BADGE BUNNIES: The Full 5-Book Box Set

by Mazzy King

I find myself staring into a pair of the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen, blinking from behind a pair of large-frame black glasses.

  The most beautiful girl in the world stares up at me, and for a second, I can’t remember why I’m even here.

  Chapter 2

  Violet Randall

  Since eight o’clock this fine morning, I’ve been sitting on my sofa in my small living room, trying to finish up my latest romance novel. Finish writing, that is—I’m an author, though most of the time, I feel like a total hack.

  My books sales have been picking up a lot lately, which is great, but also a little scary. I have fans now, who want more and more of my writing, and I don’t want to let them down. But the pressure is getting to me, and it’s getting to me in the form of writer’s block. Ugh. To compound the problem, I’m writing sexy romances—heavy on the sex. And considering I haven’t gotten laid in almost a year, it’s both difficult and also torturous to write sexy women and sexy men having sexy sex when I’m cuddling up to my body pillow every night.

  But about half an hour ago, I started becoming aware of a situation across the street. One police cruiser pulled up to a small family’s house, which in and of itself is kind of out of the ordinary for this neighborhood.

  I’m your classic introvert, so I haven’t really gotten to know any of my neighbors. But I’m keenly aware of everyone, because I like to spend my mornings drinking my coffee and reading the news on my phone sitting beside the picture window in my living room, and I like to people-watch. It’s interesting to me how everyone has their own little routine down pat and are so oblivious to the person next to them, so lost in their own world. I like to watch them, write about them, make them characters in stories they’ll never read, written by a person they never met.

  So, I know who the guy across the street is, if not by name. He has a wife and a son who looks to be around thirteen or fourteen. He’s not of driving age because he walks to the corner to wait for the school bus every weekday morning. But since today is Saturday, I like to imagine he slept in late.

  Then the cops showed up. And then more cops showed up.

  And then a cop rang my buzzer.

  His request is completely crazy to me, though not necessarily out of the question. I mean, I’m sure he’s done this before. But it’s never happened to me before, and the thought of allowing a stranger—even a cop—inside my home does not make me happy. But I’d be way less happy if I knew something terrible happened to the family across the street, and he could’ve done something about it had I just let him in.

  When I open the door, I’m so not prepared for what awaits me on the other side.

  He’s wearing a helmet and protective goggle-like things, but even they can’t mask how freaking gorgeous this guy is. Tall—though, at five-three, everybody’s tall to me—and built like a hero from one of my stories, with sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes. His skin is golden tan and his lips are full and tempting. He’s wearing a vest with all kinds of gear on it, there’s a gun strapped to one muscular thigh, and he’s holding a giant black rifle, the sight of which frightens me.

  “Miss,” he says after a moment of silence.

  I jolt out of my stupor. God, was I just standing here like a mute dolt this whole time? I hastily step back, pulling the door with me.

  “Yeah,” I say, shoving my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I got Lasik a few years ago, but I wear these to block the blue lights from my computer screen. Of course, that could all be bullshit, but better safe than sorry, right? Besides, they’re cute. “Come on in.”

  He immediately crosses the threshold and goes straight to the window. “Mind if I look around?”

  I stare at him in alarm, my head swimming. Between his hotness, his sexy body and that tight, round ass I ogled as I followed him in, and his request to look around my place, I’m caught off guard.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Another vantage point.”

  “Sure,” I reply, the word barely out of my face before he starts in the direction of my bedroom. I know my apartment isn’t that big or anything, but how the hell did he know it was that way? “Is the living room not going to work?”

  That I’m asking questions as if this is totally normal and not out of left fucking field makes me feel a little hysterical. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. I could really use a shot of whiskey all of a sudden.

  The officer comes out of my bedroom. “Living room will work,” he says, hardly sparing me a glance. “Just needed to check on another room, in case.”

  “Will it work?” I watch him rest the rifle against the windowsill, place a radio on the coffee table nearby, and check his phone. Maybe I should stop asking questions.

  “This is best,” he mutters, flicking his thumb up and down the screen. I highly doubt he’s checking Facebook. He picks up the rifle and uses the arm of the easy chair nearby to create a stand of sorts, then messes with the sight on top, peering across the street through it. I wonder how sharp it is, and how much he can see.

  Then it hits me—he’s here to snipe the man across the street.

  “You’re gonna kill him?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  The officer lifts his head and glances at me for the first time since entering my apartment. Then he removes his helmet and eyewear.

  My knees go a little weak. He is fucking beautiful.

  He gazes at me for a long time, seemingly taking in every inch of me. I’m glad I at least showered this morning, but my dark-rooted blonde hair is in a loose braid over my shoulder, I’m wearing no makeup, and my outfit for this fine Saturday afternoon is a pair of soft pink leggings, over which I have on an oversized forest-green tunic with a deep V-neck…and, I recall with horror, only a thin lace bralette underneath that is providing my perky C-cups absolutely no support whatsoever.

  Sue me, I was relaxing at home today. I didn’t think the cops would come knocking on my door—least of all one who looks like this guy.

  I fold my arms over my chest. I’m ninety-nine percent certain his eyes lingered on my breasts a second ago and probably didn’t miss a beat that the early fall chill in the air is making my nipples stand out.

  “Are you?” I whisper. “Going to kill him?”

  “I don’t want to,” the officer says gravely, “but if he makes a wrong move toward the officers or his family, I have to.”

  I sit down hard on the sofa.

  “You might want to leave,” he adds in a gentle voice.

  I tighten my jaw. I definitely want to, but this is my apartment. “All due respect, but I live here. You’re, like, an invader.”

  His lips twist into a ghost of a smirk. “I promise, I won’t steal your things.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I reply, “and even if you tried to, I know where you work. But it’s still weird to leave a total stranger alone in my own home, even if you are supposedly a good guy.”

  His brow raises a little at “supposedly,” but he only resumes looking through his scope.

  “What’s your name?” he asks after another long silence.

  “Um…why?”

  He glances at me. “That a hard one?”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m just not sure why you’re asking. You are the cops, after all.”

  He surprises me by chuckling. “Look, I might be here for a while. There’s no time limit on these situations. If you’re going to insist on staying here, then I should know whose home I have the pleasure of being in.” He pauses. “My name’s Rhys. Rhys Hartley.”

  His explanation seems reasonable, but I don’t like the idea that this could go on for a while. “Nice to meet you, Rhys. I’m Violet Randall. And how long do these things usually take?”

  Rhys shrugs. “I’ve seen them take an hour, and I’ve seen them take days. It just depends on what he asks the negotiator for. As well as a bunch of other factors.”

  Days?

  “Oh, no, no, no,” I say quickly. “You can’t be here for days. I h
ave work to do.”

  He glances around, pausing on the open laptop and mug of hot tea beside it. “What kind of work do you do?”

  Oh, shit. The dreaded question. It’s always met with one of three reactions: confusion, derision, or the idea that I’m the next Stephen King. “I—I write.”

  He fiddles with the scope a little bit. “That’s cool. What do you write?”

  The second dreaded question. This one is usually met with one of the first two reactions. “Um. Romance.”

  Rhys glances at me. “Really?”

  My temper flares. “Romance is the number-one hottest-selling genre. Always has been, always will be. Why? Because romance fans believe in love. They believe in the happily-ever-after. And love is one of the most basic human emotions—”

  He draws his head back and holds up a hand. “I’m so not judging you. I think it’s cool. I don’t read romance personally, but I can see the appeal.”

  I sniff, feeling a tiny bit embarrassed that I unleashed on him when he didn’t mean any offense. “Well…thanks.”

  He sighs and flops down on the floor, back to the wall beneath the window. He checks the volume on the radio. I hear low static and a hum of voices, but I’m not close enough to make out what they’re saying.

  “Men would probably learn a hell of a lot more about women if they did read it,” he adds, almost to himself. “Me included.”

  I perch on the edge of the sofa, totally unsure of what to do. “Well, maybe you should. I’ve written tons of books that are basically guides on how to make your wife happy.”

  He flashes a one-sided smile, but doesn’t meet my eyes. “Nah. I don’t have a wife.”

  I shrug. “Okay, girlfriend, then.”

  “Don’t have one of those, either.”

  Rhys is an exceptionally fine man. His face alone would stop anyone in their tracks, but based on the way his arms strain against the short sleeves of his uniform shirt under that scary-looking—and super hot—vest with all his gear on it, I know he’s got the body to match. And he’s kind of nice. For a cop, I guess. My interactions with them have been limited, so I don’t have a huge point of reference.

  “I’m sure that’s of your own making,” I say, tilting my head. “I mean… Not to be forward, but you don’t strike me as the type who has to struggle to find a date.”

  He lifts a shoulder, then glances over it to check the situation across the street. “Not a lot of women are interested in signing up for the job of being with a cop. We ask a lot. Usually, too much.”

  Ooh. This could be good book fodder. I itch to grab my laptop to take notes but resist the urge. “Too much, like what?”

  He glances up at me. “It’s hard to sign up to be with someone who could very well die every time they go to work.”

  I don’t know why, but it sends chills down my spine, and the look in his eyes is so sad, I suddenly want to go over there and give him a hug.

  “That sounds…lonely,” I tell him.

  “It is.” He cuts another glance at me. “Do you ever get lonely, Violet?”

  Chapter 3

  Rhys

  Now, why did I go and ask her that?

  Something about her makes me more open with her than I would be with most other people, especially considering I’m technically working right now. This isn’t a social visit, even though what I told her about hostage situations taking a long time is true. They can. And the last thing I heard on the radio was that the negotiator was on the scene and beginning talks with the man in the house over the phone. When I glanced out the window a moment ago, nothing had changed.

  It might be a long night. Why not chat with her? The reason I want to, it occurs to me, is because…I am lonely.

  I never really considered it in those terms for a long time, but when my best friend Dominic got together with his girl Serena this summer—and got engaged a couple months later—it struck me. I’m thirty-two years old, and I haven’t let myself have a serious relationship with a woman since I graduated with my master’s degree.

  Over the years, I made less and less time for relationships until I didn’t have time for them at all. I’m a firm believer that anybody will make time for something they care about. I just never had a relationship I cared enough about to make the time for.

  Yeah, I know that makes me sound like the world’s biggest asshole. I’m being honest. Sue me.

  And something about Violet Randall makes me want to continue being honest…and I want her to be honest, too.

  I think it’s cool she’s a writer. And pretty cool she’s a romance writer. I can’t help but wonder what her love life is like.

  She splutters at my question, which I find to be damn near the cutest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Her cheeks redden. “I…beg your pardon?”

  I once read that “I beg your pardon” is the polite way of saying, “What the fuck did you just say to me?” and that makes me have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.

  “I just wondered,” I say hastily. “I’m guessing writing is your full-time job, right? And you work from home most of the time?”

  She swallows, and I find myself distracted by the way her graceful neck moves as she does. She has the kind of neck that makes me want to bury my face and mouth in it before my lips make their way to her shoulder, where the big V of her cozy-looking sweater starts to slide off one arm, revealing a lacy strap that must be the sorry excuse for a bra that does nothing—praise God—to conceal the pert nipples I noticed standing at attention a moment ago.

  Does she have any idea how fucking appealing she is?

  Did you forget you’re working, Officer?

  “It is my full-time job,” she says. “And I do work from home the majority of the time. As of recent, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had an office job for a long time,” she replies. “While I wrote on the side. But recently I started a new series, and readers have loved it, so it’s really taken off, and I’ve been able to quit my day job and focus on the writing.”

  She almost winces when I ask, “What’s the series about?”

  Violet clears her throat. “Well, it’s about—it’s about these guys and how they find love. They’re…what we in the romance world call ‘alpha males.’”

  That term isn’t foreign to me. I shrug. “Guys with chips on their shoulders who engage in pissing matches with each other. Forgive me for asking, but what woman wants to read about them?”

  Violet shakes her head, her long, blonde braid dancing around her shoulders. It looks soft and full, and my hands itch to touch it. “No, no. An alpha male—at least in romance—is a guy who’s strong and assertive and powerful, and not afraid to take what’s his. But at the same time, he’s sensitive to the needs and wants of the woman he’s pursuing. Sensitive to her desires.” She blushes again when she says that.

  I cock my head. “So do you write…like, all the sexy stuff?”

  I had no idea it was possible for a person’s cheeks to turn as fiery as hers are right now.

  Her tone gets sharp and snappy like it was a moment ago when she told me in the polite way to fuck off. “I mean, consenting adults have sex, don’t they?”

  “Is this making you uncomfortable?” I ask. “We can talk about something else. It’s cool. I’m just asking questions because I don’t know anything about it, and you’re a full-time romance writer, so that means you’re the subject matter expert here.”

  “I don’t know if I’d consider myself a SME of writing.”

  “You are between the two of us.” I smile. “Your guy must be pretty lucky. I mean, what man wouldn’t want to be with a romance writer? Then again, it’s probably a lot of pressure. You guys are writing about the perfect guy, after all.”

  Violet glances down at her hands, flexing her fingers like she’s checking her nails. “I don’t have a guy.”

  Now, if she thought me being single was a surprise, I’m fl
oored. She’s gorgeous and obviously smart, has a cool job… She must prefer to be single. It’s the only way that makes sense.

  “Only because you want it that way, right?” I say and shift my gaze over my shoulder. The negotiator’s still working. I pick my sergeant out of the crowd, and he’s standing with his hands on his hips in a relaxed position. That means there’s no emergency for the moment—he’s a very alert guy.

  A long moment goes by, so long I turn to study Violet. I regret my question. “Hey, I’m sorry,” I say softly. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I write about the men I’m too shy to find,” she murmurs, not meeting my gaze. She toys with her fingers. For the first time, I notice the heart outline tattooed on her little finger, on top down near the knuckle of her hand. It’s delicate. Pretty. Like her.

  “I guess you could say…I pour a little of myself into each of my heroines. I have them say the things I’m too nervous to. I have them make the first moves. I have them do all the things I wish I could but can’t or don’t.”

  “That seems empowering,” I say, hoping it’s not the wrong thing.

  “It’s silly.” She shakes her head. “I’m thirty years old. I have a couple of degrees, one of them a master. I should be able to do the boy thing better than I can. So your theory about romance writers having amazing love lives is wrong. My love stories are only that—stories.”

  She sounds sad. It hurts my heart a little bit.

  I want to tell her it’s only because the right guy hasn’t come along yet, but before I can get the words out, she glances at her watch. “Wow. How is it already four o’clock?”

  Indeed, the autumn sun is lowering in the sky already. Things don’t seem to have changed much.

  “Time flies,” I say, but I don’t mean it the traditional smart-ass way. Talking to her has been pleasant. I’ve never been so drawn to another person before. Not like this. Not this quickly.

  And not this powerfully.

  “Want something to drink?” she asks.