My Sinful Desire (Sinful Men Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  I headed to my desk, flipped open my laptop, and started plugging in the two addresses on Google Maps. They showed up near each other in the same neighborhood—a dangerous section of town years ago that had since been gentrified. I wanted to know who lived there. Property records weren’t hard to find—everything was online these days in realtor databases. I plugged the addresses into a realtor search. But the records revealed only when the homes were last sold—a few years ago. Nothing showed the owners’ names now, or from when this pattern was made, nearly two decades ago.

  But I’d spent a lifetime solving problems. Cracking codes. Creating my own damn codes.

  Grabbing the pattern again, I started writing out notes, trying to figure out the rest of the rows of instructions and what they meant. But only that first line translated neatly. The code seemed to shift in each row. Something was missing from the next line. I peered more closely, and it seemed a letter had been turned into a symbol. On the next one, a number was simply missing, like a dropped stitch. I’d have to deal with those later.

  For now, I zeroed in on the first row of instructions, puzzling over how to find out who these addresses belonged to. I could easily call John and hand him this information in its current form. Or I could tell Ryan what I’d discovered. But I’d never been one to turn in my homework half done. This code was only partially cracked, and my job was to break it wide open. Whatever I had in my hands—whether it was a cold, hard clue or a dead end—I was determined to figure it out.

  I tapped my fingers against my temple, as if I could coax out the way to find the names of the inhabitants. Then in seconds, I had it, because I had friends everywhere in this city, including in the county records office—my friend Jenna’s aunt worked there.

  Ringing Jenna, even though it was early on a Saturday morning, I gave her only the barest details, adding that discretion was key.

  “I’ll see what she can do,” Jenna said, and five hellishly long minutes later, she called back to say her aunt would be home shortly from a hike and would log into her work computer to check the records for those addresses. “Give me an hour.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I said, then tried valiantly to keep myself occupied.

  But fifteen minutes of checking and double-checking that my shoes, jewelry, lingerie, and evening dress were ready for tonight did nothing to calm my mind.

  A deep obsession kicked in, telling me to do something.

  To understand.

  To look.

  To see.

  I tried to shove all those urges away, and simply exist in this state of waiting. Maybe some tea would help. Maybe I should bake something. Maybe another long shower would keep my focus off of waiting for Jenna’s call.

  But something insistent was knocking around in my skull, telling me not to sit still.

  My mind was a pinball machine, whirring and whizzing with crazy silver flippers, sending dozens of balls in new directions. I weighed my options. I could stay here and wait. Or I could conduct some recon on my own.

  Twenty minutes later, I drove along James Street, my sunglasses on, as if that would hide me from the kids playing in driveways, the men and women walking dogs, the average, every-day feel of this suburban stretch of street that had been riddled with crime years ago. Following the path of the addresses in my hand, I drove past the two homes from the pattern.

  Two clean, neat, modern, standard-order suburban family abodes.

  They gave away no clues as to why on earth Dora hid these addresses in a pattern many years ago. I gritted my teeth, wishing I truly understood what I’d uncovered.

  My phone rang.

  I nearly jumped out of the driver’s seat, then settled myself when I saw Jenna’s name.

  Swiping the screen, I turned my phone on speaker, then pulled over near a park and cut the engine.

  “Hey, girl,” Jenna said. “I’ve got what you’re looking for.”

  “Tell me,” I said breathlessly.

  “So, eighteen years ago, one was owned by a family named Stefano,” Jenna said, and I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut at that name—the name I knew belonged to the shooter. “The second was a rental. Owned by a guy named Carlos Nelson at the time. But he didn’t live there. He rented it to his two cousins, TJ Nelson and Kenny Nelson.”

  “TJ and Kenny Nelson,” I repeated, as if I could decode the names by saying them out loud.

  But they meant nothing to me.

  Of course they meant nothing to me. I wasn’t investigating a crime. I wasn’t the detective. I wasn’t the victim’s family.

  I was, however, the woman stuck between the two.

  After I said goodbye to Jenna, I didn’t move. I stayed behind the wheel of my parked car, staring ahead at the swing set, the world around me fading as I realized that I had the names of the two men John could be looking for in the murder of Ryan’s father nearly twenty years ago.

  Ryan had no idea he’d been holding on to evidence all these years. He’d thought his mother had given him a memento, a symbol of her hopes and dreams, for safekeeping. Instead, she’d asked him to hide something that was clearly evidence, and managed to do it without anyone being the wiser.

  My insides roiled. My head pounded with frustration and so much aching sadness. But underneath that storm of emotions was another one, rising up. Excitement. I had something in my hands that might help solve the murder.

  The trouble was, I was stuck, and I understood precisely why I’d been so consumed with the need to keep myself busy for the last hour.

  I didn’t know who to tell first.

  My head told me John. My heart said I should call the man who’d given me the clue he didn’t even know he had.

  I tossed my phone in the back seat and headed home.

  52

  Ryan

  She wasn’t herself. Hadn’t been all night. I wanted to figure out why, and to make it better if I could.

  “Is it that guy?”

  Sophie knit her brows and shot me a confused look. “What do you mean?”

  “Is that why you’re so tense tonight?”

  I squeezed her shoulder, then traveled to her neck, gently massaging. “The guy who wanted to set you up with his grandson. The reason you invited me in the first place,” I reminded her, as I tried to work the knots of tension from her neck and shoulders. “Is he why you’re so tense?”

  “No.” She shook her head quickly. Then she nodded just as vigorously. “I mean, yes. That must be it. Or it’s just that I want this whole event to go well.”

  “It’s going great,” I reassured her as we stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching the guests mingling and chatting, enjoying hors d’oeuvres that fancy waiters and waitresses offered on trays as they circled. The huge ballroom glittered under the glow of boat-sized chandeliers. A four-piece orchestra played soft classical music from the stage as guests filtered in. “Or do you want me to make you feel better? Sneak into the fancy bathroom for a quickie?” I suggested in a low voice.

  She seized up and spun around. “No. I can’t do that,” she said sharply.

  I held up my hands in surrender. “Hey. Don’t bite. I’ve just never seen you so nervous. I want to help. I know this event is important to you.”

  She breathed erratically, then waved her hand in front of her face as if she felt faint. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just . . .”

  But she didn’t finish her sentence.

  I eyed her up and down as if I could somehow figure out what was wrong with my normally polished, poised, and outgoing Sophie. She handled crowds with aplomb. She was unflappable, so it was odd to see her off her game.

  On the surface, she was as impeccable as always. She looked extraordinary tonight in a violet dress that hugged her curves, a teardrop necklace that nestled between her breasts, and sheer black stockings I’d peeked at earlier when I’d tugged up her skirt in the town car on the ride over to see how far up they went—all the way to the lace tops at her thighs. Her blonde hair was twist
ed high on her head, with loose curls framing her face.

  I parked my hands on her shoulders. “Breathe, beautiful. Everything here is perfect, including you,” I said, then turned her around to let her soak in the room and all the guests—the glitterati of the city mingling and talking. Many of my clients were here, from casino owners to my new White Box clients. I recognized plenty of familiar faces too, from the mayor, to a popular magician, to a big-time high roller. Even my brother Colin was here, though he was busy chatting with a pretty brunette at the bar. Sophie’s brother, John, was somewhere among the guests. I had said a quick hello earlier, and it hadn’t been as uncomfortable as I’d expected it to be. Maybe John didn’t hate me.

  Sophie bit her lip, then words seemed to tumble out, laced with guilt. “I just feel bad because I couldn’t make the pattern,” she said, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist.

  I made a scoffing sound. “That’s what’s upsetting you?”

  “I tried,” she said apologetically. “It was too complicated.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s sweet that you even offered.”

  “I did try. I tried so hard.” Her voice sounded as if it was about to break. Then suddenly she plastered on a huge smile as an older man with gray hair strode up to us.

  “Clyde Graser,” he said to me, holding out a hand, and I spent the next few minutes chatting with the man who was in some way responsible for this incredible woman and me growing even closer. If Clyde hadn’t pressured Sophie, she might not have asked me to the event tonight. And knowing we had this date had pushed us even faster into each other’s arms.

  But then, I also believed Sophie and I were an inevitability. Funny, because I’d never been one to put any stock in fate and love. But I did now, and if this man in front of me had played a role in driving me closer to the woman I loved, then he deserved my gratitude, even if his motives were ulterior.

  “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for the community center. It means so much to so many people,” I told him.

  Then Sophie remarked that it was nearly time to bring Clyde onstage with the director of the center, so I said goodbye to the two of them.

  I turned around to look for Colin, but my younger brother was still quite busy with the brunette.

  53

  Colin

  Sure, there were other people here. Quite possibly I should talk to them. Maybe even interact with my brother. But Elle hadn’t slipped away from me yet, so I remained at the bar with her, club soda in my hand, a glass of water in hers, talking about one of our favorite topics — tattoos.

  “Did you get the new ink you were talking about?” she asked.

  “I did. I’m close to the ten percent mark now,” I said, not looking away from her, because how could I? I hadn’t seen her dressed to the nines before, and she was jaw-droppingly stunning in her evening finery. But then, she was hot-as-sin in the jeans, short-sleeve blouses, and the little flat shoes she wore on the days I saw her at the community center, so I wasn’t surprised. This dress though—I was sure it had been painted onto her lush figure.

  I wanted to tear it off.

  Trouble was—we were friends.

  We’d only been friends for the last year.

  I had to wonder if that could change, and if it could change tonight.

  She laughed. “No way are you that covered in tattoos,” she said, calling me on my fib. She was right, but I had plenty across my body, and she was an admitted tattoo junkie. The back of her neck boasted a line of sparrows I wanted to kiss.

  “Fine. Maybe not yet. But close,” I said.

  She raised her chin, peering over my shoulder, then at my ear, like she was hunting for the new art. “Are you going to show it to me? Or are you hiding it behind your shirt again?”

  Chuckling, I raised an eyebrow and shot her a dirty look, then moved my hands to my belt buckle as if I were going to take off my pants.

  “Colin!” she hissed under her breath, her eyes widening. She waved her hands frantically as if to stop me.

  “What?” I said, deadpan. “It’s on my hip.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily. Maybe she was picturing my hip. A man could hope.

  “So that’s a no?” I asked, lowering my voice to a whisper.

  She seemed to collect herself, wagging a finger. “We’re supposed to be dancing. And hanging out. Not undressing.”

  “Ah, my bad. I didn’t realize half undressing was not on the to-do list for the benefit,” I said, giving an exaggerated oops shrug.

  It was met by an eye roll. Deservedly so. “That is definitely not on the agenda tonight. Especially since Sophie is going to introduce me and then I’m going to introduce Clyde, so no more talk of undressing. Or ink on your hip. Talk about something else. Like potato chips.”

  “I hear there’s a new avocado flavor.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Yes, perfect topic.”

  But truth be told, there was something else I needed to discuss. My tone dropped to serious. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to show you a picture my brother-in-law gave me of a guy he’s seen around. See if you know him. I think he’s one of the guys from the center who plays hoops,” I said, reaching into my back pocket for my phone. I came up empty. “Ah, shit. I left it in my car.”

  “Send it to me later, okay?”

  “I will,” I said, then added, “Along with a picture of my new ink?”

  Her lips curved into a grin. “Maybe.”

  I held tight to that maybe, and to all its possibilities.

  54

  Ryan

  “Be an artist. Be an athlete. Be a leader,” Clyde said, his voice booming into the mic and across the ballroom. “The local community center has a mission to provide all these services to young men and women in our fine city, whether it’s shooting basketballs, learning photography, or even getting a healthy meal for dinner. The center has cooking, parties, poetry, volunteer services, and thanks to our fearless director, Elle Mariano, we have wonderful support and counseling for young people today. I couldn’t be more delighted to be a key supporter of this very fine center and its services. And I am thrilled that so many other local companies have opened their wallets and checkbooks to get on board with us.” Clyde then rattled off the names of other supporters, from Colin’s firm to the newest ones like White Box. When he was through, the crowd clapped and cheered, including Charlie and Curtis, who I had been enjoying a drink with.

  “Glad to hear you guys are on that list. Impressive to see you get behind the local community,” I said to the two men.

  “Thank you. We were glad to help,” Charlie said in a gentlemanly and gracious tone. “As a younger man, I was a bit of a troublemaker. Now that I’m older, I try to stay out of trouble.”

  “We were all troublemakers one way or the other, weren’t we?”

  “Indeed we were. We try to do better as we grow older and wiser,” he said, like a sage advisor, dispensing wisdom gleaned over the years. “By the way, your security team is doing a spectacular job already with my clubs. I couldn’t be more thrilled to be working with you to help keep my business safe and secure.”

  I flashed a smile. Nothing delighted me more in business than a satisfied client and a job well done. “I’m thrilled. Anything you need, you let me know,” I said, then we turned to the stage.

  After sharing the details of the fundraising goal—an announcement met with robust applause—Clyde passed the speaking baton to Sophie’s brother. John walked to the podium, then gave a short speech about the importance of keeping the streets safe, finishing with a call to support the community center. “Places like this can make a big difference. I believe if we give young people a chance early on to be involved in something other than gangs, crime, and the trouble they can get into on the streets, we’ll have a safe community and a better Las Vegas.”

  I soaked in the atmosphere in the ballroom, and the sense that maybe there were enough people who cared about change. Who cared about this
city. Who wanted the best for this town we all called home.

  I was filled with pride, too, over Sophie’s work, bringing such a motley crew together all in the name of such an important cause. I only hoped seeing the support from the crowd would lift that knot of tension she’d been carrying all night. Even as she introduced the orchestra and asked the guests to find their seats to enjoy some Beethoven, I could tell she wasn’t herself.

  I doubted anyone else could, but it was in the small details, from the way she cleared her throat before she spoke to how she briefly fiddled with her hair onstage. Sophie was not a fiddler. Or a throat-clearer.

  All the more reason for me to tie her up to a chair tonight, or maybe blindfold her for the first time. Yeah, I liked the image of that. I suspected that was just what she needed to clear her mind and rid her body of all that stress.

  I excused myself from my clients, found my way to my seat, and waited for Sophie to join me.

  When she did, I brushed my lips to her neck, then whispered something dirty in her ear about what I wanted to do to her later. She shivered slightly.

  Slightly.

  That was all.

  Something was wrong with my Sophie.

  55

  Sophie

  I wanted to vomit.

  I wanted to hurl.

  To crawl under the covers, pull them over my head, and pretend I’d never offered to make that damn jacket.

  I should have baked a pie instead. Made a homemade card with construction paper. Knit a scarf.

  That damn dog jacket was tormenting me. Its secrets hounded me. I repeated the names—TJ Nelson, Kenny Nelson—over and over in my head all day.

  Then the other names.

  John. Ryan. Ryan. John.

  Like a pendulum, I swung back and forth, seesawing between the two men. I couldn’t last much longer in this state of suspended secrecy. I hardly knew how Ryan had ever managed to keep so much locked inside his head. It was painful. It hurt my skull to have this knowledge I needed to share sealed up in my mind.