Heated

by J. Kenner

  "I'm so sorry."

  It was the gentleness in her voice that undid me. "Bitch," I whispered. "You're supposed to just let me wallow."

  "You really liked him, huh?"

  I started to say no, then stopped myself. "I liked the man I saw--I liked him a lot. But beats the hell out of me whether that man even exists. Shit," I added, as I pushed myself up and ran my fingers through my hair. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm not looking to get involved, and even if I were, a Chicago-based criminal wouldn't be my first choice."

  "No, I guess not. You know what you should do?" she asked. "Go get a pint of that chocolate ice cream."

  Since friends rarely steer you wrong, I took the advice to heart. Fifteen minutes later I was cross-legged on the floor, my back to the bed and the TV on in front of me. The pint of double chocolate chunk ice cream I'd bought at the corner market was still frozen, and I was scraping the spoon along the top, grateful for every tiny little bite I was able to chip off.

  I'd turned the television on in a brutal and obvious effort to knock all thoughts of Tyler, Amy, the whole damn thing, from my head. But since the only thing worth watching was Law and Order, I was doing a piss poor job of getting clear.

  I wanted Tyler. Irrational and stupid and complicated and dangerous, but damned if I didn't want him anyway. And even though I kept trying to bury the thought of him down deep, my thoughts of him were as relentless as the man himself.

  The shrill ring of my phone made me jump, and I wanted to kick myself, because my very first impulse was to check and see if it was him.

  Apparently, I'd never left high school.

  With my pulse pounding, I checked the screen. Just a number, but I knew it was him. I could feel it, and I took a deep breath to steady myself before I answered.

  But it wasn't Tyler's whiskey-smooth voice I heard. It was Kevin's.

  "You got a minute?"

  "Actually, no." Not exactly a warm and fuzzy response, but I wasn't actually feeling warm and fuzzy toward Kevin at the moment.

  "I talked to Tom," Kevin continued, undeterred. "He said he saw you at Evan Black's engagement party. Sounds like you're making progress."

  "Hard to make progress when I don't know all the facts."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm just a little irritated that you somehow forgot to mention that you were dating Angelina Raine before she went and got herself engaged to Evan Black."

  "Fuck." The word was a sharp whisper, but it came across the phone just fine.

  "Yeah, I'd say so. I don't like being used for your private vendetta."

  "Dammit, Sloane, I wasn't--"

  "Wasn't what? Wasn't being a lying, manipulative sack of shit? Got news for you, Kevin. You were."

  "I wasn't lying. I'm not manipulative. And I'm not using you."

  "Color me unconvinced."

  "Look, just come meet me."

  "Forget it, Kevin. I'm sorry your girl ditched you, but I'm not your personal payback bitch. You have a battle to fight? I'll let you be the one to fight it."

  "Dammit, you're not--"

  "Listening? No, I'm not. Goodbye, Kevin," I said, then ended the call. And although it felt good to hang up and take control, I was still antsy. Stewing. Kevin's allegations about the knights stirred in my head, getting mixed up with my thoughts about Amy, and those thoughts were doing a tango with the confused mishmash of emotions I felt simply from the mention of Tyler's name.

  "Dammit," I muttered, then jammed the lid back on the ice cream.

  Kevin's call had pumped my edginess up exponentially. I needed to move. Needed to clear my head. Needed to figure out how the hell I could get into Destiny--because for better or for worse, my curiosity was piqued now. Tyler Sharp had shown me the man he wanted me to see. Now I wanted the chance to peek behind the curtain.

  I just needed to find a way inside.

  Without even realizing it, I'd moved toward the small closet that held a closet rod, two plastic drawers and the water heater. My running shorts, bra, and tank dangled from a coat hanger I'd hooked to the heater. I ripped off the pajama bottoms and Dr. Who T-shirt I'd tossed on, then dumped them in the top drawer. Then I pulled on my running clothes, found the last pair of clean socks, and shoved my feet into my shoes.

  I pulled my hair into a high ponytail, grabbed my phone, jammed my earphones in, and set out to run.

  What I would have preferred was to go to the gym and do a few rounds with a punching bag. Or, better, with one of the other officers. Cavanaugh was always up to spar, and we were pretty evenly matched. But when I was on a tear, I could beat the shit out of her and we both knew it.

  No, I wanted Lieutenant Barrone. Up against him in the ring and I didn't have time to think about anything except dodging jabs and keeping my face from getting bruised. That would be good, I thought. No thinking. Just doing.

  Not an option today.

  My studio perched above a Mexican bakery, and I breathed in the delicious air as I stretched in the narrow alley between my building and the next. I had my earphones in, with music from my dad blasting in my ears. Some rockabilly Texas band that represented the latest in his kick to be a naturalized Texan now that he'd moved to the Lone Star State.

  I liked the beat--it was fast and rhythmic and easy to run to, and I let my mind get lost in the music and the scenery. In the passing restaurants and bakeries, apartments and markets. I'd already found a circuit, and I went slow until I reached the shopping area on Eighteenth Street, then made my way back at a quicker pace, taking a few twists and turns so that I could pass by some of the neighborhood's murals.

  I saw it all, the way cops do. But I wasn't looking. I was in my head. In my music. Focusing only on the rhythm of my feet and the feel of the pavement beneath my soles until it was just me and the motion. Me and the wonderful sensation of being alive, of breathing, of working muscles and knowing that I was strong. Dammit, I was strong. Strong enough not give a shit about Tyler Sharp. Strong enough to block out the pain.

  Strong enough, maybe, to believe that lie.

  I rounded the corner to return to my apartment, not sure if I'd accomplished anything on my run other than tiring myself out. What I needed was to convince Tyler to let me into Destiny. But damned if I could think of a way. Maybe if I was as adept as pulling a con as he was I could figure out how to beg, borrow, bribe, or steal, but as it stood, I had nothing to bargain with, no one to help me, and no way in to that club.

  Or did I?

  I stopped dead in front of my building, forgetting all about cooling down with a slow jog. Hell, forgetting about everything except this one, slim possibility.

  It just might work.

  A long shot, but it was all I had at the moment--and with a fresh burst of excitement I sprinted up the stairs to my door and hoped like hell that all the pieces I needed would fall into place.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rihanna's "S&M" blared out of the speakers, all confidence and fire, singing about how good she was at being bad. About sex. Attraction. Excitement and heat.

  And there I was, my white-gloved hands sliding provocatively up and down the steel pole, my stocking clad leg hooked as high as I dared for fear of losing my balance, and at least high enough to show off the garter that held the stocking in place.

  I'd come to Destiny armed with a plan, and now I was one of six other women who'd taken the stage during the club's Saturday night Amateur Hour. Initially, I'd been nervous that the girl at the front desk would recognize me, or that Tyler would be monitoring the feed and wouldn't let me on the stage.

  Now I was nervous that he wasn't even there, and that all this would be for nothing.

  When the lights had first gone up--when the first strains of music had pulsed out--my blood had beat so loudly in my ears I was certain that all the men around my stage could hear it. I'd moved slowly at first. Tentative, maybe even a little fearful. Now, I had to admit I was getting into it.

  I'd been in and out of enough strip joints to know th
at as gentleman's clubs go, Destiny was pretty damn upscale. It had a casino-style feel, with a huge main room, a long bar, and comfy tables surrounding a number of performance stages, each with their very own pole.

  There were also darker areas, where a customer could take a dancer to a comfortable chair for a lap dance or, if he was really unusual, a bit of conversation.

  The overall look was classy, but at the end of the day, Destiny was like any other gentleman's club. The dancers ended up completely bare. Well, completely with the exception of a tiny G-string that served only as a repository for tips, not as any sort of attempt at modesty.

  Still, unlike some clubs, the dancers didn't start out that way. At Destiny, it really was a tease. A process. A seduction.

  The end result, however, was the same. And I'd begun the evening feeling more than a little twitchy.

  Sapphire, one of Destiny's regular dancers who was in charge of wrangling the six of us who'd entered the amateur night contest, had given us a pre-performance pep talk. "If you're nervous, just draw out the seduction. You'll want to take it all off eventually--at least if you want a shot at the prize. But you can take your time with the stripping until you find your rhythm. Just keep it hot and sexy."

  Good advice, and though it had taken some time--as in, the entire length of The Georgia Satellites' "Keep Your Hands to Yourself"--I'd finally managed to kick it up.

  I might have started out wanting to forget that those men were there, but as I saw the way they looked at me, I couldn't deny that I was getting into it.

  I remembered the heat I'd seen in Tyler's eyes when I'd stripped for him. The tightness in his jaw as he'd fought for control.

  I drew on the memory of how much he'd wanted me--of how much I'd wanted him, of how much being on display for him, of slowly stripping off my dress, my panties, had turned me on, so that I wanted each movement to be as sensual as possible. So that each glance was filled with heat and promise.

  And I remembered the way he'd touched me in front of the window. Does it excite you, knowing that someone might be looking in? Might be across the street looking out the window?

  It had--oh, dear god, yes, it had. And I couldn't deny the thrill I got doing the same in a roomful of men. The heat and the rush of knowing they could look, but not touch. That even though I would end up naked on that stage, I was the one with the power.

  It was a different kind of power than I had as a cop. Different and personal because it came from me and not from the badge and the gun.

  But though there was a thrill and a power that came from knowing that these men desired me, their interest didn't have the same impact on me. I wasn't dancing for them. It wasn't these men who made me want to put on a show.

  For that, I had to imagine Tyler.

  Tyler, sitting in the dark.

  Tyler, watching me as I slowly peeled my clothes off, and getting harder and hotter as each garment was removed.

  He wasn't really there--not yet. I knew, because every few minutes I let my gaze sweep the place. And with each look, I grew more disappointed. I wanted him to see me up here. Wanted him to know that I was doing this for him as much as for the job.

  So help me, the man had truly gotten to me. He'd gotten under my skin, and this was as much punishment as it was tease. Except he wasn't there to see any of it.

  It frustrated me that I cared--that I wanted. That all I had to do was think of him to feel my body flush. Tyler Sharp was like a flame that heated me all the way through, making me weak. Making me melt.

  I was a fool to toy with that man. He was dangerous. Distracting me, when I wasn't the kind of woman who put up with distractions. Tempting me, when I wasn't the kind of woman who was tempted.

  He was everything I shouldn't want and couldn't have, and yet right then there was no denying that he was exactly what I needed. Tyler Sharp in my head, in my memories, in my imagination.

  I clung tight to that fantasy, using it to fuel my moves, because I had to prove that I could do this. Had to convince him I could dance in a club like Destiny. That I could make it look real.

  I'd spent the afternoon shopping, trying to imagine what Candy would say to every item I picked out. In the end, I settled on a naughty executive look, all stiff and proper, but sexy underneath. I'd come on stage in a tailored white blouse, a stern gray jacket, and a pencil skirt with a hip-high slit the only indication that there was something saucy about this button-ed up executive.

  Underneath it all, I wore a red lace bra, stockings held up by a garter belt, and a pair of flirty skirt-style panties, which probably have some formal lingerie name, but since my traditional undies run to Jockey hipsters or Maidenform lace thongs, I wasn't tuned in with the underwear vocabulary.

  I'd started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn't long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music ... and the man in my mind.

  I'd already tossed the jacket aside, and now I moved with a rise in the music, sliding my hands up my body, stroking my breasts, remembering the way his mouth had teased my nipples. The way his kisses had covered every inch of my body.

  "Oh, yeah, baby!" an anonymous male voice yelled when I grabbed the shirt and pulled the halves apart, sending buttons flying. I shimmied out of the sleeves, then bent down to tease that voice with my lace and silk-clad breasts. I let the shirt I still held fall on his head, then leaned in closer so he could tuck a twenty dollar bill into my cleavage.

  Not bad for a day's work, I thought as I straightened and strutted once around the stage and then returned to my pole.

  I glanced toward the next stage, curious as to how much my neighbor had stripped so far. She was down to her G-string, and I realized that I was moving far too slow.

  Time to step it up a notch.

  The idea sent a flutter of butterflies twirling in my stomach, but the nerves were edged with excitement--and that excitement kicked up exponentially when my eyes scanned the room and I finally caught sight of Tyler.

  He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt under a gray sports coat, and even dressed so casually he put every other man to shame. He held a folio, the pages of which he peered at through dark-rimmed glasses that complemented his face and somehow made him even sexier.

  He passed some sheets to Greg the bartender, then walked the length of the bar in long, arrogant strides that made it clear that he belonged there. More, that he belonged anywhere he deigned to go.

  He hadn't even looked at me yet, but it didn't matter. Just his proximity fired my senses, and I felt that electricity, that spark. Twisted up, I thought. He's completely twisted me up. And, yeah, I wanted to finish this dance. For better or for worse, I wanted to finish it for him.

  I continued to move with the music--continued my show for the men--but I kept my attention on Tyler. He greeted customers, chatted with the waitresses, then took a seat. The bartender slid two drinks in front of him, and I frowned when I realized the second one was for a stunning brunette who sat next to Tyler.

  She smiled, all casual familiarity, as tight threads of jealousy twisted in my stomach. He leaned closer, said something in her ear. And when she laughed, then leaned forward to press her hand against his arm, I had to fight back the overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and toss the bitch back.

  As if he heard my thoughts, his attention shifted, passing over the brunette and zeroing straight in on me. I was doing a shimmy with the pole, one hand provocatively stroking the steel as I slid down it, the other hand unzipping my skirt.

  I saw the heat in his eyes--and even in the dim light of the club, I saw the way his body stiffened as I let the skirt fall over my hips, leaving me clad only in my silky panties, my stockings, and the racy push-up bra.

  And, of course, my four-inch black fuck-me stilettos. That were, frankly, a
bitch to dance in.

  I saw him stand. Saw his expression tighten. Saw him reach up to pull off his glasses and toss them carelessly on the bar.

  And as I reached back and unclasped my bra, I saw him start to walk toward me.

  I turned away, not wanting him to see the victory in my smile, and disguised the maneuver by doing a quick tour around the stage, strutting my stuff and making sure all those men got a nice look at what they couldn't touch. Then, with a flourish, I tossed the bra to a balding man who looked ready to drool.

  Stockings next, I thought, as I slipped out of the shoes. I kicked up, resting my calf against the pole. Then I stroked my fingers up my own leg, unclipped the garter, and tugged the stocking off.

  The men in the audience were holding out bills and, not being stupid, I took a little time to make a circuit around the stage and collect my tips before moving on to the next stocking.

  I tried to keep my eyes on the men. To keep that eye contact that I knew dancers used to make sure the tips were stellar. But I couldn't do it. I didn't care about these men or their money. All I wanted was Tyler, but he'd disappeared. No matter where I looked, I couldn't find him or the brunette, and something hard and tight knotted in my belly.

  I felt a little sick, but I kept on, moving in time to some song I didn't recognize.

  I kicked up my other leg, getting ready to start the same show with the other, but as soon as I did, there he was.

  I froze as a psych book full of emotions pummeled me. Relief, excitement, desire--and irritation.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, as he stepped up onto the stage, to the hoots and catcalls and general grumbling of the men below.

  He didn't answer, but he didn't need to. He tossed his jacket over my shoulders, grabbed me around the waist, and hauled me bodily offstage. I didn't shout and didn't fight back--I was too damn shocked. And from the silence that had settled around my stage, I think the customers felt exactly the same.

  "Go," Tyler said, and it took me only a second to realize he was talking to another girl that I recognized as one of the waitresses. Her eyes were wide, and I had a feeling that she was getting an unexpected promotion. But she scurried up the stairs and wrapped her body around the pole.

  The men who'd been looking shocked in my direction turned to her, and I was all but forgotten.