“We had no choice, Sarge, you know that. They won’t let one of you gents inside. You all look like cops.”
Sauvageau grinned. “I look like a cop?” He rubbed his thumb and middle finger down his thick brown mustache. “It’s still not common procedure. She’s only letting it slide because it’s Laramée we’re after.” The friendly look evaporated and a deep scowl replaced it. “I never thought I’d have a good thing to say about INTERPOL, but I’m glad they kept us in the loop. That scumbag. When I get my hands on him…” He did a flexing motion of his bear paw as if he were lifting a cantaloupe and squeezing it for freshness.
“It’s going to hurt,” Chantal put in, her French accent only slightly thicker than Sauvageau’s. “I’ll hold him down while you introduce him to the phonebook, okay?”
They shared a grin.
Joan checked her watch, cringed and pushed herself from the desk. She misjudged and sent her desk blotter skimming across the surface instead, effectively spreading all her yellow stick-on notes and various bits in a wide arc.
“Calm down, Murphy, or you’ll cause a catastrophe,” Sauvageau said as he bent to retrieve one of the pieces of paper. He put it back on her desk.
Chantal, who was used to Joan’s klutziness better than anyone, casually stopped the blotter when it pushed against her keyboard.
“It’s almost six-thirty.”
Joan stood, brushed her wind pants down around her thighs. She wore cyclist shorts underneath, the closest thing she owned to “hot pants”. They kept riding up. “I have to go. We’re starting at seven-thirty.”
Chantal made a whipping noise and flicked her wrist. “Slave driver. Keep me posted. Details, Joan. Don’t forget the details.”
“What?” Sauvageau asked through a smile. “He’s cute?”
Joan felt herself flush beet red. “Yeah, but he’s too expensive for me. You should see his house. It’s in Westmount.”
Both Chantal and the sergeant-detective exchanged a disgusted glance. “Les maudits anglais.”
Those damned English.
“Bah, don’t waste your time on him, he’s probably a homosexual,” Sauvageau put in before walking away.
Both Chantal and Joan smiled wide.
Her partner’s smile abruptly turned upside down. “Or he’s a slut.”
Heat spread out from Joan’s collar. “Don’t call him that.”
Chantal’s eyebrows couldn’t possibly have gone any higher. “Don’t be a dweeb, Murphy. You can’t commit to a guy like him. I’m all for having fun but I hope you realize he’s probably pollinating half the mayor’s flowers, if you know what I mean…”
“And I think you do,” both said in unison.
Joan smiled a fake one. “I know. Stay away from Casanova types. It’s just that I like being around him, you know. He’s funny in his own way.”
“You like being around him, eh? You’ve known him…” Chantal stopped, checked her watch. “Oh what? For several hours?”
What was there to answer to that? Still, she did like being around Archer and that was that.
“Just make sure I don’t have to go hurt him or anything,” Chantal said, using her gruff voice.
Joan knew she meant well and went with it. “Yeah, I’ll be careful around him.”
Down in the police station locker room, panic seized Joan. What if something happened between the two of them again? What if nothing did?
In a way, she hoped nothing would happen because it’d mean he was over her, which was good as she had a crook to catch and developing a liking in her fitness instructor would get in the way. Especially since he’d have to watch her do her “thing” at the club on Saturday. If she fell for him, even a little, it’d complicate things. It was better this way. Professional detachment. Chantal was right. She’d only known him for a matter of hours and couldn’t possibly get attached to a man like him, too hot for his own good. She liked his body, that was all.
You’re such a big fat liar!
Her head half on the sting and half somewhere that would make her partner bitch, Joan rushed to the underground garage, spotted her little silver car and after she slid behind the wheel, slammed the door too hard in her excitement.
“Oooh, sorry, baby,” she said with a little pat to the dashboard.
Should she bring coffee? Donuts? Would he make a cop-donut joke if she did? He probably didn’t eat them anyway with a body such as his. Frothed into a near panic, Joan didn’t bring anything but street clothes and her gym water bottle, packed with ice. She’d probably need to run it under her cami two minutes after meeting Archer. Man, she was soooo nervous.
It’s a whole iceberg I need!
She was pulling into his driveway at seven-thirty sharp when she caught sight of him in the backyard, just standing there with his back to her and wearing another pair of “karate” pants, but paler, medium gray, and nothing else but leather sandals. Large lilac bushes hid the corner of the house and as she walked around them, neared the studio’s highly polished wooden door, Archer must have heard her for he turned around. A crooked smile pulled his cheek. He was doing that thing with his mouth again, switching the invisible toothpick corner to corner with his tongue. Maybe he had a mint in there. It was so sexy!
“Morning!”
“Good morning. Are you ready to sweat?”
His laugh sounded tight to the extreme. Joan cradled her water bottle as she watched him walk past her. The set of his jaw looked tense, as did his shoulders. He opened the door, held it for her then stepped inside, flicking one sandal off then the other.
“Good thing I put on lots of deodorant,” she quipped to lighten the mood. “But you know, they say ‘no white residue’. I mean, how can the stuff be white on the stick but not on you? If you just pretend you put some on, sure, make a pass or two. But if you go back and forth seven, eight times like everybody does then, my ass, no white residue.”
Archer cocked his head at her. “You make seven passes?”
“Don’t you?”
He seemed to be struggling with something to say but snapped his mouth shut. After a while, he shook his head, sighed. “Life must never be dull around you.”
“You have no idea. At work, they call me Calamity Joan. Or Murphy. For Murphy’s Law.”
“I wonder why…”
“Hey.”
“Anyway,” Archer said, clearly not in the mood to be perked up by her cheeky personality. “After you left last night, I went on the Net and downloaded this song. I think it’ll be perfect.”
“Isn’t that illegal, downloading songs?”
He threw her a dark look. “I’m sure the artists won’t mind a cop dancing half naked to their song if it puts a crook in jail.”
Ouch. Joan shrugged to hide her unease.
He crossed the studio, turned the CD player on and waited until the trays had clicked into place. At once, a plaintive bass filled the room with a slow beat that pulsated in Joan’s gut. A woman’s voice rose, floating with an eerie, ghostly cadence. A rip of electric guitar wailed and wept then raged to a jagged peak. The chorus’s last line left Joan with her mouth opened.
“Give me a reason to be…eee, a woman. I just want to be, a woman…”
Archer stared at her while the song played and when it ended, when the last shred of bass had drifted away, Joan shook her head in wonder.
“I don’t know who that is, but I’ve heard it before.”
“It’s Portishead,” he replied, his nostrils dilated, eyes narrowed. “It’s a shorter remix of the original, I’m sure it’s an illegal copy too, and it’ll be perfect for you.” He eyed her down. His pale eyes were hard and made Joan uncomfortable. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, pulled her wind pants off to fold them in half while still trying to find the man from the night before. Was this his evil twin or something?
While a selection of “gym music” played, mostly electronica, they stretched in silence, he, hard gaze riveted to his reflection, she, glancin
g at him then at her feet. Was he mad about the night before? She hadn’t done anything! He’d been the one getting all hot and sexy first. Not that she’d complain!
It was all Mel’s fault!
Then he gave her the workout of a lifetime.
Impossibly difficult stretches, prolonged holds, one-handed then two-handed. She was obviously expected to follow his rhythm as he didn’t slow a single time, even after he’d totally lost her during some sort of twist with one leg wrapped around the pole and the other at full extension while spinning backward down the length of it. Her thigh squeaked on the unforgiving metal tube and burned like a bitch.
Goddammit!
Archer didn’t even look at her when she grunted, stumbled back on her ass instead of landing gracefully then clawed back into place. When she threw him an affronted look, he ignored her. His naked torso glistened with sweat by the time they’d gone through the routine a dozen times. Joan was panting hard. He looked winded too. A small comfort.
“You’re gonna need heels,” he remarked out of the blue. Standing, he rolled his head, grimaced.
Joan snapped out of her dark musings, which involved a lot of Archer butt kicking and other enjoyable activities. What a prick. She’d no idea. Chantal was so right.
“I don’t have any,” she snapped.
“Get some.”
“No.”
“You want this thing to work or not?” he demanded, planting his fists on his hips.
“I’m not used to heels,” she retorted, also putting her fists on her hips. “It’ll show if I try to dance in them. I’ll go barefoot or something. But no heels.”
“Fine. Don’t take my word for it. I’m just the only pole fitness instructor in Montreal and only the best dancers can afford my training. But what do I know?!”
“Why are you so bitchy today? Is it about last night?”
Yeah, why was he so damned bitchy? She hadn’t done anything wrong.
Mel.
Although to be fair, he probably would’ve felt worse if they’d been allowed to go on their merry way last night and not been interrupted. He was lying to her on top of doing something that could get him in jail—try explaining Gentlemen Inc. and its juicy undeclared revenues to the taxman. Tax evasion meant jail. He knew she’d never go out with a guy like him—he downloaded pirated stuff, send him to the gallows! All she knew was that the police had hired him to train her. Having sex was a bonus. She didn’t seem to have problems with that. What she might have problems with was the fact he’d slept with most of his students and clients, from the studio biz and the escort thing. He really didn’t want to tell her that not just the police had paid him to train her, but another entity had also hired him to be her escort. Archer didn’t want to take the chance she’d look at him differently. She’d think, as an escort, that he slept with her as a de facto thing when he wasn’t. Well, he had amassed quite a few “notches” on his pole. But it didn’t mean she didn’t matter. In fact, it meant nothing. Or everything. What a fucking mess.
So yeah, he was cranky. Sue me.
“You’ll need heels and you’ll need a costume. Do you have one?”
Joan shifted from foot to foot.
“You don’t even have a clue what to wear, huh?”
The crossing of her arms confirmed it.
“What were you planning to wear?”
“Bikini…?”
She didn’t sound sure. “You’re not sure if it’s a bikini or you’re not sure if you should wear it?”
“It is a bikini.”
“Good start. What kind?”
“The string kind, you know, that ties on the sides. Black. It’s nice.”
A sheepish grin floated at the corners of her mouth. He so wanted to kiss her right now. It was burning his balls. Just like lying to her about the number of notches on his pole.
“A normal bikini won’t do, Joan. You need something tinier.”
She sighed. “Thong?”
“Not necessarily. I know a good place for that sort of stuff. I’ll give you their card. They’re on the Net too, if you want to look at the things they have.”
“What should I look for?” Joan asked, drawing near.
A faint scent of lotion reached him. Something fruity and sweet. It was hard to think after that. Maybe not thinking around her would be better. Or it would make it all a lot worse. Argh, Christ.
“Mmm? Oh, er, look for something shiny,” he replied, taking a step back and leaning against the pole. “So they’re busy looking at that and not the rest of you.”
“Oh? What’s wrong with the rest of me?”
He grinned, knew the bad boy was creeping back to the forefront where he ought to have been in the first place. No more mind screws about hot lady cops. She was a trainee. He’d get her inside The Quicksilver, get paid twice and that’d be it. Screw the taxman and screw his budding conscience.
“There’s nothing wrong with the rest of you, believe me. But you don’t look like an exotic dancer. You smile too much for starters, and you won’t have heels. So we’ll have to work your attributes. You have energy, charisma, we’ll go there. Something shiny to draw the eye, maybe those Turkish penny belts.”
“Oh, I’ve seen those. Like a belly dancer?”
He nodded. “It’ll go with the barefoot thing. They have bras too. Maybe even foot jewelry. We’ll see what works.”
“You’re coming with me?”
“You don’t have a clue what you need. So yeah, I’m coming with you.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Got any plans for now?”
“Your car or mine?”
Archer raked his hair back, knowing he’d just made a serious mistake. He was looking forward to spending more time with Constable Blair after he’d gone on and on with Mel about how he needed to keep his distance, how he couldn’t get close to a woman, a cop, with his lifestyle and the money on the side and oh yeah, his little lie about not boinking his students. Keeping his distance would be best. He wouldn’t let his heart be ripped out again.
So much for his resolutions.
“You cop types get reimbursed for gas, right? Let’s take yours.”
Chapter Five
“So,” Archer asked as he buckled the seat belt. “What year is this thing?”
Joan couldn’t help but stare at his thighs when he shifted in the seat. Whew. He’d gone into the home portion to put on a pair of jeans and a white shirt while she’d changed into her street clothes in the studio. He hadn’t invited her in either.
The guy is allowed to keep his life separate from his work, woman. Lighten up.
It still stung. Chantal would have something to say about that. Rightly so. Joan reminded herself yet again she wasn’t dating the guy, just learning how to shake her ass so she could do her part in the sting, that nothing was personal…except the great sex.
Yeah, Murphy, just focus on the sex and don’t think about the thousand-and-one chicks the guy has stashed around his house.
“It’s a 325i model, 1991. Original interior, exterior paint barely touched up and not quite one hundred and fifty Ks on the odo. I store it during winters and drive a renter.”
“Nice.”
“Not into cars?”
“Only those with a big backseat.”
Joan shook her head. “I don’t get the backseat attraction. Never have. Why bother? It’s way too small and was never intended for two people having sex.”
“You’ve never been in the backseat of a 1971 Charger…” Archer turned toward her and bounced his eyebrows.
“And you have loads of times, I guess, eh?” And why does that burn so much?
He didn’t reply, only indicated she should turn right at the light, which had turned dark yellow—red, for most people. Joan stepped on the accelerator and turned anyway. A hiss escaped him when she took the corner a bit faster than she should have, downshifting abruptly while her sharp yank on the steering wheel brought the little BMW barely a foot behin
d a bus, which had stopped to pick up passengers. Above the large bumper was a poster for a life insurance company depicting a smiling man oblivious to the pallet of bricks hanging overhead.
“I know how he feels,” Archer grumbled as he sat deeper in his seat. A quick adjustment to his seat belt made her smile wider.
Joan passed the bus—again a bit too quickly, but she had lived in Montreal, home of Canada’s craziest drivers, for a few years now and picked up the local habits—drove down almost the length of Rue Saint-Jacques, maneuvering her car amidst the thick downtown traffic. Beside her, Archer sat so deeply in his seat his knees stuck out.
“It’s on the corner of Sainte-Catherine,” he said, pointing to a building across the busy street. “Above that club there.”
Joan’s first “nighttime” experience in Montreal had been to do what the locals called “La Tournée des Grands Ducs”. She hadn’t seen any grand dukes on that tour, but she’d had a riot of a good time pub-crawling! There were more nightclubs and discotheques packed in downtown Montreal than there were pawn shops and strip bars. And there were a lot of those.
“Shit!”
Archer’s shout brought Joan back to reality a mere second away from driving right into the curb. She swerved at the last second, waved to the guy behind who’d decided to sit on his horn and executed a book-perfect J-turn—perfect for Security Driving 101 that is—right into a narrow street indicating free parking. A rare find in this city! With a brusque jerk, she put the handbrake on and unclipped her seat belt.
Her passenger was already clawing out of the car and scowling at her by the time she’d opened her door and stepped out.
“What?”
He put both splayed hands on the roof of her car—argh, jeez, fingerprints—and stared at her with those pale chips of ice for eyes. He wasn’t smiling. “I’m taking the subway home.”
With a shooing gesture, Joan shook her head and laughed. “Nah! I’ll drive you home. It’s no problem at all.” With her doors locked, she turned back toward the corner, adjusted her low-rider jeans and lifted her chin. “Above that club over there? Number 859?”
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