we’ll see,” he replied in his maddeningly confident tone.
“The time you kissed me at the station, I was honest when I told you I wasn’t at a
place in my life where I could date.”
“Maybe ’cause at that particular place in your life you were lying to me and pretending
to be Stacy? I think we’re past that now—”
“Hard as this is to believe, not every decision in my life is motivated by Stacy. It only
seems that way to you because you don’t know me—you know me pretending to be
Stacy. But news flash, Trevor, she’s not the only one with big dreams. I’ve got ambitions
too. Teaching yoga isn’t some hobby for me. I study hard so I can offer the best, most
innovative classes available, build a loyal clientele, and, when the time is right, open my
own studio. If I’m going to achieve these goals, I’ve got to focus. I can’t let myself get
distracted and pulled offtrack by my personal life.”
She didn’t know what reaction she’d expected from him, but his rumbling, deep-chested
laugh wasn’t it.
“I’m glad you think the notion of me having goals is such a gut-buster,” she said, and
battled another urge to kick him. Hard.
Eventually he got his laughter under control. “Kylie, I’m flattered you think I could be
such a huge distraction, but when it comes to people in your life who might get in the
way of your goals, you’d better look a little bit closer to home. I can guaran-fucking-tee
I’ll never ask you to drop everything, pretend to be me, and do my job for two months.”
That he had a point—and she knew it—only made her madder. But Stacy wasn’t a
choice, damn it, she was family. Getting involved with a man, on the other hand, was
strictly an option, and an unwise one for a woman like her. Relationships, with all their
compromises and demands, had an insidious way of sucking the independence and drive
right out of some women. Her mom demonstrated that on a regular basis. Kylie already
felt that same weakness in her own heart, that same neediness, when it came to Trevor,
which scared her right down to her bones.
Terrified, and furious with herself, she struggled for a dignified escape. “I see no reason
to continue this argument, conversation…whatever it is.” Head high, she brushed past
him, walked out of the house, and strode to the Bug. She slammed the door and got as
far as putting her shaking hands on the wheel before someone tapped the driver’s side
window. Turning, she saw Trevor there, his arms braced on the roof of the car, looking at
her. He made a rolling motion with his index finger, and then crouched down so their
faces were level when she lowered her window.
The vapor trail of a smile still lingered on his lips, causing her to snap, “What?”
“How’d it work?”
“How’d what work?”
“The whole ‘getting me out of your system’ strategy.”
She blinked. Tough week for an honesty pledge. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell.”
“Hmm.” Straightening, but still angling his head in her window, he tapped the roof of
the car and smiled. “Fair enough. Do me a favor, okay?”
“Depends. What’s the—?”
He leaned in and cut her off by covering her mouth with his. He claimed it, branded it,
and owned it before she could so much as finish her question. When he raised his head,
she blindly chased after his retreating lips until the car door stopped her pursuit.
“Keep me posted,” he said. Then he grinned and strolled back toward the house.
…
Kylie made it all the way back to her apartment before admitting, so far, it wasn’t going
well at all. She walked in, realized Stacy wasn’t home yet, and immediately burst into
tears.
Covering her face with her hands, she sat down on the sofa and gave in to the stress,
fear, and powerlessness of the morning’s ordeal for several moments, allowing her sobs
to build and release like waves crashing on a beach. If letting emotions out was cathartic,
she was in the midst of a tremendously cathartic experience. But then it got a little scary,
because she couldn’t seem to stop crying.
Get moving. Do something. Tears still flowing, she got up and dragged herself to
Stacy’s room to find her costume for tonight’s shift at Deuces. Amid the clutter of her
sister’s closet she searched out the pieces of the “slutty schoolgirl” outfit, stopping every
few moments to swipe at her wet cheeks. While she was at it, maybe she could find some
positive, affirming thoughts to get her through the evening.
The sound of the front door opening brought her to a halt. Voices followed, along with
the telltale thump of Stacy’s cast crossing the wooden floors.
Through the back wall of the closet, she heard her sister’s voice.
“Thank you for seeing me home all safe and sound, Detective.”
“No problem,” came a lazy, familiar drawl in reply. Ian’s voice. “Is your sister home?”
Some more thumping followed as Stacy came down the hall and stopped outside the
bedrooms. “Doesn’t look like it. Both cars are parked out front, but she might have
walked down to the store or the Laundromat. She’s funny that way—likes to walk instead
of drive. Says it clears her head.”
“After spending the morning holed up in a police interview room, I’ll bet her head could
use some clearing,” Ian replied. He was much closer now. It sounded like they were both
standing in the hallway between the two bedrooms.
She knew she should speak up, but the thought of emerging from Stacy’s closet, all
tear-drenched and pathetic, held her back. Ian would tell Trevor he’d found her hiding in
a closet, sobbing her eyes out. No, she’d wait until he left. Stacy would understand if she
explained she hadn’t wanted to deal with another cop.
“I know my head could use some clearing, Detective.” Stacy’s voice increased in volume
as she thumped into the bedroom. It had also taken on a seductive note. Inwardly, Kylie
groaned.
“You want to go for a walk?” Ian asked.
“No, no.” Bedsprings squeaked as someone dropped onto the mattress. Kylie didn’t
need even two guesses to know who. “I prefer to clear my head with a slightly different
activity. It works best when I have a partner helping me—a strong, able-bodied partner.”
“That so?” Ian’s voice sounded a little thick now. The rustle of fabric and tiny pop of a
knee joint suggested he’d crouched down. Kylie’s heart sank. Oh, no…this is not
happening.
“Yes. Would you be the man for the job, Ian? Let me show you what it entails before
you decide.” More rustling. More springs creaking. The snap of a bra clasp followed by
Stacy’s throaty moan. “See, you’re already so helpful.”
“Hmm,” Ian agreed, clearly talking with his mouth full. “And you’re straight up beautiful,
as you know.” His voice trailed off and the sound of busy lips sucking and kissing
abundant flesh filled the room.
“Oh, honey. My toes curl when you do that. The girls are begging for more.”
“Lie back and get comfortable. I’m about to clear your head.”
The mattress squeaked some more.
“Perfect. I don’t want to hurt your leg, Stacy. Can I—?” Stacy’s groan contained not a
hint of pain. “I’m just going to prop this one up here on my shoulder.”
His “How’s that?” sounded distinctly muffled, but Stacy’s “Sweet heaven” rang out loud
and clear.
For the next few moments, Kylie counted her sister’s disarrayed shoes and tried to
ignore the noises coming from the next room. Stacy’s inarticulate but increasingly
desperate moans were hard to block out.
Finally, Ian’s voice cut in. “You’re going to pull my hair right out of my scalp if you keep
that up.”
“Inside me,” Stacy ordered. “Right now. Condoms are in the night table.” Her imperious
tone gave way to another pleading moan when the wet sound of a busy tongue was the
only reply to her demand.
“Inside me,” she panted again.
“Uh-uh. This is about clearing your head. Mine’s pretty clear already. I know exactly
what I’m doing.”
Apparently true, because in the next second, the bedsprings sang, and Stacy’s long,
agonized, and profoundly ecstatic cry of relief reverberated through the entire apartment.
Possibly the entire building.
Silence followed, broken by the occasional sound of lips against skin and, eventually,
the mattress groaning under the weight of a second body.
“You okay? Your leg—?”
“God, sweetie. I’m better than okay. My leg is fine, hasn’t felt this good in weeks. Give
me one second and then I’ll take care of you.”
“Relax. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard.”
“Well, sorry, Detective, but you’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t issue rain checks. This is
a onetime offer.”
The mattress creaked again as bodies moved. Someone got up from the bed. “Nah, I
don’t think so. See, Stacy, I’m onto you. Whether you know it or not, you’re trying to pin
me into a catch-22. You won’t trust a man unless you can lead him around by his dick.
But as soon as you can, you lose respect and interest. Me, I plan on holding your
interest.”
“That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. For the record, I’m not the least bit
interested, and your dick just missed out on the best ten minutes of its sad little life.”
“We’ll see.”
Kylie couldn’t quite suppress a smile at how confident he sounded. Then her eyes
rounded as he went on. “Just to establish some all-important trust, I’ll admit my dick is
begging to be led around by you, particularly at the moment. But, you know what? Over
the next day or so, you’re going to realize you’ve got a few parts wishing for my lead.
When you do, you call me and I’ll come back for that rain check. But when you make the
call, know you’re not just offering up your body. You’re exploring body, mind, and soul
with me, and it’s sure as hell going to take more than ten minutes.”
“You’re insane. Get out.”
“I’m simply telling you so you’ll be prepared. Don’t worry when you can’t clear me out of
your head. Just pick up the phone. I’ll be waiting.” His footsteps vibrated along the
floorboards as he crossed to the door.
“You’ll die waiting,” Stacy yelled.
“I’ll die laughing,” he shot back.
“Get ouuuuut!” A loud crash sounded against the far wall, indicating Stacy had thrown
something—something breakable.
“Gotta work on that temper,” he chided. “I know it’s tough on you, not getting exactly
what you think you want, exactly when you want it. Trust me, Stacy, it’s all going to work
out.”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by the click of the front door closing.
The bed creaked again, and then Stacy thumped toward the closet, muttering under her
breath. “Of all the conceited, egotistical…” The closet door flew open and Kylie helpfully
held out Stacy’s robe.
Stacy’s mouth dropped open, but before she could scream bloody murder, Kylie stepped
forward and took her sister’s arms. “It’s me.”
With a hand to her chest, Stacy released her breath and sagged against her for a
moment. “Oh my God, Kylie. What the hell are you doing in there?” Then a rare thing
happened. Red bloomed in Stacy’s face, flushed down her neck and chest. “Did you
overhear—?”
Kylie cringed and nodded. “I’m sorry. Really sorry. I know I should have spoken up
when you first got home, but I was in here digging out my costume for tonight and, well,
having kind of a tough moment. I started to call out to you, but then I heard Ian. I just
couldn’t handle another interaction with LAPD’s finest today, so I decided to stay put until
he left. I didn’t realize I’d be stuck in here while…while you…and he…well, mostly you I
guess…”
Stacy shrugged into her robe and yanked the tie snug around her waist. “Yeah, mostly
me. What an asshole. An idiot, really, considering he could have left here happy and
satisfied, but instead chose to walk off with a boner the size of the Hollywood sign in his
pants and some crazy ideas in his head.” She shook her head and sighed. “And he
seemed so normal, too. I swear, just when I think I understand men…”
“Maybe all men aren’t alike?”
Stacy snorted inelegantly. “All the ones attracted to me are, so I don’t know what Ian’s
trying to pull with his mind, body, and soul bull. I’ve known all along my mind and soul
didn’t measure up.”
“What a thing to say! Why would you believe that?”
Her twin shrugged. “Gosh, Ky, let’s see…in sixth grade I asked to try out for the
advanced reading class, because as far as I could tell, I read as fast and as well as any of
us, but Mrs. Crabtree said one Roberts in advanced reading was enough. I realized then
and there, any investment in a Roberts twin’s mind wasn’t going to be mine.”
Astonishment flooded her, and then a belated blast of anger for her sister. “I’m sorry.
Mrs. Crabtree should have let you try out. If I’d known you wanted to, I would have
backed you up, but you never said anything to me. I always assumed you weren’t
interested in school.”
“I wasn’t much after that. Then, in twelfth grade, when Mr. Hicks told me the only way
I’d get a passing grade in geometry was to give him a blow job, it kind of cemented
things for me.”
Oh, God. “That’s why you dropped out.”
“It certainly factored in.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone? Mr. Hicks should have been fired. And arrested!”
“Who says I didn’t tell someone? I was scared, and certain nobody on earth would
believe me, except maybe you, but finally, I figured God would know the truth, so I told
Father Flannery. You know what he said to me?”
Kylie shook her head, but fingers of dread reached low in the belly and squeezed.
“He said my tongue would turn as black as my soul if I didn’t stop speaking such ugly
lies about a fine upstanding man and a deacon of the church.” She waved her hand
carelessly, as if brushing off an inconsequential memory, but Kylie heard the bitterness in
her twin’s voice.
“I don’t know what to say. I wish I’d known. I would have tried to help.”
Stacy offered a resigned smile. “You couldn’t do anything. They would have torn you
down too if you’d tried. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. By then I knew what I wanted to
do with my life, and I didn’t need my high school degree to do it. My soul goes into
performing, and people say it’s good. Even dancing at Deuces is fulfilling in its own way.
It’s challenging.”
“I know,” Kylie quickly agreed, “and also really hard work. I have a new respect for you
after walking in your stilettos these last two weeks.”
“Nice of you to say, but I don’t pretend to be the respectable twin.”
Kylie sighed, realizing she and Stacy had more in common than she’d ever suspected.
Inside, they bore similar scars, in different places. They were both fighting to overcome
the insecurities inflicted from their wonderful upbringing.
“You know, Stacy…growing up, I always wanted to be more like you. I longed to be the
brave, fun, free twin.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. “I always wanted to be like you. I admired you for being so
smart, sensitive, and disciplined. You never gave in to impulse, never acted out, and
never, ever lost control.”
“The control is an illusion,” she whispered. “I’m losing it, big time.”
Stacy slowly inspected her face. The corners of her mouth tipped up in a smile. “Better
late than never, Saint Kylie.”
Chapter Twelve
When Kylie walked into the dressing room at Deuces, all conversation stopped, and three
sets of highly made-up eyes turned to her.
Unsettled, she placed her bag on the vanity and cautiously returned the curious gazes
of her fellow dancers. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, Snowflake, don’t be coy.”
“Yeah, honey, we heard you had a guest with you when you left last night. Did you give
your favorite client a lift?”
“Or maybe he gives you the lift, no?”
Trevor was right. Word traveled fast. Not two minutes in the door and she was getting
the third degree—and the perfect opportunity to advance the plan. A plan she hated. But
she owed Trevor her cooperation. She’d given her word. Dropping to her chair, she
slumped and sighed. “I’m sorry, girls. I really don’t want to talk about it.” Anxiety brought
an authenticity to her voice.
Lee Ann took the bait. “Aw, honey, what happened? Don’t tell me that big, hot stud
turned out to be a dud?”
Kylie shrugged. “He was fine, at first. But later he got all bossy and possessive. He said
if we were going to date, he didn’t want me doing private dances anymore. I explained
Deuces would cancel my engagement if I refused to do private performances and I’d be
out of a job. He said…” She let her words die away, as if they were too painful to speak
aloud.
“What does he say?” The protective outrage in Ariana’s question was as thick as her
accent.
“He said a private dance is nothing but a fancy name for hooking,” Kylie whispered.
“And he didn’t date hookers.”
Three sharply indrawn breaths practically sucked the air out of the room.
“That bastard,” Ginger snapped, breaking the silence. “I hope you kicked his ignorant,
judgmental ass to the curb.”
Kylie nodded. “I did.” Channeling Stacy, she wound herself up for an indignant rant. “I
told him I made it through three extremely competitive auditions to get the gig at Deuces
and not one of them involved screwing anyone, for money or otherwise. Then I told him I
never wanted to see him again.”
“Good for you, Stacy, giving him a piece of your mind. If a guy had said that to me, I’da
been speechless.” Lee Ann patted her shoulder on her way out.
“Yes,” Ariana agreed, following Lee Ann. “You treat him as he deserves. I am proud.”
When the door swung shut, Ginger slid into the chair next to her and gave her
shoulders a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry, Snowflake. I can’t put my finger on why exactly,
but I could have sworn Mr. Strong, Silent, and Sexy as Hell had evolved beyond the run-
of-the-mill caveman hypocrite we get around here. If it’s any consolation, he had me
fooled, too.”
Kylie offered a weak smile. Since when had she become so adept at manipulation? She
hadn’t counted on receiving sympathy and solidarity from her fellow dancers. Playing with
their emotions made a rotten situation worse.
“Worse” was a relative concept, she realized over the course of the evening. As word of
her disastrous date traveled the Deuces grapevine, she endured a scolding from Vern
about going home with a client, a gallery of pitying looks from the waitstaff, an offensive
proposition from Gary, a creepy fish-eye from Ramon, and a worried look from Benny. By
the last half of her shift, she found the glazed lust from the customers a distinct relief.
Relief was short-lived. Vern strode up to her after her second stage dance and said,
“Okay, kid. It’s time for lesson number one on why we don’t date the customers. Your boy
is in the VIP room, requesting a private dance. Now, I know you two had a little tiff last
night, and you may not feel like entertaining him right now, but I’m not in the business of
turning down money. He says he just wants the dance and isn’t looking for trouble.” Vern
paused and gave her a hard stare. “You don’t usually bring personal drama to the job, so
I figure you get one free pass. You want to use it tonight?”
She swallowed the urge to say yes, and dug deep for the Stacy cockiness. “Absolutely
not. I’m a professional, and I’m also not in the business of turning down money, either.
He wants a dance? I’ll give him a dance. He gives me any grief, I’m having him bounced.”
“Fine and dandy. VIP room three. Ramon’s already there.” With that, Vern lumbered off.
“Fine and dandy,” she repeated under her breath, and prayed to God it would be.
Obviously Trevor had made it into the club in one piece, but if the next few minutes went
as planned, there was no guarantee he’d stay that way.
Stomach churning with dread, she made her way across the still-crowded club to the
VIP room and tried to mentally prepare for next phase of the plan. She took a deep
breath and slipped inside. There he sat, looking so big and tough and good, she suddenly
longed for the days when all she had to do was straddle his lap, strip off a few articles of
clothing, and touch him to her heart’s content. When their eyes met, his darkened, hinting
maybe he had the same thought.
Then he began a long, slow perusal of the slutty schoolgirl, starting with her patent
leather Mary Jane platforms, ascending along her black thigh-high stockings, sweeping up
the twin bands of skin exposed between the tops of the stockings and the bottom of her
very short pleated plaid skirt.
She sauntered over and straddled him with a bravado she didn’t feel. His gaze snagged
on the hot-pink panties visible beneath the hiked-up hem of her skirt, and despite her
worry over this so-called plan, her trigger-happy hormones sent a rush of heat straight to
the spot.
His warm hands found her cold midriff, bared between the low waist of her skirt and
white blouse tied just under her breasts. One small flex of his wrists settled her squarely
on his lap—on him. He lowered his hands to his sides, leaned close, and rubbed his lips
along her neck.
“Are you okay?”
She stuck with a nod.
He eased back and looked at her, as if seeking some better confirmation. She took a
deep breath, which caused her breasts to brush against his chest. His attention
immediately dropped to where the unbuttoned shirt and hot-pink bra offered up her
breasts for his inspection.
Her nipples sprang to attention under his gaze.
“Jesus, Kylie, you’re beautiful,” he breathed against her ear, left totally exposed by her
low pigtails. She’d never appreciated how vulnerable and sensitive her ear was. His voice
penetrated the coiled canal, vibrating over invisible receptors, sending shivers to all the
other invisible receptors in her body.
“Don’t be scared,” he went on, misinterpreting the reason for her physical reaction, but
nonetheless nailing her emotional state. “We’ve got this is in the bag. You ready?”
No. She nodded.
“Okay. Make it look good.” He curved his arm around her, locked his hand along the
back of her neck, and pulled her toward him.
“Let go of me!” she yelled, and followed the outburst with a slap. She’d never hit
anyone before in her life, and her first attempt went wide of the target. Instead of
connecting with his cheek, her palm glanced off his chin.
He played it up anyway, bringing his hand to his chin as if she’d actually hurt him,
pinning her with a shocked, angry glare. “Crazy bitch,” he growled.
She scrambled off his lap, exactly as he’d instructed, and ran to the door.
“Hey!” Ramon spoke up from the corner—his usual slow, lazy response.
Kylie yanked the door open, shouted, “Leave me alone,” and slammed it behind her,
effectively capturing the attention of every customer and employee in the vicinity. A
second later Trevor barreled through the door and strode toward her until they stood toe-
to-toe.
“I’m not paying for the dance unless you finish it.”
This time she landed the blow. Her palm cracked against his cheek. His head swiveled
on his neck. The impact shimmied down her arm. “Consider it finished!”
Straightening, he said, “We’re not finished until I say we’re finished,” and shoved her.
She staggered backward and let her leg give out beneath her, hoping her tumble didn’t
look too controlled. No worries, as it turned out. She accidently upended a table on her
way down. Customers scrambled and drinks went flying. Lee Ann screamed. Benny
charged across the now-chaotic floor and reached Trevor at the same time as Ramon.
She held her breath as they grappled, but after a brief, intense struggle, the bouncers
wrangled their quarry face-first into the wall. Vern materialized and said something to
Benny. Benny nodded, and with a jerk of his beefy arm, yanked a convincingly conquered
Trevor away from the wall. He and Ramon escorted him to the exit.
Vern extended a hand to her, grunting as he helped her to her feet. “Please don’t tell
me I gotta call the paramedics for you again.”
“Stop fussing. You’ll embarrass me.”
“Okay then.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost last call. Pack it in for the night if you
want. Just get me your tip-out before you leave.”
“Thanks, Vern,” she called over her shoulder, already on a beeline to the dressing
room. Luckily, she held herself together until the door closed behind her. Then she
collapsed into her chair and turned into a sobbing, shaking mess. Anybody coming in
would probably assume they were witnessing her delayed reaction to the altercation. In
actuality, she was practically incapacitated with worry for Trevor.
According to the plan, after being ejected from the club, he’d get in his car, drive away,
and return a few minutes before closing to stalk the parking lot—like an angry client
looking for her. Deuces cleared out pretty quickly after close, so while some of the staff
might see him on their way to their cars, there’d still be plenty of time for someone
waiting in the darkness to take a swing at him.
Her instructions were to leave the club early and drive home, but she found she couldn’t
do it. How was she supposed to sit at home while Trevor risked his life? Home was too
far away. If something happened to him she wouldn’t know until Ian thought to call her,
and that might be…too late.
No, she needed to stay close. But how? As long as Stacy’s blinding yellow Bug remained
parked in the lot, Trevor and Ian and most everybody who worked at Deuces would know
she hadn’t left yet. Mind in mid-whirl, inspiration struck. She’d leave now, park the Bug at
the diner across the street, then walk back to Deuces and sneak inside before Vern locked
up for the night. From inside the back door she could watch the parking lot and keep an
eye on Trevor. No one would be the wiser.
With her own plan devised, she quickly changed, tossed her costume into her bag,
hefted the bag onto her shoulder, and then stopped short. Dang it, she had to calculate
her tip-out and give it to Vern. The chore was going to burn precious time. Would she still
have enough of a window to move her car and make it back to Deuces before they locked
up for the night? She glanced at the clock on the dressing room wall. It would be tight.
Very tight. She dug her lockbox out of her bag, furiously totaled her tips, and deducted
the proper percentage. Cramming bills into the front pocket of her jeans, she opened the
dressing room door…and ran straight into Ginger.
“Whoa, slow down, Snowflake.” The redhead gave her a concerned once-over. “I saw
what happened tonight. Are you okay?”
She nodded, ashamed her charade generated yet more unnecessary worry. “I’m fine. I
just really have to get out of here.”
“After what you’ve been through, I totally understand. Anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, yes.” She pulled the bills from her pocket and thrust them at Ginger. “I’d owe
you a lung if you’d give my tip-out to Vern and tell him I took off.”
Ginger laughed her husky, inherently sexy laugh and took the money. “Don’t give it
another thought. And keep the lung,” she shouted at Kylie’s retreating back. “It’s your
teeny-tiny gnat ass I want.”
She wished she had time to joke around, but she didn’t. One thing for sure, Stacy really
needed to give these women a chance. Her sister was missing out on some quality
friends by keeping them at arm’s length. She hurried to the exit at the end of the hall and
yelled back, “My ass is yours.”
Ginger laugh followed her out the door. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Kylie shook her head. Despite her nerves, a smile took control of her lips.
Her luck held. She moved her car to the other lot and made it back to Deuces without
attracting any attention. After waiting several minutes in the shadowy corner behind the
back door, it swung open and she saw Gary and Ramon walk out. They never glanced her
way when she slipped around the door and inside before it slammed and locked.
Ducking into the utility closet at the end of the hall, she waited. Benny walked out with
Ari, Lee Ann, and Ginger. The last of the waitstaff filed out, and then, finally, Vern. Now
she moved to the back door and peeked through the narrow window at the nearly empty
parking lot. Not a lot to see, just a few people getting into their cars. Minutes later she
peeked again. Aside from Trevor’s Yukon, she saw nothing. No Ian. No Trevor. No
unnamed shadow moving nefariously along the perimeter.
Frustrated with the limited view she had from her vantage point, she contemplated
opening the door a few inches. Just then, her ringtone chimed from the depths of her bag
and echoed like a siren in the silence. Crap! Why hadn’t she thought to turn off her
phone? Could they hear it outside?
She dug the dang thing out of her bag and whispered, “What?”
“Where the hell are you?” Trevor demanded in his tough cop voice.
“I’m at home.”
“You’re not at home. Detective Hernandez called me from his position across the street
from the club. He saw your car in the diner parking lot.”
Shit. “He’s mistaken—”
“No, he’s not. I’m standing right beside it as we speak. Exactly where I’m not supposed
to be at the moment. What are you up to?”
“I’m hungry. I’m getting takeout.”
“Yeah, right. You’re taking this call from the world’s quietest diner. Kylie,” he sighed,
and the edgy sound cut a guilty trail through her conscience. “Where are you?”
Now she sighed. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Where. Are. You.”
“I’m, ah…inside Deuces.”
“Goddammit.” The slam of a palm against a metal surface punctuated his curse, and
she hoped Stacy’s car didn’t have a dent in its roof.
“Nobody knows I’m here,” she justified. “I’m not in the way. Did you really expect me to
just go home and get a good night’s sleep knowing you were wandering the parking lot
with a big bull’s-eye on your head?”
“Kylie, I—nobody—did a sweep of the building.” Although his breathing told her he was
on the move, his voice remained carefully calm. For whatever reason, this caused her
nerves to stretch tight. “What if you’re not the only one hiding in there?” he went on.
“What happens if our guy is holed up inside the club?”
Fear’s icy fingers tickled her spine. She hadn’t thought about the killer hiding inside the
club.
“I’ll tell you what happens,” Trevor went on in the face of her silence. Leashed fear
strained his words. “He trips over you on his way to take me down. Get out of there.
Right now.”
Imagining a murderous maniac lurking somewhere inside the building triggered her
flight instinct in a big way. “I’m going,” she gasped.
“Good girl. I’m almost at the back steps. I’ll meet you there.”
Hands shaking, she fumbled with the exit bar on the back door. The latch finally gave
way, and she stumbled through, completely off-balance. Even as the world tilted and the
concrete rushed up to meet her, her eyes scanned the lot for Trevor. She saw him running
her way, but as he ascended the first step, a hulking figure in dark clothing and a ski
mask broke away from the shadows between the stairs and the wall of the building. A
blunt object glinted at the end of his upraised arm.
Kylie screamed at the same time the arm began a powerful downward arc. Trevor
started to turn, feinted left, and grunted as the makeshift mace connected with his head.
The next instant, he tumbled facedown on the asphalt. The heavy, hollow thud of
something solid connecting with flesh and bone reached her ears like a radio signal on a
five-second delay.
She screamed again—his name this time—and scrambled down the stairs to where he
lay crumpled and unconscious. The attacker stood stock-still for a second, as if shocked
by her presence. Then a voice in the distance yelled, “Freeze!”
Nobody froze. Momentum didn’t permit her to do anything except continue closing the
distance to Trevor. The assailant took off down the narrow alley behind the buildings. Ian
approached at a full run, shouting instructions into a phone…radio…something. “Officer
down! Repeat, officer down! Hernandez, get your ass over to the mouth of alley and cut
this bastard off.” Without breaking stride he yelled, “He breathing?”
Oh, God. Was he? With a burst of strength born from adrenaline, she rolled Trevor over,
almost crying with relief when she heard his low groan of protest. “Yes!” The relief
evaporated when she saw his face. Blood flowed freely and copiously from a cut near his
temple.
“Stay with him,” Ian barked as he flew by. “Ambulance is on the way.”
Chapter Thirteen
Trevor hated emergency rooms. He hated getting scanned and stitched. He hated
concussions. Most of all, he hated Ian telling him the perpetrator got away.
About the only thing he didn’t hate was having Kylie glued to his side whenever some
nurse, doctor, or technician wasn’t shooing her away so they could inflict more torture on
him. Of course, he gladly would have traded her worry and guilt for less tear-inducing
emotions, but one thing seemed fairly obvious to him, even with his somewhat fuzzy
head. She cared. A lot. Whether she liked it or not.
By the time the ER finally spat him out, the sun had dawned skull-splittingly bright
against a cloudless, electric blue sky in the City of Angels. Despite his protests, he found
himself propped between Kylie and Ian, and walked to the curbside pickup/drop-off zone
like a ninety-year-old invalid. Seeing the yellow Bug pulled up to the curb improved his
mood slightly. He liked his ride home, at any rate.
Kylie ran around to the driver’s side while Ian held the passenger door and helped him
into the seat.
“Captain said he doesn’t want to see your face before Wednesday.”
“What will you do without me ’til then?
“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. He wants to see my ass ASAP.”
“Hey, what happened wasn’t your fault. Tell him—”
“He knows. I already explained we had an unforeseen factor in play,” Ian said quietly.
Their eyes flicked over to Kylie, but she’d turned to reach for her seat belt and didn’t
appear to have heard. “Anyway, I’m going to keep digging into backgrounds. Maybe our
man has kept his official record clean, but somebody, somewhere, has seen this guy’s
dark side.”
Trevor nodded, and then winced as pain sliced through his head. “E-mail me some of
the files. I’ll dig, too.”
Ian stood and shut the door. “You can start digging on Wednesday.”
“I’ve got a concussion, not brain damage. I can read, type a few e-mails. I can dial a
phone.”
“Hmm.” Ian’s eyes drifted back to Kylie. “I’m thinking, if you play your cards right,
you’re going to be otherwise occupied.”
Oblivious, Kylie leaned across the interior of the car until she could see Ian out the
passenger-side window. “Can you continue this later? The doctor said Trevor’s supposed
to rest.”
Ian grinned. “We’re done. He’s all yours, Ky. Take him home and put him to bed.” The
lazy wink he added was, in Trevor’s opinion, neither subtle nor discreet, but Kylie was too
busy gunning the engine to catch the insinuation. As soon as she pulled away from the
curb, it became apparent exactly where her thoughts were.
“Are you dizzy? In pain? Do you need me to stop for anything?”
“I’m fine. Looking forward to being home.”
She glanced at him, her expression uncertain. “Are you sure? You look pale and your
eyes are kind of squinty. The doctor recommended ibuprofen for the pain. I should stop at
the drugstore and pick some up.”
“My eyes are squinty because it’s bright out here.” He closed them and settled back in
the seat, shifting around until he found a reasonably comfortable position in the compact
space. “I have ibuprofen at home if the headache gets to be more than I can stand.”
“Okay. Straight home. Go ahead and take a little nap if you feel sleepy. I’ll wake you up
when we get there.”
“I’m fine. Honest,” he replied, not bothering to lift his eyelids, which suddenly felt as if
they weighed a ton. “I don’t need a nap. I’m just resting my eyes.”
“’Kay,” she replied quietly. Silence reigned in the small car, save for the strangely
soothing hum of the engine and light, distant street sounds. Sunlight warmed his face.
Red-orange lava-lamp shapes flowed behind his closed eyes.
A soft murmur wafted to his ear, too indistinct to catch.
“Huh?” He forced his eyelids open and immediately drowned in the twin oceans of
Kylie’s eyes. The headache had disappeared, only to be replaced with a new, incredibly
insistent ache in a distinctly lower region.
“What’s your full name?” she repeated.
He pulled himself a little higher in the seat and looked around, surprised to realize they
were parked in front of his house. Someone, maybe Hernandez, had retrieved the Yukon
from Deuces and left it in his driveway. “I wasn’t asleep.”
Apparently debating the sleep issue didn’t interest her. “What day is it?”
“Saturday…well, shit, now it’s Sunday. Calm down, I’m fine,” he insisted at her alarmed
expression. If she thought he was about to tip over from cranial swelling, he had zero
chance of talking her into bed so he could prove exactly how fine he felt.
She waved her hand in front of his eyes. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Jesus.” He clasped her wrist and moved her hand back about a foot. “Four fingers, one
thumb.”
“Trevor—”
“Okay, okay. You’re holding up three fingers.” Uncurling her thumb and pinky, he
interlaced his fingers with hers and squeezed lightly. “Slim, delicate fingers,” he mused,
“attached to one soft, graceful hand.” He let his thumb caress her palm. “Do I pass?”
“Hmm?” She stared at him for a long moment, seemingly hypnotized, while he drew
intricate patterns on her palm with the edge of his thumb. “Um, yes. You pass.”
“Excellent.” Continuing the slow, stroking motion, he watched her eyes glaze over just a
bit. “So tell me, Kylie, is this strictly taxi service or do I get some nursing, too?”
She blinked, frowned, and pinned him with a stern look—the one that always made his
dick stand up and take notice. “I’m going to help you inside, tuck you into bed, and make
sure you follow doctor’s orders and get some rest. I promised I’d stick around until three
this afternoon. Then Ian will be here to take over watching you for signs of dizziness,
nausea, or disorientation.”
Subduing a satisfied smile, he popped the door and stepped out. Three was hours
away. When she hurried around the front of the car and braced her arm at his waist to
help him walk to the front door, he held back a laugh. No way would a hundred and ten
pounds of sweet, slender curves hold him upright if his conscious mind called a time-out.
He’d go down like a sequoia and take her with him. But that wasn’t going to happen. He
felt fine. Better than fine, actually. With her hand curved low on his torso, her hip
brushing his, and the side of her breast pressed high against his rib cage, every step
served as a minor seduction.
Once inside, she parked him on the sofa and scurried off to his kitchen, saying, “I’m
going to get you a glass of water.” He toed off his shoes, and with something between a
sigh and a groan, stretched his legs. The bliss lasted about a second.
From the kitchen she called, “Are you hungry? Maybe I should fix you something to eat
before you go to bed?” Reappearing with the water, she handed it over and stood before
him expectantly.
He ran his hand over his stubbly jaw and looked down at himself. Dirt and blood
stained his shirt and hands. A quick sniff confirmed he reeked of…innumerable things…the
hospital antiseptic being the least offensive.
Kylie hadn’t fared much better, he realized as he took in her disheveled hair and pale,
tired face. Her clothes also bore the signs of their rough night. His blood smeared the
thighs of her faded jeans and crusted the hem of her pale-pink T-shirt. He didn’t need to
be a detective to figure out why. While he’d been conked out, she’d cradled his head in
her lap. A wellspring of tenderness for this exhausted, valiant angel rose in his chest.
Maybe he could offer the caretaker a little care as well. “You know, what I’d really love
right now is a shower.” For two.
She chewed her lower lip. “I don’t know, Trevor. I’m worried you’ll get dizzy and fall.
How about a bath instead?”
An image of Kylie in the tub with him, all slick and wet and snug between his legs,
popped into his head. “Deal.” He grinned. “If you’ll scrub my back.”
She took his arm when he lifted himself off the sofa and kept a steady hold as they
walked. “I’m here to help you. But don’t get any ideas, Detective. The doctor said no
strenuous activity.”
“I promise not to strain you.”
“The directive applies to you. I’m serious,” she added as she led him through his
bedroom and into his master bath, where his roomy white soaking tub dominated one
wall. “You need to take it easy.” With that, she turned and started running the bath.
“I plan to,” he assured her over the tumble of water. Slow and easy. Appreciating the
way her jeans molded to her perfect ass, he started unbuttoning his ruined shirt. What
could be easier than the two of them in his tub, her sliding over him, him sliding into her?
While she bent over the tub, fiddling with the water temperature, he shrugged out of
his shirt and got started on his pants. He’d just stepped out of them and his shorts when
she straightened, turned, and looked at him. She swallowed, and her eyes moved over
him, slowly, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head with a couple noticeable stops
in between.
“Kind of a switch, huh? You fully dressed and me naked?”
She swallowed again and nodded. He stepped closer. She retreated until the tub
brought her up short. He wished he could see what was going on in that head of hers.
She was tempted, that much he could tell. But was she going to give in to temptation?
She took his arm, looked up at him with big, bottomless eyes, and said, “The water’s
warm. Let’s go ahead and get you in.”
He bit back a sigh. Apparently not.
A groan that was part agony, part relief rumbled in his chest when he submerged
himself in the steaming water. Despite the big tub, he rarely took baths, and never in his
life one this hot. A single degree higher and he wouldn’t have been able to stand it, but
after he settled in, it was…relaxing. Abused muscles loosened in his neck, back, and
shoulders. He leaned against the curved wall of the tub and sighed. His eyelids drifted
down.
“Feels good?” Her quiet question came from nearby, caressing him like a feather.
“Umm-hmm.”
“I’m glad,” she all but whispered and ran a washcloth over his chest. “Trevor…” The
cloth swept along his neck, over his cheek, just below the bandage covering his injured
temple. “Thank God you’re all right.” Her thick voice trembled over the words. She
sniffed, and like a reluctant confessor added, “I was so scared.”
He opened his eyes and met her watery gaze. Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek.
“Kylie, baby, I’m okay. Don’t cry.”
Inexplicably, his assurance only broke the dam. Her face crumpled. She pressed it to his
wet chest and sobbed. “It was my f—fault…”
Ah, shit. He grabbed her shoulders, and after a brief internal debate, murmured, “Come
here,” and simply hauled her into the bathtub. She struggled for a moment, but he held
her tight. “Kylie, no. None of this is your fault, understand?” He kissed her forehead and
reiterated, “None of it. There’s only one person to blame, and that’s the killer. You’re not
responsible. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
Now she clung to him. “You could have been killed—”
“But I wasn’t,” he interrupted, speaking firmly. “If you hadn’t screamed, that guy would
have cleaned my clock. If anything, you saved my ass. I’m alive, thanks to you.”
Shaking her head, she hugged his shoulders and pressed her lips to his neck, his jaw,
along his cheekbone, and finally, unbelievably soft, delicate kisses around the edge of the
bandage at his right temple. Suddenly feeling incredibly alive, he raised his chin and
intercepted those restless lips. Their mouths fused, and she stilled, sighed brokenly, and
sank into him.
Within seconds, they were panting and pulling at her clothes. He dragged her wet shirt
over her head and tossed it. It landed with a slap against the tiled floor, but he barely
noticed. He was too absorbed in the sight of her—her breasts encased in a wet, white,
completely transparent bra. When he cupped those breasts and lifted them, taking their
weight, her head tipped back and her thighs tightened around his hips.
Needing to taste her skin, he popped the front clasp and watched warm, smooth flesh
burst free of the sodden confines. “Closer,” he whispered, and with an arm behind her
back, he brought one straining pink nipple to his mouth. When she whimpered and
writhed, he transferred his attention to the other pebbled bud.
“Trevor. Oh, God, what are you doing to me?”
“Exactly the same thing you do to me,” he mumbled around her nipple.
“It’s my turn,” she insisted, her voice quavering as he sucked deep. “Please, it’s my
turn.”
The “please” undid him. Putting a choke chain around his rampant desires, he slowly
released her and sat back. “I’m all yours. Be gentle with me,” he said, only half kidding.
Eyes pinning his, she reached behind his head for the shower gel and poured some onto
the washcloth. After replacing the bottle, she settled her hand on his cheek, leaned in,
and closed her lips over his. Her tongue delved into his mouth while she ran the sudsy
cloth over his neck and chest, squeezing so rivulets of water found the shallow valley
between his pecs, ran down his torso, and dribbled into the tub. The sensation was so
exquisite he shivered. Maybe he wasn’t as all right as he wanted her to think, because if
her hand followed the same route, he just might die.
While her tongue tangled with his, the hand controlling the washcloth scrubbed its way
down his body, in slow, lazy circles, until it rested directly between his legs. Encircling
him, she ran the cloth along his shaft, lifting and stroking with the lightly abrasive terry
cloth.
He groaned into her mouth. She made a sympathetic sound in reply, and the next thing
he knew, her slick, slender fingers wrapped around his cock and tugged gently. Another
groan scratched its way over his suddenly dry throat.
Her other hand slid down until it rested along the inside of his thigh. “You okay?” When
she brought that hand up to cup his balls and squeezed gently, his inarticulate reply was
embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“Shhh,” she said against his lips. Her hands kept up their busy stroke-and-squeeze
between his legs. “Not too hard?”
“God, no.”
“Too fast?”
“No, no. It’s…good.” Head back, eyes closed, he endured the sweet torture as long as
he could. The sounds of gently stirred water and his labored breaths filled the room while
low in his gut, pressure coiled to a critical mass. After a minute, he bit back a ragged
curse, sat up, and bracketed her wrists with his hands. “Stop,” he begged—there was no
other word for it. “If you keep that up, I’ll come.”
She stared at him for a heartbeat. Then, before he could guess her next move, she got
to her feet. Water streamed off her as she looked down at him.
“I want you to come.”
He swallowed hard and digested that declaration while she yanked off her wet jeans. In
short order, they joined her shirt on the tile. Then she was sinking back to him, taking his
outstretched arms for support as she lowered herself. Straddling his lap, she kissed him
again, sliding her lips over his tongue and sucking it like candy.
Aroused beyond reason, he wrapped an arm around her waist and dived into the kiss,
taking her mouth a little more roughly than he intended—crushing her lips, plundering.
Her small cry of pleasure told him she didn’t mind.
Desperate to feel her, his free hand roamed anywhere it could reach—up to sweep the
luscious curve of her breast, down to squeeze her amazing ass. Her breathless, almost
anxious noises set a fire in his blood. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of
her.
Capturing her nipple, he drew it deep into his mouth. At the same time, he eased his
hand down between their bodies and slicked his thumb over her clit. Her thighs clenched,
her spine bowed, and a low, shuddery moan tore from her throat.
Without warning, she wrapped her hand around the base of his erection. Holding him
tight, she arched more and slowly lowered herself onto him.
“Christ, Kylie, wait.” Concern for her had him gripping her hips and holding her
suspended there, with the head of his cock barely penetrating her quivering threshold.
Her small sound of frustration combined with the greedy grip of her internal muscles
had his eyes crossing. “Kylie, baby, I want to make sure you’re ready—”
“I’m ready,” she ground out. “I’ve been nothing but ready since I met you.” To prove it,
she rolled her hips beneath his hands, easing him infinitesimally deeper.
“Condom,” he ground out.
“It’s the wrong time.”
And that was all he could take. On a strangled oath, he cupped her ass with both hands
and let her have control.
She lifted up a little, and then slid herself all the way down, seating him fully within her,
while he twitched and throbbed and tried like hell to be a gentleman and ignore the
natural instinct to thrust—deep and hard and fast.
“Jesus…” He closed his eyes and prayed as she rode him with a slow, rocking motion.
He listened to the erotic soundtrack of her quick breaths echoing around him, loving the
way her exhales turned to short, ragged cries when he tightened his arm around her and
swept his tongue in quick circles around the point of her nipple.
Soon her arms banded his neck. The slow rocking of her hips turned into a restless,
frantic shifting. “I need…,” she gasped, practically squeezing him apart from the inside
out.
He understood what she needed perfectly. At this point, his need to thrust was so
great, so consuming, it bordered on an out-of-body experience. Framing her hips with his
hands, he looked down at their joined bodies. “Hold on,” he warned. Then made the
instruction superfluous as he held fast and drove deep.
“Oh, God, yes,” she cried, tightening around him when he moved to withdraw.
“Whatever you’re doing to me, don’t stop. Please, Trevor, don’t stop.”
I’m loving you, sprang to mind, surprising him. Were he to voice the thought, he felt
sure it would send her running for the door, so he pushed the words aside. “Never. I’m
never stopping.”
Hauling her even closer, he gripped her slippery body, withdrew, and surged into her
again and again. She made a heroic attempt to meet him thrust for thrust, hurtling him
toward a dangerous, unsteady brink in the process.
Choosing his words became impossible once he hit that point, and they tumbled out of
his mouth uncensored. He barely knew what he said—and doubted she did either—but
the sound of his voice seemed to do it for her, so he kept talking.
“You’re so hot, so unbelievably tight. I want to feel you come. Kylie, baby, come for
me.” Her frenzied movements, the hungry sounds coming from her throat, all suggested
she desperately wanted to grant him his wish. Determined to nudge her over before he
completely lost control of his own raging needs, he again found her breast, closed his
mouth around the stiff, rosy tip, and bit gently.
Her entire body pulled tight. Wide, startled eyes met his, soft lips parted in shock. Then
her head fell back, and a long, jagged sob rang out in the hushed room. She convulsed
around him as the orgasm gripped and shook her. Bringing her trembling lips to his, he
tasted her cry of relief just before it merged with his own. In the next instant, he
surrendered everything—breath, heart, everything—to her.
Chapter Fourteen
Trevor was the one who had suffered a concussion, so Kylie wasn’t really sure why she
felt so light-headed. But she did. From the moment she’d seen him standing beside the
tub, all roughed up and naked, he’d stolen her breath and left her equilibrium asking
which way was up. Even now, lying beside him in his big bed with her head cushioned in
the curve of his shoulder and afternoon sunlight filtering in through wooden shutters, she
couldn’t seem to draw the right amount of air into her lungs. Her head felt as weightless
as the dust motes floating in the sunbeam slanting across the foot of the bed.
After mind-blowing sex, he’d switched things up, holding her captive with his molten
gaze while his hands traveled intimately, yet innocently, over her skin and hair, bathing
her. She’d returned the favor, reveling in the vitality of his body.
She could happily revel forever, drifting along blissfully as his fingers threaded lazily
through her hair, and his heart pounded strong and steady beneath her ear. But reality
kept pricking her brain with pointed questions until she couldn’t ignore them any longer.
“What happens now? With the case, I mean,” she quickly clarified, glancing up at his
relaxed face.
He frowned slightly and sighed. “Not sure. Ian and I will continue digging through
backgrounds tomorrow on all our maybes, and hope to God we hit on something.
Otherwise, we start fresh Thursday night with a new man undercover.”
She sat up and looked at him. “A new man?”
“I’m blown. This guy took a swing at me, and suddenly cops were everywhere. Unless
he’s a complete moron, he realizes I’m a detective working a sting.”
A chill scrambled along the back of her neck. “Do you think he suspects I’m part of the
trap?”
He gave her a serious look and cupped her cheek in his warm palm. “I don’t know. My
gut says no, because our guy thinks you’re Stacy, and if he knows her at all, he knows
she’s not going to willingly cooperate with the police. But even if he suspects, you’ll be
safe,” Trevor stressed. “This guy’s activity has been limited to the area around the club.
We’ll have someone at Deuces before, during, and after your shifts. Until we catch him,
you’ll never be unprotected.”
Kylie refrained from mentioning Stacy would most likely be back on the job in a few
more weeks. She fervently hoped they’d have the killer in custody before then.
Unfortunately, hope didn’t erase her concerns. “He nearly got caught last night. What if
he decides to just…stop?”
“I doubt he can. This man is obsessed with protecting you from violent clients. Most
people in the grip of an obsession can’t simply walk away. Still, I’d call it a red flag if one
of your regulars suddenly stops showing up, or one of the long-term employees gives
notice.”
His explanation troubled her on several levels. Obviously, the notion of an obsessed
killer disturbed her. But his unconscious slips upset her, too. The killer was obsessed with
Stacy, not her. Likewise, the regulars weren’t hers, they were Stacy’s. His failure to draw
the distinction substantiated her original fear about his feelings all too well—at best,
Trevor was attracted to a woman who didn’t really exist—Kylie playing Stacy. At worst, he
wanted Stacy, but just didn’t know it yet.
Not his fault, her conscience reminded her, even as her heart bled from the realization.
How could he want Kylie? You never showed him the real you—you were always trying to
convince him you were Stacy.
Not that it mattered, really. Her plans at this point in life didn’t include romantic
complications. She had too much to accomplish first—build up her yoga practice, open her
own studio, prove to everyone in Two Trout she could amount to something. Her mother
had shown her time and time again how easily an attachment to a man disrupted the
best-laid plans.
She had to get out of there before she did something stupid—like give in to this self-
defeating compulsion to cling to him. God, deep down she really was just like her mom.
And if that thought didn’t get her moving, nothing would. She scooted to the edge of the
bed. With her back to him, she said, “Ian’s going to be here soon. I have to go.”
Silence greeted her announcement, and then the sheets rustled as he sat up. His hand
settled on her shoulder.
“Stay. I’ll call Ian and tell him not to bother.”
“No, don’t.” Uncomfortably vulnerable, she reached down and grabbed the towel she’d
borrowed earlier. Wrapping it around her body, she tried for a teasing tone. “The doctor
instructed you to rest. Based on what I’ve seen so far, you have a better shot at following
his orders if I don’t stick around. Besides, Stacy might need me.”
“She’s a big girl. She knows how to dial a phone if she needs you.” He trailed his hand
down her arm and threaded his fingers through hers. “You take care of Stacy. You’re
here, looking after me. I’m wondering, do you ever let anyone take care of you?”
His words, the thumb slowly stroking her palm, made her want to curl into his big,
warm body and beg him to hold her for hours, days…forever. And there was the problem.
If she gave in to this urge to feel sheltered, and protected, and yes, taken care of, would
she ever want to stand on her own two feet again? Would she toss her goals aside in
order to hold on to those feelings?
Alarmed at her faltering resolve, she stood and plastered a smile on her face. “I have
things to do at home, and I have early classes tomorrow. The last thing you need is me
waking you up when I crawl out of bed at 5:00 a.m.” Turning, she hurried down the hall
to the laundry room, where her clothes were sitting in the dryer. She’d gotten her bra and
top on, but her jeans were still around her knees when he sauntered into the small room,
naked save for a towel slung low around his hips. His presence stole all the space…and all
the air.
She yanked her jeans up, zipped and buttoned them, and took a step toward the door,
hoping he’d move. No such luck. He held his ground.
“Stay,” he said again, and touched his mouth to hers.
The world tilted, and she really didn’t have a choice but to flatten her palms against his
wide, warm chest and use him for support. He cradled the back of her head and took
them both deeper into the kiss. Logic and self-protective instincts sifted through her brain
like sand. With the last of her rational mind, she pulled back just enough to look into his
unfairly beautiful face and whispered, “Why?”
“Because I need you,” he murmured. “I’m falling for you. And whether you care to
admit it or not, you’re falling for me, too.” Pressing his forehead to hers when she would
have pulled away, he stared straight into her eyes.
Panicked, she lowered her gaze and shook her head. “You’re not, Trevor. You don’t
even know me.” Even as she said the words, her soul ached for him to say something—
what exactly, she didn’t know—to prove her wrong. Prove he knew her. Wanted her.
He drew away, his lips pressing together in a line of frustration. “We’re back to that
again? I know you,” he said firmly. “No matter which name you used when we first met, it
was still you. Maybe other people in your life have had a hard time seeing a difference,
but not me. I’m drawn to your bravery, your calm, your humor, and deep down, you damn
well know it, Stacy… Fuck!”
Clapping a hand to his forehead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened
them again. “Kylie,” he said calmly. “I meant Kylie. That was a slip of the tongue. The
one slip I told myself never, ever to make, so naturally, it tumbles out at the worst
possible moment.”
He looked so stricken, so appalled, she couldn’t help but push the scraps of her
annihilated heart off to a corner to be picked through later. Forcing an I told you so smile
to her stiff lips, she said, “Sounds like you’re working way too hard at keeping us separate
in your mind. I don’t think it’s supposed to be quite so hard. We had great sex. Don’t try
to turn it into anything more.”
When she moved to slip past him, he shifted and blocked her way. “Nice speech, but I
call bullshit.” His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about identity at all, is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You told me a while back a relationship between a cop and a stripper would never
work. But we could replace stripper with any vocation, couldn’t we? The cop part is your
problem, despite what you said before. Maybe a little Stacy rubbed off on you in one
respect. You don’t completely trust authority, or me.”
Knee-jerk denial had her shaking her head, even as a small voice at the very back of
her mind questioned, Could he be right?
“No,” she insisted, both to him and herself. “This isn’t an authority issue or a trust
issue.”
“Prove it.” Backing her up against the washer, he flattened his hands on the top on
either side of her and leaned in. “Stay.”
He brought his mouth down on hers, but while she expected, even braced for,
aggression, he used slow, gentle persuasion. She wasn’t braced for that. Her mind
clouded. Her body melted. His fingertips brushed her cheek with infinite tenderness and
she felt herself going under for what might be the final time. With one last burst of
conviction—or fear—she broke away and ducked under his arm. He let her.
“I can’t,” she said through a painfully tight throat.
His reply—a long look from those all-seeing eyes—kicked her flight instinct into high
gear. “I have to go,” she choked out, and fled.
She stayed in high gear all the way home. In the feeble sanctuary of the Bug,
compromised as it was by Trevor’s scent, her mind raced through his accusations. Did she
doubt his feelings for her because cold, hard reality dictated that he didn’t really know
her, or did she distrust him because Stacy’s and her mom’s experiences—and opinions—
had subconsciously convinced her to be wary of not just cops, as Trevor believed, but all
men?
By the time she pulled into her driveway, she’d figured only one thing out—the
questions were too complex to resolve during a drive home, especially with her nerves
shot and her body craving sleep. The rest of the day would be quiet and calming, she
promised herself as she trudged upstairs. Her heart leaped into her throat when the front
door suddenly swung open and she confronted a lean, muscular chest encased in a dark
blue T-shirt. A quick tilt of her head brought Ian’s amused face into view.
He stepped out onto the landing. “Hey, Kylie. How’s the patient?”
Dazed by his presence, she traded places with him. “Fine. Um, resting comfortably. Is
Stacy okay?”
His grin stretched into a wry smile. “She’s a little pissed. Probably my fault. Don’t worry
though, she’ll level out once she realizes I’m right and stops fighting the inevitable.” He
jogged down the stairs, calling, “See you later.”
“Later,” Kylie parroted, still bemused by his presence and his strange, cocky
pronouncement. After closing the door, she dropped her bag and went in search of Stacy.
She found her standing beside the kitchen window, wearing a short red robe, looking out
at the street below. That alone would have warned her something was definitely off. Her
sister wasn’t the type to think about a man, much less chase him with her eyes, after he
left her bedroom.
“Stacy?”
Her sister jumped and turned, looking like a peeping Tom caught red-handed. “Hey, Ky.
How’s Trevor?”
“He’s all right. He’ll be good as new in a day or two. What are you looking at?”
Stacy glanced out the window again and frowned. “Nothing,” she said firmly, as if
willing herself to believe it.
“I, ah, ran into Ian just now.”
“Oh. Well.” She shrugged and hobbled past Kylie and into the living room. “I called him
after I spoke to you—strictly to make sure he was okay. He offered to stop by before he
headed over to Trevor’s to relieve you…” She trailed off, flopped onto the sofa, and
sighed. “Shit. I really don’t know why he came. For sex, I thought, but we knocked that
one out of the park about three seconds after he arrived, and for some reason, he stuck
around. If his goal was to mess with my head, he did a good job.”
Kylie took a seat beside her. “Really? How’d he manage that?”
She shrugged. “He talked. He told me about last night, about how amped he was at the
prospect of finally catching this crazy bastard, how panicked he felt when he saw Trevor
go down, and how frustrated when he realized the guy had gotten away. He didn’t hold
anything back, but just…he let me in. Me.” With a harsh laugh, she shook her head.
“What’s so laughable about that?”
“Oh, please. The guys I sleep with aren’t interested in talking to me about their
innermost hopes and fears. And that’s perfectly fine, because you know what? I’m not
interested in hearing them. I’ve got my hands full with my own hopes and fears.”
Kylie didn’t miss the edge of anxiety in Stacy’s voice. She’d never seen her love-’em-
and-leave-’em sister so upset over a man, so desperate to deny any emotional
connection. Normally the lack of emotion went without saying. And while she liked Ian
and thought his calm, innate steadiness might actually be good for Stacy, the realization
that physical intimacy hadn’t cured Stacy’s attraction worried Kylie. If anything, sex
seemed to have left her sister even more muddled, oddly similar to her own tangled
emotions for Trevor.
Uh-oh.
“You told me sleeping with a man was a surefire way to get him out of your head. By
your own rules, you should have thanked him for playing and pointed him to the door.”
“That’s exactly what I should have done. But no, after letting him rock my world
backward, forward, and sideways, I let him talk. Worse, I let myself—I don’t know—care
about what he told me. As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, somehow he knew. He knew I
cared, the scheming bastard.”
Goodness, this was serious. Stacy had feelings for him. “What will you do now?”
Stacy stared at the wall. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should go with the flow, and see where it leads?”
“Oh, come on, the cop and the stripper? You said it yourself, Ky. Where could it possibly
lead?”
Strangely, the sentiment seemed inapplicable when the stripper in question was Stacy,
and the cop, Ian. “You never know,” she encouraged.
“Is that what you’re going to do with Trevor?” Stacy challenged. “See where things
lead?”
She squirmed under Stacy’s pointed stare and looked away. “No, I’m not, but my
situation is completely different.”
“Your situation is better. A yoga instructor is a hell of a lot more respectable than a
stripper.”
“Trevor’s attracted to Stacy Roberts—sexy, sassy stripper. He doesn’t even know Kylie
Roberts—quiet, responsible yoga instructor.”
Stacy’s trill of laughter jerked Kylie’s attention back to her sister. “What’s so funny?”
“You are. You couldn’t be more off base saying Trevor’s attracted to me…or someone
like me. This sexy, sassy stripper spent several hours alone with him in an interview room
and I never picked up even the slightest vibe of interest. He was all business. Trust me,
I’m not his type.”
“He was all business because he was working.”
“Yeah, right. He was working 99.9 percent of the time you spent with him. Was he all
business?”
Stacy’s assessing gaze traveled over her, making her acutely aware of her bed-hair and
the tender, red skin along her neck caused by Trevor’s beard.
“I think not,” Stacy finally said with a sly smile. “It’s you he wants. Maybe he doesn’t
know you completely—yet—not your innermost hopes and fears. You’ll have to decide
whether to trust him with those.”
Chapter Fifteen
A good night’s sleep and a full Monday of yoga classes brought Kylie no closer to solving
her Trevor quandary. She was still doing battle with herself when she climbed the stairs
to her apartment, stopping at the landing to appreciate the last soft gasps of lavender
twilight surrendering to night. But when she opened the door, a not-so-soft gasp burst
from her lungs.
Candles flickered from strategic points throughout the living room. The sofa and coffee
table had been transformed into a cozy dining spot for two, complete with white
tablecloth, a centerpiece of long-stemmed red roses, place settings, and more candles.
The tangy, spicy aroma of Stacy’s famous lasagna—her sister’s only claim to culinary
excellence—wafted from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.
Stacy strode through the archway carrying a salad bowl, spotted Kylie, and stopped in
her tracks.
“Hi, Ky. Didn’t you get my message?”
Voice mail. Shoot. She needed to check hers more often. “No, I came straight home
after my last class. What’s”—she gestured around the room—“all this?”
Stacy continued to the coffee table and set the salad down, then ran a fingertip over
one of the velvety blossoms. “I’m fixing dinner for someone.”
Her eyebrows lifted. Stacy didn’t do romantic home-cooked meals. For anyone. Ever.
“Someone?”
Stacy straightened and shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “For Ian.” Her gaze
dropped to the roses, and a sappy smile curved her lips. “He sent these. Couldn’t you just
die?”
Yeah, she could. “They’re beautiful,” she mumbled, still astounded by the notion of her
sister getting soft-eyed over a dozen roses.
“Aren’t they? Here, read the card.” Stacy extended her hand, the small card held
between her fingers. Kylie took it and read, “Congratulations on the new job. Now the
rest of the world will see what entranced me from the moment I met you.”
“Holy smokes, did you…?”
Stacy practically jumped up and down, despite the cast. “Yes! Remember the audition I
went on almost a month ago, for the pilot about the Vegas showgirls?”
She didn’t exactly remember, but she nodded her head anyway, already thrilled for her
twin.
“I got the part! Can you believe it? I’ll be dancing and acting—it’s like all my career
dreams coming true at once!”
She rushed forward and hugged her twin. “That’s wonderful! I knew this would happen
for you. I never doubted…oh, my God, what about your leg?”
“Not a problem,” Stacy replied, obviously already having contemplated the question.
“Wardrobe and rehearsals don’t start for another eight weeks. That’s plenty of time. I’ll be
good as new.”
Kylie sent a quick prayer of thanks to the universe before she sagged onto the sofa.
“Fabulous. Excellent. I’m so happy for you. Hey, does this mean you’re quitting Deuces?”
“I think so. I mean, I don’t intend to leave them in the lurch, but…can we talk about
this tomorrow?”
Then it hit her. Ian knew about this before her, and Stacy eagerly anticipated a
celebratory evening with him. Sometime during the last few days, she’d slipped a notch in
her sister’s hierarchy. The realization hurt, but in a strange way, it was also a relief.
Keeping her voice neutral, she carefully probed the subject. “I guess you told Ian the
good news?”
“He called right after I got off the phone with my agent. I wanted to tell you first, Ky,
but I was so excited, I just couldn’t hold back. After I spilled the news he was so
genuinely excited and happy for me—not in a superficial ‘flatter her and get in her pants’
kind of way—I couldn’t resist inviting him for dinner. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No,” she answered honestly, “of course not. I’m proud of you, and also glad you
decided to give Ian a chance.”
“Good, because he just called and told me he’ll be here in about ten minutes.” Stepping
around the table, she headed toward the archway leading to the kitchen. “I need to put
the garlic bread in.”
She followed Stacy into the kitchen. The clutter of cooking paraphernalia confirmed her
sister had gone all out over the meal. The amazing scents intensified when Stacy opened
the oven and slid the tray of garlic bread inside. Her stomach grumbled again—loudly.
“I guess I was supposed to make myself scarce this evening?” The thought of going out
made her cringe. She’d showered at the studio after her classes, bundled her hair into a
sloppy knot at the back of her head, and changed into a white tank top and loose gray
sweats. No makeup whatsoever. Not even a swipe of mascara or a film of lip gloss. Her
gym bag hung from one shoulder and her oversize purse from the other. She looked like a
bag lady.
“Oh, Ky. I’m sorry. I thought for sure you’d get my message. I told you to call me right
away if it would be a problem. When I didn’t hear from you”—she shrugged again—“I
figured you’d made plans to grab dinner and a movie with some of the other instructors,
or something. Why don’t you join us?”
Third wheel on her sister’s date? Never. “No, no.” Hefting her gym bag higher on her
shoulder, she said, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll head down to BJ’s for a few hours. It’s
fine.” She backed out of the kitchen. “Say ‘hi’ to Ian for me, and, um, have fun.”
Stacy’s heartfelt “Thanks, Ky. You’re the best!” followed her out of the apartment.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered to herself on the way downstairs. Back in her car, she tried
to muster up some enthusiasm for dinner alone at the local sports bar. She didn’t even
know what season it was, sports-wise. Maybe there’d be some tennis or basketball games
on to help her kill time? Or maybe she’d just get dinner and then drive on up to Sunset
and see a movie.
Somehow, during the course of weighing her options, she bypassed BJ’s, crossed
Sunset, and worked her way along Laurel Canyon. Without really thinking things through,
she found herself parked in front of Trevor’s house. Apparently some appetites trumped
others.
Would it be so wrong to indulge the craving? Be like Stacy for once, take what she
wanted, and get on with her life. She couldn’t afford more. That much she knew. Allowing
herself to fall for Trevor threatened to turn her from a determined, goal-oriented woman
to a clinging basket case, completely dependent on him for her happiness and sense of
fulfillment.
Stacy’s usual approach to physical intimacy represented her only viable option aside
from abstinence. Comparing twenty-three years of abstinence to a couple nights with
Trevor, she could say with utter certainty, abstinence sucked.
Lights shone through the windows facing the street, making it easy to see his Yukon in
the driveway. While she sat there, debating her next move, a car pulled to the curb
behind her and a man wearing a Panda Pagoda uniform stepped out, carrying a large
paper bag. She watched his progress up Trevor’s front walkway to the door and sat,
holding her breath, as he rang the bell and waited. A few seconds later Trevor appeared,
in well-worn jeans and nothing else, looking rough and rumpled and impossibly gorgeous.
He took the bag, handed the guy some cash, and then zoomed in on her as if she’d
parked in a spotlight. Which she might as well have done, she realized, considering she’d
left the car idling with the headlights on.
The Panda Pagoda driver sped away, leaving her alone in front of the house. Her heart
thumped away in double time as Trevor sauntered down his walkway and along the
sidewalk to where she sat. Unhurried, he walked around to the driver’s side and crouched
beside her open window. Her eyes gobbled him up, from his thick, disheveled hair—which
looked all the darker thanks to the stark white bandage at his temple—to the gold flecks
in his deep brown irises. His lip curved ever so slightly, forming a ghost of a grin. Her
body answered with a cascade of tingles starting in her stomach and flowing like mercury
to all her erogenous zones. Many, many erogenous zones. Possibly, she was one big
erogenous zone.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Self-consciousness doused the tingling a little, but not much. True, she had no
explanation for her sudden, uninvited appearance, but he didn’t look upset to see her.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
He stood, reached in her window, and unlocked her door.
“I probably should have called, but I really wasn’t planning…”
He pulled the door open, reached in and killed the engine, and unlatched her seat belt.
“What I mean to say is—” Speech, and thought, became impossible because he leaned
in and covered her mouth with his.
The tingling surged, more powerful and concentrated than ever. God, she was
predictable. One kiss from Trevor and she turned into a puddle of need. She barely
noticed him hauling her out of the front seat and molding her to his body because she
was too busy trying to touch every inch of his bare skin—his shoulders, chest, and hard,
flat stomach.
Somehow they made it inside his house without falling, which was a good thing,
because if they’d gone horizontal at any point during the trip, she felt fairly certain they
would have ended up having sex in his front yard. By the time he kicked the door closed,
his hands had found their way into her sweats, cupping her backside, splaying his long
fingers over her cheeks in a way that made her arch and squirm to bring them lower,
closer where the tingling was now concentrated, with an almost painful urgency. When he
lifted her so he could grind the hard, thick ridge of his erection against the cleft between
her thighs, she moaned into his mouth. Her fingers speared into his hair and held on as
the kiss became hotter, wetter, and hungrier.
“Your head?” she gasped, when they broke for air.
“What head?” he asked, diving back into the kiss.
The next thing she knew, her world toppled. She fell into his bed and he followed her
down. Pinned between two hundred pounds of hard-packed muscle and a firm mattress,
her breath escaped in a rush. “Sorry, I interrupted your dinner,” she managed.
He worked his way from the curve of her neck to her ear with his lips, and in a harsh
whisper, said, “You are my dinner.” With that announcement, he pushed her tank top up
to her armpits, sprang the front clasp of her sports bra, and feasted on one achingly
sensitive breast. Using his hand to plump the flesh, he took her deep into his mouth, and
then drew back so his lips slowly contracted around the tight crest. Hips pinned to the
mattress, she couldn’t rock against him the way she wanted, and the pressure between
her legs intensified. By the time her frustrated groan found its way free, he’d already
moved on to the other breast.
“Trevor…” Begging, she arched her back, giving his wonderful, talented mouth full
access.
“Time for dessert,” he murmured against her skin, so softly she didn’t at first recognize
his words as a warning. The next thing she knew, he yanked her already loose sweats
down and off—panties included—and parted her legs. Her gasp turned into a cry when his
mouth fastened over her center and his hot tongue laved her in exactly the right spot.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but her hips were completely out of her control.
They lifted and pressed, lifted and pressed, awkwardly seeking and retreating from the
addictive agony.
It was too much, too fast, and yet still not nearly enough. She wanted him filling her,
stretching her, moving inside her. “I want you,” she cried. “Now.”
He raised his head just enough to let his breath tease her wet, quivering flesh. “Not
yet. I’m still hungry. You can take a little more.”
No, she couldn’t. If his talented tongue found its target even once more, she’d shatter
into a billion pieces. “Oh, God, you have to stop,” she pleaded and, with a burst of
energy, tried to roll away from the sweet assault.
He let her roll. When she was belly down on the mattress, he leaned over her and
pulled a condom from the nightstand drawer. Then he snaked an arm under her hips, and
in one seemingly effortless motion, hauled her knees up under her. The sudden move
forced a squeak of surprise from her throat. A rip of foil, the roll of latex, and then he
sank into her from behind.
The next sound she heard was her own grateful moan. From this position, his
penetration seemed to reach all the way to her soul.
“Okay?” he ground out, holding still, cupping and squeezing her backside with his big
hand while her body adjusted to him. She made a small, affirmative sound, and anxious
to meet his impending thrust, tried to support her upper body with her arms.
Unfortunately, her trembling limbs refused to respond to her mind’s command. Bracing
her forehead on her forearms and grasping his pillow was the best she could manage.
It hardly mattered, she realized, when he began to move. He had the situation
handled. Pleasure built and tightened with every slap of his body against hers. Soon, she
involuntarily punctuated each slap with a greedy cry of pleasure. The depraved sound
coming from her own throat might have mortified her, but his low, husky “More” rolled
over her shoulder at the same time he set about making it happen with renewed fervor.
After that, she clung to the pillow like a shipwreck victim and simply rode out each
powerful wave.
When the inescapable tide of the orgasm building inside her swelled to frightening
proportions, she moaned, “Trevor, please, I—”
She didn’t get to finish, because at that precise moment, he reached between her legs,
slid his thumb over her throbbing center, and said, “Come for me.”
She came. The orgasm broke over her. Inundated her. Took her under. Before she
could surface, Trevor suddenly changed his angle and drove into her again, still bracing
her from the front, so she was completely at his mercy. Her breath backed up in her
throat, her heart thundered in her chest, and her vision blurred.
Helpless, she pressed her face to his pillow to muffle the sounds coming out of her
mouth while her body, stretched to capacity and stimulated to a frenzy, clutched and
released around him in quick, endless spasms. The contractions rolled through her and
into him. She felt him stiffen, heard the almost pained groan that rose up from deep in his
chest. Felt the heat of his release flood her and surrendered to her own scream of
ecstasy.
…
Trevor eased out of her, savoring every tiny, involuntary flex of her body. Each felt like a
little attempt to hold him inside her. A very gratifying whimper interrupted her shallow
breaths when he finally slipped free.
He slid his hand from her abdomen to the curve of her hip, then let her go to deal with
the condom. Unsupported, she sighed and melted to the mattress. Her stomach rumbled.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, clearly embarrassed.
Laughing, he swept her hair aside and kissed the warm, soft skin at the base of her
neck, then collapsed beside her and hauled up his jeans, which had never made it
completely off. “Chinese okay?”
She giggled and turned to face him. “That is, by far, the best offer I’ve had all night.”
“But not the only, I take it?”
Propping her chin in her hand, she aimed an oddly conspiratorial look his way. “Stacy
cooked. Lasagna, garlic bread, salad…the works.”
“Wow. I’m flattered you gave up home-cooked lasagna with your sister for Chinese
delivery and me.”
Apparently the thought of food invigorated her. She flipped over, sat up, and started
righting her clothes. “It wasn’t intended for me, actually. I accidentally walked into
something unprecedented. Stacy, surrounded by roses and candlelight, preparing a
romantic dinner. For Ian,” she added with a glance toward him. “I didn’t think they’d
appreciate a chaperone.”
“Ah.” He swallowed his disappointment and silently called himself every kind of idiot.
What had he been hoping for, a heartfelt confession that she just couldn’t stay away?
That she’d fallen for him as hard and fast as he for her? Both statements might be true,
but iron-willed Kylie would never admit as much to herself, much less him. She’d share
her body with him seven ways from Sunday, but was determined to keep her heart to
herself. “I guess I’m honored to be your second choice tonight.”
He’d meant to sound flippant, but he could tell by her guilty expression he’d missed his
mark. Shit. This was a new experience for him, being the one who wanted a relationship,
while the other person adamantly didn’t. As if that wasn’t painful enough, he had to go
and advertise his wounds with acerbic comments. She’d never second-guess her decision
if he whined and picked at her, and he’d lose all respect for himself in the process.
Reaching deep for patience and dignity, he got up, swept her sweats from the floor, and
tossed them to her. “Come on. I’ve got an extra pair of chopsticks with your name on
them.”
She relaxed and smiled, as he’d intended, and shimmied into her pants—which he’d
also intended, but nonetheless regretted a little. Taking her hand, he led her out of the
bedroom.
Dinner ended up a comfy, cozy picnic on his living room sofa. Tucked snugly into one
corner with her knees drawn up, Kylie peered at him from over the cardboard container of
sweet-and-sour veggies she held.
“What?” he asked, and offered her the wanton clasped in his chopsticks.
She lifted her chin and took the crispy dumpling into her mouth. His gut tightened as
her lips closed around the morsel. His eyes zoomed in on her throat as she swallowed,
and all kinds of erotic visions filled his mind. Hoping to distract himself long enough to let
her finish dinner, he cleared his own, suddenly dry throat. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was wondering about your family. You know a lot about my background because of
the investigation, but all I know about you is that you’re the oldest of three boys. Are you
from here? Does the rest of the McCade clan live nearby?”
Her curiosity struck him as telling. She might claim no interest in a relationship, but yet
she wanted to know more about him—who he was, where he came from. He was happy
enough to oblige.
“Born and raised in Studio City. My parents still live in the house I grew up in, and I see
them every other week or so. My brother Michael currently lives wherever Uncle Sam sees
fit to send him. He’s a major with the USMC. My youngest brother, Logan, attends grad
school in Connecticut. I guess you’d say we’re a close but far-flung family. Thanks to e-
mail and Skype, we stay in touch pretty well. I figure I feel about them the way you feel
about Stacy. When they need something, I want to be there for them…and vice versa.”
“Sounds nice. Secure.”
“It is. We get along.” He didn’t miss the wistfulness in her expression. Obviously she
and Stacy remained close, but everything he’d learned about her past led him to believe
her own upbringing had been a bit bumpier. He wanted to know about her formative
years—hell, he wanted to know everything about her—but didn’t want to dampen the
moment with difficult memories. Instead, he chose what he assumed would be a less
thorny topic.
“Why yoga?”
She stared into her dinner box, smiled, and shrugged. “During high school I worked in
the local library and stumbled across some old DVDs they had in the stacks. I checked
them out and”—her expression changed to one of wonder—“it was like discovering
another world. A world populated with calm, centered people who were focused and kind.
Definitely a more evolved place than the judgmental, narrow-minded town Stacy and I
grew up in. With yoga, nobody judges. The reward is in the sincerity of the effort, not the
proficiency of the result. You do what you can, as you can. Even from those scratched,
out-of-date DVDs, I knew I had to learn more.”
“That led you to LA?”
She nodded. “Stacy wanted to dance professionally, and from there, maybe move into
acting. I wanted to study yoga, become an instructor. Hopefully own my own studio
someday. We both wanted out of Two Trout just as fast and as far as my ancient Honda
and seven hundred and fifty bucks could carry us. LA seemed like the place to turn all
those wants into reality.”
“And how’s reality shaping up?”
She laughed. “Slowly. Much more slowly than either of us imagined. Stacy used to talk
about how, as soon as we got to LA, she’d land a gig with an LA production of a
Broadway show, or maybe get a part on a television show.”
“Didn’t quite happen that way, huh?” He kept his voice gentle.
Setting the box down, she shifted to face him, a strangely excited light dancing in her
eyes. “Not quite. But she stuck it out and now she’s got a shot at something that could
launch her career in a big way.”
At his inquiring glance, she went on. “She’s landed a role on a pilot for a TV series.
They start filming in a couple months.”
“Hey, that’s great. Give her a big attagirl from me.” Though genuinely happy for Stacy,
he had to admit the prospect of Kylie ending her stint as a stripper pleased him even
more. Wrong attitude, considering without at least one Roberts twin dancing at Deuces
their chances of catching the killer dwindled significantly, but so be it. “What does it mean
for you? Can you retire from Deuces now?”
“Yes, though I’m not sure exactly when. She only got the news today, and we haven’t
had a chance to figure out the finances yet.”
While he watched, her eyes clouded and awareness dimmed her happy glow. “Oh, but…
the case. You guys still need me to dance—”
“No. We don’t. I want you gone from Deuces. We’ll find another way to track him down.
Besides, now that Stacy’s career is looking up, I’m sure you’d like to get back to
concentrating on yours. You’ve got all those big dreams.”
She aimed a self-deprecating smile at her knees and shrugged. “I do, but unlike Stacy, I
always knew mine would take some time. First I had to get certified as a yoga instructor.
Then I had to find an opening at a studio, refine my teaching style, and build a clientele.
Eventually, when I have enough of a following and enough collateral to qualify for a small
business loan, I hope to open my own studio.”
Small businesses opened every day in LA. Most of them ultimately failed. But she had
all the right ingredients to beat the odds, as far as he was concerned—guts,
determination, an unstoppable work ethic, a willingness to do what needed to be done. “I
have no doubt you’ll succeed.”
“Ha. You’ve never seen me teach a single class. For all you know, I might be a terrible
instructor.”
“Even if I watched you teach, I wouldn’t be able to judge your competency as an
instructor,” he admitted with a grin. “I’d have nothing to compare it to.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve never tried yoga?”
“I’m a yoga virgin.”
She jumped to her feet and tugged his hand. “I can’t let you continue through life so
unenlightened. Get up. We have to fix this.”
He slowly stood. “Hey, now…there’s a very good reason I hit the gym instead of rolling
my rubber mat and heading off to class. You need brute strength, I’m your guy, but I’m
not one of those double-jointed human pretzels.”
That earned him a finger in the chest. “Yoga requires lots of strength, you weight-
training snob. The practice benefits all skill levels, all capabilities. It’s not about becoming
a human pretzel. The practice helps you discover and respect the connection between
your mind, body, and spirit.”
“And turning me into a human pretzel facilitates this how?”
She rolled her eyes and led him to the open space between the coffee table and the
wall. “Come on. I gave up my actual virginity to you. The least you can do is surrender
your yoga virginity to me.”
Interesting argument. One he really couldn’t counter. With a sigh of defeat, he pointed
to his temple. “Just remember, I’m injured. Go easy on me.”
“Stop worrying. This will be good for you. Get your chi flowing. Stand straight, with your
feet hips distance apart like this, and then, on an inhale, bring hands together over your
head, arms extended, keeping your elbows tight.”
He watched as she demonstrated, and then followed her lead. “Piece of cake.”
From there, she led him into sort of a lunge position she called “warrior one,” and then,
deepening the lunge, she brought her arms down to shoulder level and extended them
straight in front and behind her. “Welcome to warrior two.”
Mimicking the pose, he felt the beginning of a burn in the thigh of his bent leg and the
calf of his extended leg. She circled him and inspected his effort. Something about the
feel of her eyes on him got his chi flowing—straight between his legs.
With a gentle hand to his bent knee, she instructed, “Try to get this angle to ninety
degrees.” While he complied—and the burn intensified—she ran her hands over his
shoulders and along his arms, lengthening the extension of the limbs. “How’s that feel?”
“It’s getting a little hard,” he admitted, meaning every bit of the double entendre.
“Good,” she responded, sounding suspiciously breathless. Running her hand down his
spine, she silently reminded him to keep his posture straight. “Effort generates reward.
But you want to stop short of pain. Think you can hold this pose for a minute, Mr. Brute
Strength?”
Testing his legs, he decided the burn was manageable. No worse than a heavy leg
circuit at the gym. “Bet I can.”
“Really?” Blond eyebrows arched challengingly. “What do you bet?”
“If I win, you spend the night.”
She looked uncertain, so he allowed his legs to tremble with the “strain” of holding the
position. It worked.
“And if I win?”
He shrugged. “Name your prize.”
Chapter Sixteen
She blinked. Name her prize? With desire swirling in her stomach at the sight of him, taut
and toned and shirtless, thinking strategically posed a challenge. Moving to face him, she
couldn’t help but notice the way his rippling abs disappeared into the low, loose
waistband of his Levi’s. Drawn to the play of muscles, she let her palm slide over the
chiseled terrain. He groaned a low warning, but she didn’t heed it. Instead, she moved
her hand along the front of his jeans and cupped him through the denim.
“This is my prize.”
The breath burst from his lungs like a small explosion. His balance faltered, but then he
tightened his obliques and steadied while her mouth watered at the display.
“That’s cheating.”
She met his half-amused, half-tortured gaze, and gently squeezed his erection, then
hummed with pleasure as he swelled to new dimensions, as if straining to reach her. Her
nipples tightened in response, and she felt an answering throb between her legs. “Do you
feel cheated?”
His eyes glazed. “Christ, no.”
The next thing she knew, two strong arms banded around her and she found herself
pressed into a big, warm, naked chest. “I forfeit,” he growled and then slammed his
mouth down on hers.
God, how did he do this to her, with nothing but a kiss? When his tongue dove into her
mouth to mate with hers, she gripped his shoulders in a useless attempt to steady her
world while her body melted into his.
Her head spun as he swept her up and carried her to the bedroom. When he deposited
her on the bed, grabbed the hem of her tank top, and broke the kiss in preparation for
yanking it over her head, she decided it was time to remind him who lost their little bet.
Rising to her knees, she blocked his hands. “Not so fast, mister, I believe you forfeited our
challenge, which means I won. Therefore, I’m entitled to claim my prize.” Victory smile
firmly in place, she patted the spot beside her on the bed.
His eyes narrowed, but he sat.
She slid off the bed and insinuated herself between his knees. Looking up at him, she
slipped her fingers under the waistband of his jeans and pulled the first button open.
“Just so we’re clear, you cheated,” he said gruffly.
She popped the next button and saw the head of his erection peeking from the band of
his white knit boxers. “Don’t be a sore loser.” Leaning in, she kissed the eager tip.
He groaned. The low sound grew ragged and raw as she yanked his fly open, dragged
the band of his shorts down, and took his jutting penis all the way into her mouth.
“Ah, Jesus, go easy on me,” he begged. His head dipped forward, and his eyes drifted
closed.
Never, she thought smugly, letting her lips slide over him, using her tongue to trace the
underside of his shaft. The maneuver provoked a rough curse, and his hand tangled in her
hair, fingers circling restlessly against her scalp. Taking it as a sign, she swirled her
tongue over him—top, shaft, base—everywhere she could reach. She figured she must
have done something right because he actually whimpered. Fueled by the desire to see
just how far she could go, she closed her lips around him snugly and slid her mouth slowly
back up his length.
Low groans punctuated his shallow breaths. In a move she found incredibly erotic, he
traced the seal of her lips with the tip of his index finger.
“I love being inside you like this,” he confessed in a harsh whisper. “It feels good, so
fucking good…”
Within a few seconds his whispers turned to an inarticulate mix of prayers and curses.
Within a few more, she was flat on her back on the bed, sweats dangling from one ankle
while he rolled on another condom. Their eyes met for a single suspended beat of pure,
hot anticipation. Then he drove into her with the devastating intensity of a lightning
strike.
Contrary to what she’d heard, lightning could strike twice in the same place, three
times, innumerable times. He proved this with every earth-shattering lunge of his body
into hers. Soon her cries competed with his.
Though she couldn’t hear anything over the roar of her rushing pulse, she knew she was
babbling, begging. He must have heard her, because he reared back, shoved her legs up
until her knees practically brushed her earlobes, and drove into her again with a long,
hard thrust. This time lightning didn’t simply strike, it electrified every atom in her body
and sent her spinning, twirling, falling. Emotions too intense to name surged through her.
She twined herself around him—her only anchor in this spiraling universe of pleasure—
and held on for dear life.
…
Trevor pried his eyes open and watched Kylie raise her hips toward the ceiling and tug
her sweats up. A minute ago, he’d come so hard he still couldn’t feel his extremities, yet
somehow she’d gathered the energy to squirm out from under his dead weight and start
pulling on clothes.
Luckily, there was nothing wrong with his hearing, so he had a fairly good idea what
fueled her sudden need to escape. In the throes of her orgasm, she’d definitely called out,
“I love you. I love you. Oh, God, Trevor. I love you.” Whether she realized what she’d said
remained to be seen, but the emotional epiphany alone clearly tripped her panic switch.
He rolled to his side and grabbed some tissue from the box on the nightstand, did some
housekeeping below deck, and pitched the tissue-wrapped condom into the trash. Then
he turned to watch Kylie. “What’s your hurry?”
She shrugged, still not looking at him, and repaired her ponytail. “I don’t want to wear
out my welcome. I know I showed up unannounced and hijacked your evening. I should
leave now and get out of your way.”
“Stay.” He didn’t dare add another word, or next thing he knew, he’d be begging. This
already sounded too much like a repeat of last night. Asking her to stay with him and
having her toss the invitation back in his face was not a habit he intended to develop.
She shook her head, sending the ponytail back to square one, and gave a frustrated
little sound. “I’ve got to go. I have things to accomplish. I can’t just…languish here
indefinitely.”
Several replies sprang to mind, all of which would likely kick off a conversation that
hastened a final break. You really want to push this?
Apparently he did. Sleeping with her whenever she showed up on his doorstep, silently
hoping for more than she might ever willingly offer, struck him as a pathetic way to spend
time with the woman he loved. With a hand to her shoulder, he turned her until she faced
him.
“Is that what you’re afraid would happen if you let yourself acknowledge what you feel
for me? You’d lose sight of the things you want to accomplish?”
“Look, Trevor,” she began slowly, carefully, like someone stepping into a minefield.
“We’re attracted to each other. We enjoy each other physically. End of story. Why can’t
we leave it at that?” She threw the question out in a calm, rational tone, but he saw the
terror in her eyes.
“A minute ago you screamed you loved me at damn near the top of your lungs. Call me
sensitive, but I find that pretty hard to brush aside.”
That spooked her. She couldn’t have jumped off the bed faster if he’d touched her with
a live wire. “I’m not ignoring my emotions.” She swatted that contention away with an
impatient hand. “But I’m also not a slave to them. They’re transitory…unreliable. I’m not
my mother, for God’s sake.” Now she started to pace. “She gets hopelessly lost in every
fleeting passion, and you know what? Those roads always lead her back to exactly where
she started—absolutely nowhere.”
“Why does the road always have to lead nowhere?” He kept his voice quiet, though his
emotions were anything but. “Maybe sometimes it leads to happiness, and fulfillment?”
She shook her head and continued to pace. “It never does. Not for my mom. Not for
anyone I know. Believe me, I’ve watched.”
“That’s one thing I noticed about you right from the start. You’re observant. But Kylie,
you can’t always rely on your limited, firsthand observations to define the realm of
possibilities. How do you explain my parents, happily married for thirty-two years come
October?”
“They’re the exception that proves the rule.”
God, she was stubborn. For some crazy reason, it had him fighting a smile.
“What rule?”
“Excuse me?”
“If people like my folks are the exception, what’s the rule? I’d like to know.”
“Fine. I’ll call it Stacy’s rule. Enjoy the moment, have some mind-blowing sex, and leave
the candlelight and roses for fairy tales.”
“That’s Stacy’s rule?”
“In a nutshell.”
“Seems to me even Stacy’s not playing by her own rule anymore, considering she
prepared a special dinner for Ian tonight—involving candlelight and roses, I believe you
said. Tell me, did she seem happy?”
“Well, sure, she—”
“Why didn’t you talk some sense into her?”
Flashing blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t begrudge Stacy happiness.”
“Of course not,” he quickly agreed, “which is why I figure you’d want to remind her
about the rule, and warn her she’s walking a road that always leads nowhere. Especially
for those two, right? I mean, she’s a stripper.” He shook his head. “What’s Ian thinking?”
“Maybe he’s thinking she’s fun, talented, and interesting,” she challenged, unwittingly
rising to his bait by leaping to the defense of her twin.
“I’m sure she’s all those things. But Ian’s a cop. Probably too straight-arrow for a
woman like Stacy.”
“That’s what makes him good for her,” she insisted, sounding so uncharacteristically
argumentative he had to force back another smile. She was proving his point for him.
“They balance each other out. You’re the trained observer. I can’t believe you don’t see
something so obvious.”
“But, Kylie, if they’re good for each other, right for each other, then that would make
them”—he paused for effect—“an exception to the rule?”
“Yes…no!” She scrubbed a hand across her face and then looked up at him. “I don’t
know,” she admitted. “I hope yes.”
Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and tugged her closer. When she didn’t resist, he
pulled her down on the bed beside him. “Let me get this straight. Stacy and Ian could be
an exception to this ironclad rule, but not you and me? Because I’m thinking you and I
might qualify for one of these exceptions you’ve mentioned. Maybe instead of getting in
the way of your dreams, I’d be the guy who’s helping you, and looking out for you—the
guy who’s got your back.”
The wide blue eyes staring up at him swirled with confusion and sorrow. Finally, she
looked down at their joined hands. “Trevor, you don’t really know me…”
“Ah, Christ, we’re back to that again?” Now he sprang up from the bed. With no better
outlet for his impatience, he paced to the window and stared at the treetops silhouetted
against the night sky. “I knew plenty about you the minute I set eyes on you. Even when
you’re surrounded by people, you hold yourself apart. You don’t find lying easy, and
you’re not good at it. You’re instinctively friendly, but stingier with trust. How’m I doing so
far?”
He turned to look at her, but she didn’t answer, so he kept going. “You worry about
everyone—Stacy, the other dancers at Deuces, a couple of dead customers, even me—
but find it difficult to believe someone could genuinely care about you. You’re a tough,
fragile, brave, cowardly woman. If you’re looking for a way to tell me you don’t want to
take this thing between us any further, try another excuse, because ‘You don’t really
know me’ won’t cut it. There may be a few people on this planet who know more about
your past than me, but I’ll wager there’s nobody who knows you better than I do—body
and soul.”
“Can’t you just be satisfied with the body?” she pleaded, her voice little more than a
whisper.
Heart heavy, he dropped back down beside her on the bed and took her hand. Yes, his
dick insisted. Hell, yes. A huge part of his mind wanted to cast the same vote, the part
thinking maybe she just needed some more time. But his heart, or his balls, or a
combination of both, wouldn’t let him compromise on something so critical.
“No chance. I’m falling in love with you, Kylie.”
He watched her expression shift from confused to flat-out scared. “You’re not, Trevor.
Don’t say—”
“And you’re falling in love with me, too.” Normally he wouldn’t toss what a woman said
in the heat of passion back at her, but he wasn’t feeling particularly fair at the moment.
“Deny it to yourself if you have to, but I know the truth. So, no, I won’t let you use me—
use us—for sex and pretend that’s all there is. If sex is all you’re willing to ante up, then I
fold.”
Those deep blue eyes looked so lost and wounded, he fought the urge to pull her into
his arms and tell her she could have him on whatever terms she wanted.
“Are you saying you don’t want to see me anymore?”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. If she dissolved into tears on his bed, he’d cave for
sure and would never be able to face himself in the mirror again. “No. I’m saying I want
to spend time with you somewhere besides there.” He gestured to the bed. “I want to
send you roses. I want to see the way your skin glows in candlelight. I want to call you in
the middle of the day, just to talk. I want all of that, and a hell of a lot more. But, if you
don’t, if that’s too disruptive to your precious plans, then…” Drawing a deep breath while
parts of his anatomy vehemently protested the ultimatum, he gathered his strength and
finished. “No. Your body, amazing as it is, isn’t enough for me.”
She lowered her head, but not before he saw her chin tremble. “Kylie…” Cupping his
hand around her neck, he nudged his thumb along her jaw, lifting her face to his. Her chin
had firmed, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I should go.”
Not the answer he’d been hoping for. Forcing a smile, he said, “Yeah, I had a feeling—”
Her lips cut him off—fast, hard, a little bit rough, and then gone. Only the lingering
scent of tropical paradise hinted she’d been there at all.
Chapter Seventeen
Kylie had tried walking meditation successfully on a number of occasions, but the trip
home was her first attempt at driving meditation. She locked all her sadness, confusion,
and fear away in her mental holding cell and concentrated on the quiet, almost traffic-
free streets, the patterns of light dotting the valley below, the sound of warm night air
rushing through her half-lowered driver’s side window. It worked pretty well, until she
pulled up outside the apartment and saw Ian’s car parked in her space.
That’s when her emotions made a break for it, with sadness leading the charge. Not
that she resented Stacy’s good fortune. On the contrary, she couldn’t be prouder or
happier for her twin. First the big career breakthrough and now, what appeared to be an
actual relationship with a smart, handsome, reassuringly decent man. Ian saw all of
Stacy’s layers—not just the pretty, chip-resistant surface she liked to present to the world,
but the softer, more fragile stuff she kept hidden away—and he seemed to appreciate
every single one of them. She wanted that for Stacy.
You want it for you, too, a little voice insisted. But she also feared it. Feared losing
herself in a relationship, the way her mom always did, letting her dreams fall by the
wayside, and worse yet, allowing the haters in Two Trout the chance to say, “We told you
so. We told you those Roberts girls would never amount to anything.”
Stacy seemed well on her way to proving them wrong now, but Kylie had always
intended to prove them wrong, too. She’d let the intention become the centerpiece of her
life. So much so that she’d pushed away all distractions, including any men who
expressed interest.
And wasn’t that the most pathetic thought? Did she honestly give a damn what people
she hadn’t seen or spoken to in five years said about her?
Meanwhile, a man right in front of her said she could do whatever she put her mind to.
Trevor hadn’t laughed or dismissed her goals when she’d discussed them with him
tonight. The opposite, actually. He’d admired her aspirations, and believed in her ability
to succeed. So why did she assume opening herself up to a relationship with him meant
giving up her ambitions?
Because of your mom. Curiously, a light popped on in their apartment, and,
simultaneously, in her head. Okay, yes, her mom had dropped out of high school in order
to move in with a boyfriend for a short-lived attempt at domestic bliss. And after that
failed, she’d bounced from relationship to relationship, each time convinced the new guy
was The One. But what big aspirations had her mom sacrificed in favor of this quest?
None sprang to mind. Debbie Roberts’s main aim in life seemed to be finding the perfect
man, and looking at it that way, her mom was the ultimate never-giver-upper.
And Kylie was a big, screwed-up idiot. The only man she’d ever loved had bared his
heart to her, and she’d rejected him! Oh, God, had she blown their chance at happiness?
Searching her bag for her phone, she prayed he’d give her a chance to apologize…explain,
or, at the very least, tell him what he already knew.
She loved him.
He deserved to hear the words from her, even if her self-protective behavior tonight
had convinced him he was better off finding someone less…loco. She pulled her phone
from her purse and started to dial his number. Rats, she’d turned it off before her first
class today and never turned it back on. She did so now and watched as two new voice
mail messages appeared in the display. She already knew one was from Stacy. The other
was from Trevor’s number, received less than ten minutes ago. He’d also sent her a text…
Urgent. Call me.
Just then, someone knocked on her half-lowered driver’s side window. She let out a
little yelp, turned, and then sagged with relief. “Holy smokes, you scared me.” Relief
quickly turned to curiosity. “What are you doing here?”
…
Trevor violated just about every single provision of the vehicular code as he sped toward
Kylie’s apartment, including the law requiring the use of hands-free devices when making
calls. After failing to reach Kylie by phone or text, he dialed Ian’s cell.
Ian picked up on the third ring, his “What’s up?” tired, but deeply satisfied. Trevor didn’t
need any additional clues to know his partner’s exact location. Obviously Ian was still with
Stacy.
“It’s Benny,” he bit out, cutting to the chase as he made a sharp right onto Sunset.
He actually heard the bedsprings squeak when Ian sat up. “Holy shit. How do you
know?”
“I got a reply on a check I made with a past employer of his—a strip club back in
Boston. Look, I’ll give you the details when I see you. You’re at Stacy’s?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m on my way. Is Kylie there?”
“No. I kind of figured she was with you.”
“She was, but she should be home by now.” He couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice.
“Hold on. Let me double-check she didn’t slip in while we were otherwise occupied…”
Trevor held, listening while Ian mumbled something to Stacy. He heard the bedsprings
squeak again as Ian stood, heard the jangle of a belt, heard the thump of Stacy’s cast on
hardwood as they both searched the apartment. Finally, Ian said, “Nope. She’s not here
—”
Stacy’s scream cut him off. Trevor’s blood froze as he heard her cry, “Oh, my God. He’s
got her. He’s got Kylie. Hurry, Ian, he’s getting away!”
Trevor hit speaker and dropped the phone onto the console between the seats. Then
he grabbed the wheel with both hands to make a right off Sunset at top speed without
losing control of the Yukon. “Talk to me, Ian,” he called over squealing tires.
“Shit. Benny’s backing out of the driveway right now, driving a dark blue or black older-
model BMW 7 Series. Heading south,” he panted, clearly running. “Stacy saw him put
Kylie in the backseat. Says she was unconscious.”
Ian’s careful wording wasn’t lost on him. Unconscious, or…? His mind refused to finish
the thought. Benny’s kink involved protecting her, not killing her. He had to stake his faith
on that. He held his tongue while Ian yelled to Stacy, instructing her to contact dispatch
and call the situation in.
“I’m going to blow by you in half a minute.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Ian replied, and Trevor heard the sound of an engine roaring
to life.
He caught a glimpse of taillights heading right at the next cross street and braked just
hard enough to skid through the turn. “I see him. We’re going west. Can you cut him off?
Force him into one of these alleys?”
“Yeah. I’m parallel to you right now. How fast?”
He glanced at the speedometer. “Pushing ninety.”
“Okay. I’ll cut over in three intersections, which should give him enough reaction time. I
don’t want him T-boning me at ninety miles an hour. Kylie’ll go flying.”
“I know. Just slow him down. I’m calling for backup—shit…”
That was all he had time for. Up ahead, a pickup truck entered the intersection from a
cross street. Benny braked hard and swerved. The smell of burning rubber assailed
Trevor’s nostrils as he followed suit, turning even more sharply. He let up on the brake
and drifted to avoid slamming into the Beemer. The sedan skidded up the curb and came
to rest with the front tires on the sidewalk.
Trevor tumbled out of the Yukon at a dead run, gun drawn. He caught sight of Ian’s
Highlander screeching to a stop in the middle of the intersection, but didn’t slow down.
Gripping the gun with both hands, he approached Benny’s car. “On the ground,” he
yelled when the driver’s side door sprang open. Benny stumbled out, hands in the air, and
immediately sank to his knees. At the same time, an army of black-and-whites arrived,
sirens wailing.
Ian rushed around the front of the car and closed in from the other side. “I got him,” he
said once he had his gun pointed at Benny’s head.
Trevor needed no further assurance. He shoved his gun in the waist of his jeans and
opened the back door. And there she was, sprawled half-on, half-off the seat, hair
covering her face, and utterly still. For a frantic half second he stood frozen, praying to
see her chest rise and fall. His own breath backed up in his lungs until he saw that telltale
sign of life.
“Kylie?” Relief turned his voice into a hoarse whisper. Before he could lean closer, two
EMTs shouldered him aside, the larger of the two saying, “We’ve got her, Detective. Give
us room. Let us take care of her.”
Ian approached and put a hand on his shoulder. They watched in silence, staring mostly
at the paramedic’s back as he leaned in and assessed her. She still hadn’t regained
consciousness by the time they lifted her onto a gurney. When they wheeled past, the
medic told Trevor, “Her blood pressure’s a little low. Other vitals are good. My guess is he
hit her with some homemade chloroform because I smell acetone, but they’ll run tests at
the hospital.”
“You stick with our witness,” Ian suggested, and started walking backward toward the
area where a couple of officers had Benny cuffed and facedown on the hood of a cruiser.
“I’ll get our friend checked in to his suite and see if he feels like talking.”
Trevor nodded. “Thanks. Keep me posted.”
“Same goes.”
Trevor backtracked to pick up Stacy and sped to the hospital. Once there, they got some
good news. Kylie was no longer in the ER. With vital signs stable and within normal limits,
she’d been installed in a room on the fourth floor. What he saw when they reached her
room didn’t look quite as good. His heart clutched at the sight of her lying there, fragile
and unmoving, in the hospital bed. They’d hooked her up to various tubes and wires, but
she was still unconscious, and to his eyes, very pale.
“Does she look pale?” Stacy whispered from beside him.
He patted her hand, which clung to his arm in a tight grip. “It’s the hospital lighting.”
Check him out, sounding so calm and sure despite the fear ricocheting through him.
They stepped closer to the bed. “What’s this for?” She pointed to the wire running from
under the front flap of Kylie’s hospital gown to a machine beside the bed.
“It’s a heart rate monitor. Tells you how many beats per minute, oxygen level, and
some other stuff.” Pointing to the heart icon flashing at regular intervals on the display
next to the bed, he went on. “See here? Everything looks nice and normal.”
“So why isn’t she awake?”
“She’s awakened for short intervals, but mostly, she’s still sleeping it off.”
They both turned and stared at the petite redheaded nurse standing in the doorway.
She stepped into the room, checked the monitor, and added, “Don’t worry. She’s going to
be fine,” before heading to the hall.
“Tha’s a relief,” came a thin, groggy voice from the bed.
“Oh my God, Ky!” Stacy rushed to her sister’s bedside, grinding Trevor’s toe under her
cast in the process. He hobbled over to the opposite side.
“Hey, beautiful.”
Drowsy blue eyes with pupils the size of planets turned to him, and then tried to roll up
behind her eyelids. He took her hand, holding it carefully, as if the physical contact could
somehow anchor her. “Stay with me, Kylie.”
Her gaze steadied and locked on him. “Always.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Always,” she repeated, encouraged when her voice sounded less like it came from the
far end of a long tunnel. She fought the dragging pull of sleep. Vague recollections of
losing this battle a couple of times already, with the paramedics, a harried doctor, a nice
nurse, danced through her mind. But this time she really wanted, no, needed to win.
Because this time, it was Trevor.
As the fog cleared, she pulled his heart-stopping face into focus. He opened his mouth
to respond, but Stacy’s anxious voice swept into the silence.
“Do you remember what happened? Benny drugged you and tossed you in the back of
his car.”
She turned her head and found Stacy on her other side.
“Benny?” For a moment, her mind refused to connect the name with anything, and
then, whoosh, it all came rushing back—the knock at her car window, surprise at finding
him standing there, a chemical-laden cloth shoved in her face.
That cleared the fog like a gale force wind. She struggled to sit up, only to have two
sets of hands hold her down. She turned to Trevor. “Stacy’s right. I got home, I wasn’t
paying attention, and then—out of nowhere—he was there, by my car, and—and—”
“Shhh. I know. You’re safe. He’s in custody. Ian’s already got his confession.”
“Can you believe it?” Stacy interjected. “It was Benny, all along. He killed Alex and
Carlton. Turns out Benny had a sister who worked as a stripper at a club in Boston. She
got him a job bouncing there. On his night off, one of her regular customers got good and
loaded, cornered her in the parking lot after her shift, and when she turned down his
proposition, beat her to death.”
Stunned, she turned to Trevor. He nodded. “He never forgave himself for not being
there to protect her.”
She looked at Stacy again, but directed her question to Trevor. “Blond with blue eyes?”
“Good guess. Benny moved to LA, landed the job at Deuces, and he’s been ‘protecting’
his sister ever since. At least in his mind. When we left the club together the other night,
he realized limiting his efforts to the club wouldn’t cut it anymore. He had to be able to
watch you 24-7 if he wanted to make sure nothing happened, so he decided to take you
away. He rented a place outside Vegas, with some notion about you two living together,
and eventually, working together at another club. He doesn’t have a clue he abducted
you and not Stacy.”
“My God, the whole thing is just…” Sad. Crazy. Terrifying. “…awful. What’s going to
happen to him?”
“He’s confessed to murdering two unarmed men, which means he’s looking at life in
prison or worse. His attorney will probably offer an insanity defense. I’m no psychiatrist,
but he’s got me convinced. Either way, Benny’s days protecting pretty blond strippers are
over.”
“How did I get here? I mean, I know I came in an ambulance, but I’ve got a black hole
from the time Benny knocked on my window until now.”
Trevor filled in the blanks, with frequent interruptions from Stacy. Kylie followed along
as best she could. In the end, she found herself swallowing hard around a painful lump in
her throat. Ian, Stacy, Trevor—she owed them so much, particularly Trevor. How could
she have thought he would throw her life off course? He’d saved it, for God’s sake.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and clasped Trevor’s hand. “I should have owned up to this
a long time ago—I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Stacy replied. “But don’t apologize, honey, none of this is your fault…”
Kylie watched Trevor’s eyes shift to Stacy and let hers follow suit. Under two sets of
pointed stares, Stacy blinked. “Oh, my. You weren’t talking to me. Jeez, look at the time.
I should, um…call Ian, and tell him you’re awake,” she mumbled as she hustled out of the
room.
As soon as the door swooshed shut, Trevor turned to her. “You were saying?”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Not that part. The thing about loving me?”
“I do. I love you—”
He cut her off with a slow, tender, and completely mind-numbing kiss. When he finally
raised his head, hers was spinning.
“I wanted to tell you, but I was too scared.”
“Technically, you did mention it,” he pointed out with a grin. Then his expression
sobered. “Don’t be afraid.” He kissed her again, quick and thorough. “I love you, too. I
love that you have dreams and goals, and I would never do anything to derail those.”
“I know. In my heart, I always knew. But I wouldn’t let myself believe it.” His lips closed
in on hers again, but she looked into his eyes and kept on speaking. “Someone recently
pointed out to me that I have a few trust issues.”
Those dark, knowing eyes stared back at her. His lips curved into a slow, lopsided
smile. “Maybe I could help you work those out?”
“I don’t know. I might take a while.”
“I’ve got a while,” he assured her, and rubbed his lips over the sensitive hollow at the
base of her throat. “Starting now?”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Now sounds just right.”
Epilogue
Ten months later…
“Kylie, this is the most bee-yoo-ti-ful studio ever! I can’t wait for the first class,” Lee
Ann gushed in a slightly tipsy twang as she closed in for a hug. Ginger moved quick and
intercepted Lee Ann’s champagne flute before the Southern belle’s sloppy hug splashed
the contents all over Kylie’s strapless black cocktail dress. When Lee Ann drew back,
Ginger raised the half-empty glass and toasted Kylie. “You done good.”
Ariana nodded. “Yes, Kylie. You make us proud.”
“Thanks,” Kylie replied. Her own pride welled up as she glanced around her brand-new
yoga studio, Nirvana on Ninth, and took in the high ceilings, gleaming bamboo floors, and
for tonight’s grand opening party, the champagne fountain and tables overflowing with
hors d’oeuvres. Friends, family, and students chatted and circulated. Her gaze landed on
Trevor, ridiculously gorgeous in his dark suit and silver-striped tie. He stood by the door,
talking with Vern and Ian. At the sight of him, her heart did its predictable little flutter. He
turned and gave her a long look loaded with not-so-hidden messages, and a whole lot of
other parts started fluttering, too.
With some effort, she dragged her attention back to the girls. They were quite a sight
decked out in their mile-high heels and short, tight outfits. “It means a lot that you ladies
came to help celebrate the grand opening.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Ginger assured her, “and not just because of the free-
flowing champagne.” The redhead leaned in and gave Kylie a quick squeeze, then tugged
Lee Ann toward the door. “C’mon, Country. Time to call it a night.”
“Me, too,” Stacy said, looking every inch a star in her silky ivory gown. “I’m so thrilled
for you, Ky, I want to party ’til sunrise, but—”
“But the new, responsible Stacy knows she has to be on the set at 5:00 a.m.,” Kylie
finished with a grin. Stacy had struck gold with her TV show. The network had picked up
the series on the strength of the pilot, and now, a month into the first season, critics and
fans alike declared it a breakout hit.
“Right,” Stacy smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and Kylie didn’t miss how her
twin’s attention strayed across the room to where Ian stood. After being joined at the hip
for the past several months, Ian had suggested they move in together, and Stacy had
abruptly pulled the plug on the relationship. Kylie couldn’t help thinking her twin had a
heaping dose of cold feet…and regret, if her expression tonight offered any hint of her
feelings.
“Talk to him,” Kylie urged.
Stacy frowned and shook her head. “No. We’ve already talked everything to death. He
wants commitments and promises. Christ, he even mentioned the ‘M’ word.” She shivered
and released a humorless laugh. “That’s so not what I’m looking for. My career demands
all my focus. I spend fifteen-hour days on the set, and the rest of my time learning my
lines, doing publicity, and meeting with my agent about new projects.”
“But you love him—”
“No!” The denial flew out of Stacy’s mouth on wings of panic, and told Kylie her sister
was running scared. “You know me better,” Stacy went on. “I don’t do love. Lust? Sure.
Sex? Hell, yes. But nothing more.”
Kylie remained silent. Rather than argue, she leveled a patient, who-are you-trying-to-
convince look at her sister.
Stacy ran a hand through her flawless cascade of blond waves. “Look, Ian’s an amazing
guy. He deserves a sweet girl who wants to make him the center of her universe.” Her
eyes drifted to the other side of the room, where Ian stared back with an expression that
warned he might either kiss her senseless or strangle her in the next five seconds.
The look apparently wasn’t lost on Stacy. She flushed and mumbled, “I’ve got to go. I’ll
call you tomorrow.”
Kylie forced a lid on her frustration as she watched Stacy leave. Now wasn’t the time or
place to excavate her sister’s fear of commitment, but Kylie intended to dig in very soon.
Not out of a compulsion to step in and rescue her twin from a bad decision—they’d both
finally outgrown that habit—but because she wanted Stacy to expect, and fight for, love
with the same determination she used to pursue her career.
Soon, Kylie silently vowed as she stood in her shiny new space while the last of the
guests said their good-byes and wandered out into the starlit evening. The Santa Monica
mountains rose in the distance, framing a huge, round moon as full of portent as an
ancient Celtic blessing coin.
She felt blessed, and her blessings extended beyond having friends and family on hand
to celebrate the realization of her goal. Between the loyal students she’d cultivated over
her years instructing at other yoga studios, and the new members she’d picked up via
word of mouth, her classes were booked to capacity. The biggest blessing of all, however,
stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, watching her.
She walked over to him. He smiled the slow, crooked smile that always sent her pulse
skyrocketing, and centered himself between her and the door. “Sorry,” he said, sounding
anything but. “Hope I’m not in your way.”
Trevor had been by her side since the day she’d been released from the hospital, but
never, ever in her way. While helping her do everything from create her business plan to
pick paint colors, he’d slowly taught her the all-important difference between being able
to depend on someone and being dependent. He’d shown her that sharing her heart
didn’t mean subjugating her dreams.
“No,” she replied, unable to help the husky note in her voice, “you’re not in my way.”
“Good to know.” He reached behind him clicked the front door lock closed.
“Just the opposite, really. I couldn’t have done this,” she gestured around the studio,
“without you.”
“I don’t know about that, but I suppose I am pretty handy to have around at times.” He
winked, and with a flick of his fingers over the wall panel, dimmed the lights to a soft
glow.
Unwilling to let him brush off her words, she laid her palm on his chest, over his heart.
“Trevor, I mean it. Your belief in me, your support…” She shook her head. “Not to
mention setting up spreadsheets, or spackling and painting. I don’t have the words to
describe what everything you’ve done means to me.”
He lifted her hand from his chest and kissed it. “I’m versatile. Thing is”—releasing her
hand, he stepped away and lowered the rattan blinds over the big, street-facing windows
—“I don’t think you fully appreciate how versatile I am.”
Though his expression remained playful and his voice teasing, Kylie suddenly worried
he really didn’t understand how much he meant to her. “I do,” she promised. “I
appreciate everything about you.”
“We’ll see.” He drew her back into the main room, pulled one of the rented, slipcovered
chairs away from a table, and positioned it in the center of the open area that had served
as the dance floor for the evening’s festivities. “Take a seat.”
Oh, no, what was this? Were they going to have a talk? Her heart clutched. “Trevor—”
He slipped over to the sound system, hit a couple buttons on the remote, and then
walked back around until he stood in front of her chair, facing her. “Now, about my
versatility…”
Music started, an instantly identifiable guitar riff, followed by an equally identifiable
voice—“Kiss,” by Prince. Trevor flipped his jacket off his shoulders and let it slide down his
arms to land on the floor. Then he inched closer, leading with his hips, which were doing
a mouthwatering bump-and-grind in perfect time with the pulsating beat of the song.
“Oh my God,” Kylie gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Off came the tie, which he draped around her neck. She giggled. “My own private
dancer. I can’t believe I thought spackling was your secret, hidden talent.”
“I spackle, too. But I figured I owed you at least one dance, and I wanted to make it
memorable. How am I doing so far?”
Kylie could only nod like a bobblehead.
“Okay.” Not missing a beat, he flicked open his cuffs. “Since I’ve taken an oath to
protect and serve, I’m duty-bound to warn you to shield your eyes for this next part.”
“Huh?” Uncertain what he had in mind, she raised her hand, fingers parted so she could
still see him. As Prince demanded her extra time and her kiss, Trevor tore open his shirt,
sending buttons flying, baring his truly amazing chest and chiseled abs.
Holy smokes. This act of his was going to melt her panties right along with her heart.
True, she knew his spectacular body almost as well as she knew the back of her own
hand, had seen, touched, and had her way with him hundreds of times, but familiarity
didn’t diminish the impact of watching him strip for her.
He turned around, tugged his shirt the rest of the way off, and flexed his delts and lats
until her mouth went dry. With his hands behind his head, he turned to face her again,
arched his back, and offered up his fly. “Care to do the honors?”
“Are you kidding?” Eagerly, she undid the clasp of his trousers, but when she went for
the zipper, he pulled his hips back. “Uh-uh. Not so fast.” With a slight twist of his waist,
he shifted closer again. “Reach into my pocket. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She laughed, despite the wave of frustrated desire swirling through her. “The old ‘reach
into my pocket’ routine?”
He merely shrugged and prompted her with a little hip shake. She reached in and
tunneled her fingers down, enjoying the feel of his granite-hard thigh through the slippery
lining. Her fingertips brushed something small and cool at the bottom of his pocket.
Curious, her eyes sought his.
“Find something interesting?”
“I don’t know.” She closed her fingers around the tiny object and drew it out of his
pocket while Prince wound his song down with a frenzy of kisses and funky guitar. When
she opened her hand and saw what she was holding, the air backed up in her lungs. A
beautiful diamond solitaire sat in her palm. Her pent-up breath escaped with an audible
whoosh into the sudden quiet.
“Surprise,” he whispered.
“Oh…”
He dropped to his knee and took her hand, folding her fingers around the ring. “Marry
me, Kylie. I love you. I want to spend my life with you. Hopefully you know by now that
I’ll never stand in the way of your dreams.”
She took a shaky breath and looked up at him through tears.
“Ah, Jesus, don’t do it. Please.” Gently, he swept his thumb over her cheek.
“I can’t help it.”
“Because you’re so happy, or you’re completely freaked out? Spell it out for me, Ky.”
Laughing, crying, she flung her arms around his neck.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” And then he was kissing her. A long, deep kiss that set her soul
soaring even as her body went up in flames.
“Yes,” she echoed when they finally came up for air.
“I’m holding you to that,” he whispered, and slipped the ring on her finger. “Forever.”
Can’t get enough of Samanthe Beck’s romances? Check out her
debut novel
He’ll teach her how to bring a man to his knees…
Dr. Ellie Swan has a plan: open her practice in tiny Bluelick, Kentucky, so she can keep an
eye on her diabetic father, and make hometown golden-boy Roger Reynolds fall in love
with her. But Ellie has a problem. Roger seeks a skilled, sexually adventurous partner,
and bookish Ellie doesn’t qualify.
Tyler Longfoot only cares about three things: shaking his bad boy image, qualifying for
the loan his company needs to rehab a piece of Bluelick’s history, and convincing Ellie to
keep quiet about the “incident” that lands him on her doorstep at two a.m. with a bullet
in his behind.
The adorable Dr. Swan drives a mean bargain, though. If sex-on-a-stick Tyler will teach
Ellie how to bring a man to his knees, she’ll forget about the bullet. Armed with The Wild
Woman’s Guide to Sex and Tyler’s lessons, Ellie is confident she can become what Roger
needs…if she doesn’t fall for Tyler first.
Chapter One
“To be honest, I’m relieved Roger and I called off our engagement.”
The snippet of conversation from the booth behind her pulled Dr. Ellie Swann’s nose out
of her medical journal. She blinked and stared at the large window beside her. Its
reflection offered a view of the bustling interior of DeShay’s Diner, including the booth
where Melody Merritt and Ginny Boca huddled over pie and coffee.
Ellie forced her attention back to her journal and held her breath, waiting for the
conversation to resume. No, Melody’s broken engagement was none of her business, and
yes, eavesdropping was wrong, wrong, wrong. But she couldn’t resist listening in, because
the discussion involved Roger Reynolds, the object of her longstanding and completely
secret adoration.
“Roger and I weren’t well suited. I know we looked like the perfect couple—high school
sweethearts and all—but between college in Manhattan, and then law school and the
clerkship in DC, he changed. He picked up big-city tastes in some, ahem, intimate areas.”
Goodness. Ellie used her napkin to blot the sweat from her upper lip. Like what?
“What do you mean?” Ginny asked, her voice pregnant with curiosity.
Ellie flipped the page in her journal and feigned deep interest in an article about a
recent drug trial for a female libido enhancer, of all things.
“He wanted me to—” Melody paused. Ellie peeked in the window and watched the
blonde’s reflection glance around the diner, scanning the area for prying eyes and ears.
Wise move. Sleepy little Bluelick, Kentucky, might be a mere speck on the map, but it
boasted a grapevine of staggering efficiency.
Ellie shamefully included herself in the prying eyes and ears category, but the real irony
was Melody’s choice of confidant. If the local gossips elected a president, Ginny would win
by a landslide.
Apparently satisfied she had no unwanted listeners, Melody leaned toward Ginny and
whispered. Ginny’s mouth dropped open. Ellie strained to hear, but it was no use.
The statuesque blonde leaned back in her chair and shuddered delicately. “I am not
that kind of girl. I just won’t do those things. I mean, I like sex as much as the next
woman, but Roger’s looking for a nymphomaniac. His ideal woman has a whole lot of
experience and very few boundaries.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll always love
him, as a friend, but really, it’s for the best.”
Hours later Ellie stared at the moonlight slanting through the window of her cozy
bedroom and reviewed the conversation she’d overheard at the diner. Her conscience
cringed at the rudeness of eavesdropping, not to mention coveting another woman’s
freshly cast-off fiancé. Either transgression might explain why she was still tossing and
turning at one thirty in the morning.
Let it go for the night, she told herself, but her stubborn mind refused to obey. Shadows
played across the ceiling while she obsessed over how to turn her most cherished secret
wish into reality. She’d had the dream, in one form or another, for as long as she could
remember: Roger fell in love with her. They married, moved to one of the stately old
houses overlooking the river, and lived happily ever after, preferably with a passel of
blue-eyed, honey-haired mini-Rogers. Roger III first—they’d call him Trey—and then
Michael, or Elizabeth, if they had a girl…
The low rumble of a motorcycle tore through the quiet of the warm June night,
distracting her from her family planning. Abruptly, the noise ceased and silence reigned
again, everywhere except between her ears.
Melody had headed the cheer squad in high school. She was beautiful, limber, and full
of…pep. If Melody couldn’t satisfy Roger in the sack, what chance did academic-minded,
unathletic, and comparatively inexperienced Ellie Swann stand?
So close, and yet so far. On one hand, their paths seemed perfectly aligned. She’d
recently moved back to Bluelick to open her general practice and keep tabs on her father,
who was facing, or more accurately ignoring, a type 2 diabetes diagnosis—not that he
seemed particularly thrilled with her weekly check-ins. Roger had returned home to join
his family’s law firm. They were both single young professionals looking for love. On the
other hand, unless she transformed into a sexually adventurous woman, fast, he’d never
give her a second glance.
Thankfully she wasn’t still “Sparky” Swann, the sad little dork she’d been in high school.
Back then the most curvaceous thing about her had been the thick round glasses she’d
worn to correct nearsightedness. The intervening years had brought the final flourishes of
puberty, LASIK surgery, and a much-needed fashion intervention by her college
roommates. Nobody mistook her for a Victoria’s Secret model, but at least she didn’t still
look like a refugee from science camp.
What did Roger look like now? Letting her heavy eyelids drift closed, she conjured up
his golden perfection in her mind’s eye. She could picture him clear as day, seated in pew
four at Bluelick Baptist with the rest of the Reynolds clan, all tall and square-jawed in his
Sunday best. Would his eyes retain their stunning sky-blue clarity? Would he still have his
star quarterback’s body and thick, gilt-blond waves? It didn’t matter. She adored Roger for
more than his pretty container. Everything about him appealed to her, from his large,
loving family to his sense of tradition and duty, confirmed by his decision to follow in the
footsteps of his father and grandfather, joining them in their law practice.
In the seamless way of dreams, Roger turned to her and smiled his heart-stopping,
almost blindingly white smile. The congregation launched into a booming rendition of
“Rise Up, O Men of God.” He winked and leaned in close. Can I share a secret with you,
Sparky? I’m—
Something crashed, and a low, distinctly un-Roger-like voice muttered, “Goddammit!”
She bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. Her eyes automatically sought the red glow
of her bedside clock: 1:47 a.m. Had her subconscious sound editor missed a cue, or had a
real-life noise jarred her out of what had been shaping up to be a very interesting dream?
Holding her breath, she listened intently, and then nearly screamed when another crash
sounded from her front porch. Another muffled curse followed.
Her feet hit the floor. Her hand swept across the surface of the bedside table, searching
for her phone. The slow, steady crunch of gravel betrayed someone’s progress around her
cute and, gulp, isolated cottage. When the footfalls stopped, her racing heart pole-
vaulted into her throat. Someone lurked outside her bedroom window.
Your open bedroom window, her mind screamed. What had she been thinking, going to
sleep without locking the window? Now nothing but a flimsy screen and a wispy white
curtain separated her from some crazed rapist-murderer. Unless this guy had the body
mass of a mosquito, she was screwed.
She snatched up her phone and ordered herself to calm down. Bluelick wasn’t exactly a
hotbed for cold-blooded violence. Everybody knew everybody and a good percentage of
them were related. If she braved a look outside, she’d probably find some kid pulling a
dare, more scared than she was.
A deep, almost lazy “Hey, Doc?” broke into her weak attempt at self-soothing.
The voice didn’t sound like a kid, or the least bit scared. Her fingers fumbled over the
phone, tripping up the simple 9-1-1. If he wanted to come in, he’d be through the window
and choking the life out of her in less than a minute. Emergency responders would reach
her in time to draw a chalk outline around her cold, dead body.
“I’ve got a gun!” she croaked, trying for Dirty Harry, but sounding more like Kermit the
Frog.
“Well, that’s fine, Doc,” the oddly familiar voice drawled. “But you don’t need it. I’ve
already been shot.”
Shot? Holy smokes, was he serious? She flicked on her bedside lamp, but before she
could formulate a response, he went on. “C’mon Sparky, open up. I heard you moved
back home to hang out your shingle. Congratulations, you’ve got your first patient.”
That he’d called her “Sparky” didn’t mean much. The entire town knew her by that
godforsaken nickname, but her fear ebbed, because an unmistakable stitch of pain
threaded her mystery visitor’s voice.
She crept to the window. “Who are you?”
“Tyler Longfoot. Remember me?”
What woman could forget Tyler Longfoot? Four years older than her, a whole lot wilder,
and monumentally cooler, Bluelick’s very own badass rebel had always radiated
dangerous charm. A vision of him floated through her mind: the devil’s mane of thick,
black hair; flashing green eyes filled with careless challenge; sensual lips cocked with
wicked intent.
Pushing the curtain aside, she stared out. Sure enough, he stood there, a tall, rangy
figure illuminated by the meager light from her bedside lamp. He wore his hair shorter
now, but still a little untamed. It fell like a raven’s wing over his forehead. Otherwise, ten
years hadn’t changed him much—or dimmed his bad-boy appeal.
“What the hell are you doing, slinking around my house at two in the morning?”
“Bleeding to death,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. Why would he? He’d
already woken up the only other person around. “I’m not kidding, Doc. I need your help.”
He leaned forward until the light fanned across his face, revealing pain-filled eyes.
“Why didn’t you ring the bell like a normal person?”
“Because after setting off every damn booby trap on your minefield of a front porch, I
figured I had about fifteen seconds to get ’round here and let you know who it was before
you called the cops or put another bullet in me.”
Her fingers automatically tensed on her phone. Okay, maybe his strategy wasn’t
completely incomprehensible. Letting her gaze drift down, she tried to spot evidence of
an injury. “You’re walking and talking pretty well for a man who’s supposedly been shot.”
“It’s a flesh wound, but it hurts like a mother—”
“All right. Go around. I’ll meet you at the front door.” He nodded and turned to go back
the way he’d come. She grabbed her robe, shrugged it over her white nightie, and went
to meet him. Along the way, her mind took an unscheduled trip back to sixth grade.
Even at twelve, she’d recognized that Tyler Longfoot oozed sex—hot, no-holds-barred
sex—although at the time she wouldn’t have used those words. She’d gotten an eyeful of
Tyler kissing Melody’s older sister, Melinda, behind the bleachers during a Bluelick
Buffalos home game and had thought he looked like one of the rogues gracing the covers
of the paperback novels for sale at Dalton’s Drugs. He’d certainly seemed to kiss like one.
He’d bracketed Melinda’s slim waist with a lean, muscular arm, holding her close while
the power of the kiss actually bent her backward. Ellie had felt light-headed and tingly
just watching.
From the time she’d been old enough to daydream about happily ever after, she’d cast
Roger in the role of Prince Charming, but seeing Tyler kiss had made her wonder what
happened once the enchanted couple rode off into the sunset.
She flicked the porch light on and looked down. The garbage bags she’d placed by the
front door in preparation to haul them to the end of the driveway tomorrow morning—
well, later today—were toppled and the contents scattered. Into the mess stepped a pair
of scuffed black work boots. They jutted from the fraying hems of well-worn jeans. Her
eyes traveled up long, muscular legs, absently noticing worn-to-white stress points at the
knees, along the creases near the front pockets…the fly. A picture of eager female fingers
tugging those buttons invaded her mind.
Shoving the unhelpful image away, she continued her inspection. A white T-shirt
stretched across the hard expanse of his chest and hinted at chiseled abs. A smear of
something that looked suspiciously like pink lipstick decorated the collar, and some lighter
imprints shimmered on the bronze skin of his neck.
When she reached his striking green eyes, she found them staring back at her, filled
with equal parts pain and amusement. “Where’s your gun, Sparky?”
“I go by Dr. Swann nowadays.”
“Where’s your gun, Doc?” A grin teased his lips.
She brought her hand from her robe pocket and stuck it out at him, index finger
extended from her fist, thumb cocked. “Bang.”
He staggered back playfully and then winced for real. “You got me.”
“Where?” She still saw no trace of an injury.
By way of answer, he strode past her into the hallway. She turned to follow and
immediately spotted the dark stain spreading over his hip pocket.
It wasn’t a ton of blood, but enough to bring a twinge of apprehension. “Tyler…”
He stopped halfway down the hall. “Where do you want me?”
“In my office downtown.”
“Funny, Spark—Doc.”
She caught up to him and put a hand on his arm. His muscle bunched beneath her
fingers. “I’m not joking. Better yet, how about the ER in Lexington?”
“No, no. Let’s keep this between you and me. We go running into town, someone’s
going to see us. At the ER, they’ll file a report of the shooting with the authorities.”
She removed her hand and stepped around so she faced him. “That’s going to happen
anyway. I’m required to report any gunshot injuries to local law enforcement. If I don’t, I
put my license in jeopardy.”
Without warning, he swayed and slumped against the wall. She grabbed him around
the waist.
“Tyler! Tyler, do not pass out. You hold on to me, okay?” His arm around her shoulders
felt reassuringly strong, and thankfully, his legs seemed able to support his weight. “Let’s
go to my kitchen, so I can take a look and see exactly what we’re dealing with. Then I
can decide where best to treat you.”
She doubted he was lucid enough to follow her suggestion, so he took her by surprise
when he guided them down the hall to the kitchen and hit the lights.
Her eyes took a minute to adjust to the sudden brightness. Once they did, she focused
on her patient. His color was just fine and his pupils fully responsive. “Funny, I don’t
remember seeing you at the housewarming party.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I built this house. I know the layout well
enough.”
“Oh.” That rang a bell. Maybe her father or, more likely, one of the handful of former
classmates she’d run into had mentioned something about Tyler starting a construction
company several years back.
He stood in the middle of her tidy kitchen, looking incongruous and extremely
masculine next to her lemon-yellow curtains and matching dish towels. Heavens, he
was…something. The mature, logical voice in her head momentarily regressed to high
school and squealed, Oh. My. God. Hell-raising, cherry-popping Tyler Longfoot is standing
in your kitchen, about to drop his pants. Then she remembered why. Shaking off the
disturbing mental lapse, she inched toward the door. “Let me get some supplies. I’ll be
right back.”
Get a grip, Ellie. He’s the one who should be feeling light-headed, not you. She hurried
to the hall closet to retrieve her medical bag.
Slightly winded, she skidded into the kitchen and saw him standing with his jeans
undone and hanging low on his hips, hands propped on her solid, butcher-block table.
“This work for you, Doc?”
Depending on the caliber of the bullet and where, exactly, he’d been hit, she could have
a comparatively easy extract-and-stitch job, or something requiring sedation, an MRI, and
a couple hours of intricate surgery. Better to keep him upright and theoretically mobile
until she determined the severity of his injury.
“Yes, that’s good,” she replied in her best calm doctor voice. After scrubbing her hands
in her deep farmhouse sink, she took a pair of rubber gloves from her bag.
She snapped them on, moved a chair into position behind him with her foot, and sat.
Then she dug around in her bag and placed supplies on the table. When she had
everything organized, she said, “Okay, I’m going to lower your jeans and shorts as gently
as I can, but you might feel some tugging if any fabric adhered to the wound.”
“Well, Doc, I’m behind on my laundry, so it’s just jeans tonight. Hopefully that simplifies
things.” He twisted to look at her as he spoke, causing the jeans to sink lower. A
heartbeat later she heard his quick intake of air as she pulled one side down to give her
better access to the wound.
“Sorry. This could be painful. We should probably stop right here, slap a pressure
compress on and call an ambulance.”
“I’m fine, Ellie,” he insisted through a clenched jaw. “Just do what you gotta do.”
“Okaaay. Face front and be still.” He turned around, and she concentrated on the
matter at hand. Within a moment, she’d carefully probed the thin, fairly shallow line of
the wound and located the…bullet? Pellet? She was no munitions expert. It was a small
metal projectile, embedded about a quarter-inch deep in the spectacularly carved
indentation of his buttock, between the gluteus medius and the gluteus minimus. But
when she gently separated the margins of the wound for a better look, her patient sucked
in a harsh breath.
“Son of a— Are you amputating half my ass back there?”
“Not yet. Don’t distract me.”
“Take your time.” His clenched jaw didn’t quite muffle the sarcasm.
She loaded a syringe with local anesthetic. “Can you count to three for me?”
“Sure. One, two—”
Ellie jammed the needle in and depressed the plunger.
Tyler swayed like a palm tree in a high wind. “Jesus effing Christ! What happened to
three?”
Ellie pulled the needle out and placed it on the table. While waiting for the anesthesia
to take effect, she explained, “Three is where you tense up and a little shot ends up
feeling like a knuckleball hitting your muscle at ninety miles per hour.”
“Oh, well, thank you very much. That felt like eighty-five miles per hour, tops.”
“You’re welcome.” Using gauze, she dabbed blood away from the injury. “Let’s give it a
minute to work, and then I’ll remove the bullet and you’ll be as good as new in no time.”
A skeptical grunt served as his reply.
She selected a long, slender pair of tweezers from the table and lightly touched the
wound. No reaction from the patient. “Want to tell me how this happened?”
“Would you believe, self-inflicted?”
She laughed. “Not a chance. Nor will I believe your dog, cat, bird, or iguana accidently
discharged your gun. Nor, at this hour, will I believe it was a hunting accident.”
“Worth a try.”
“Try the truth,” she recommended, enjoying a moment of triumph as she snagged the
small metal round between the tweezers and extracted it. She flushed the wound and
pressed more gauze to the site.
He sighed. “I was down at Rawley’s Pub, having a drink and, um, let’s say chatting with
Lou Ann Doubletree.”
Lou Ann had been a year ahead of Ellie in school, but she remembered the tall, sandy-
haired blonde well enough. The older girl boasted two particularly unforgettable features.
“Lou Ann Double D?”
“For a girl who’s not fond of her own nickname, you’re awful quick to toss out someone
else’s.”
“She liked hers. She was proud of the body parts inspiring it.”
“They are inspirational, you gotta admit.”
“So I’m told,” she said, doing a mental eye roll. What was it with men and mammary
glands? She tied off the thread on a surgical needle and prepared to start stitching. “So,
you were at Rawley’s, chatting with Lou Ann, and…”
“She’s on-again-off-again with Junior Tillman. Remember him?”
The name sounded familiar. Her memory called up a wide, burly guy with a booming
voice and a proclivity for smashing empty beer cans on his forehead whenever the
Buffalos scored a touchdown. She completed the first stitch. “Beefy guy. Your year. Had a
voice like a bullhorn?”
“That’s him. Anyway, according to Lou Ann, they’re currently off, but Junior showed up
tonight with his drink most definitely on, and a slightly different recollection of where
they’d left things.”
“So he shot you? I can’t believe you haven’t already called the cops.” Despite her
agitation, she added another small, tidy stitch to the meticulous line. It would be a
travesty to scar such perfection.
“No need to get all worked up. He went after me with the coon chaser he keeps in the
gun rack of his pickup. He wasn’t aiming to kill me, just stake his claim.”
“Stake his… Oh my God, you’re all hopeless.” She tied off the final suture, cut the
thread, and tossed the scissors on the table.
“Not my way of thinking, Doc. I’m just trying to explain what was going through Junior’s
half-rocked mind. He’s going to feel real bad about this once he sleeps off the booze.”
“He can sleep it off in a cell,” she said firmly.
Tyler made a negative sound. “Junior’s a damn good builder, plus he’s got a four-year-
old boy with a baby mama over in Ashland. If he’s in jail, it’s going to be real tough for
him to make child-support payments. Then the kid suffers for Junior’s bourbon-fueled bad
judgment.”
“He shot you. I’m obligated to notify the authorities. It’s nonnegotiable.” Considering
the matter settled, she affixed a bandage over the stitches. “You’re done.”
He craned his neck to look at his bandaged cheek, then hauled up his jeans and turned
around. Those hypnotic green eyes captured hers. His lips curved up in a slow, simmering
smile. “Everything’s negotiable.”
Melody’s words from the diner floated through Ellie’s mind. Roger’s ideal woman has a
whole lot of experience and very few boundaries.
Practicing medicine wasn’t a gig for the easily shocked, so she didn’t see boundaries as
an issue. But experience? That was another matter. Maybe the answer stood before her,
in the form of a walking, talking wealth of sexual know-how? Medically speaking, he also
qualified as a walking, talking female libido enhancer.
“C’mon Doc, what would I have to do to persuade you to keep this between us?”
Acknowledgments
Getting this book ready for publication was like that reality show where the woman
doesn’t know she’s pregnant and then, BAM! She’s havin’ a baby, and it’s a mad scramble
for everyone to get where they need to be. Big, huge, eternal THANKS to Heather
Howland, editor extraordinaire, for being so steady, and dang-it, cool, when things
started to move fast. Same to Sue Winegardner. Not sure what I did right to score you as
an assistant editor, (or, hmmm…what you did wrong), but I thank my lucky stars and
offer you my condolences.
Another round of thanks to…
My sister, former LAPD and Irvine PD officer, and my LAPD homicide detective brother-
in-law, for answering my questions about police procedure and homicide investigations,
and not cringing too badly when I took unbounded creative license with all of it.
Maggie Kelley, for encouraging me to enter this story in the Cleveland Rocks Romance
Contest, and the contest judges, for liking it.
Author Lynne Marshall, my amazing, talented writing mentor, who gently and patiently
critiqued this story into something submit-table.
My husband, for responding, “I don’t know, honey, I’ve never been,” to all my strip-club
questions. You, sir, are a keeper.
Fellow Entangled authors Robin Bielman and Hayson Manning, for letting me hang with
you and pretend some of your awesomeness rubs off on me.
About the Author
Award winning author Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California, with her husband, their
son, Kitty the furry Ninja, and Bebe the trash talkin’ Chihuahua. When not writing fun and
sexy contemporary romance, or napping on her beach towel with her face snuggled to her
Kindle, she searches for the perfect ten dollar wine to pair with Lunchables.
Connect
with
Sam
via
, or through her website at
to check her progress on that never-ending quest, or to get the
latest on her upcoming Brazens!
Unleash your inner vixen with these sexy bestselling
Brazen releases…
Femme Fatale
When she’s cast as a femme fatale, former teen star Olivia Harper must shake her
squeaky-clean image, and fast. She propositions sexy military consultant Blake Ramsey,
but with each lesson they complete, Blake realizes he wants to stay in her bed—
permanently—even if getting involved might cost him his life.
Protecting What’s His
Tessa Bailey
Sassy bartender Ginger Peet just committed the perfect crime. Life-sized Dolly Parton
statue in tow, Ginger and her sister flee Nashville. But their new neighbor, straight-laced
Chicago homicide cop Derek Tyler, knows something’s up—something big—and he won’t
rest until Ginger’s safe…and in his bed for good.
Chasing Mrs. Right
Katee Robert
Adjusting to civilian life proves harder than Ian Walser expects…until he runs into a
gorgeous stranger who soothes his demons and gives him a glimpse of the life he wants.
He has no idea she’s his little sister’s best friend—or that she’ll refuse to give him more
than one night. Good thing this soldier likes a challenge…
Down and Dirty
Christine Bell
When she’s dared to rekindle an old flame, self-professed infatuation junky Cat Thomas
knows she’s screwed. She’s never been able to resist her brother’s sexy best friend, so
after one hot night together she does what any sane woman would do—sets him up on a
dating site before she does something stupid. Like fall in love with him again.
Madison Daniels has worshipped her brother’s best friend since they were kids, but
they’ve blurred the lines before and now they can’t stop bickering. Forced together for her
brother’s wedding getaway, will they call a truce or strangle each other first?
Document Outline
- Other books by Samanthe Beck
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Epilogue
- Private Practice
- Chapter One
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
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