by Nikita Black
"Tomorrow is our anniversary," he murmured, his voice smooth and sultry as a bayou night. "I think we should begin celebrating."
A vague surprise that she should get off so easily wafted through the back of her mind. "Mmm. Good idea." She spread her legs wider about his hips. If he didn't come into her soon, she'd go mad.
"Hand me that champagne bottle, will you?" His lips curved up in a deliciously roguish grin.
She blinked. "But, baby, it's empty."
He looked at her, his eyes blazing with endless love and boundless mischief.
Oh, Lord.
He put his mouth to her ear and softly whispered, "Mais yeah, chère. I know."
** The End **
Hope you enjoyed CAJUN HOT!
If you did, you may also enjoy SLAVE TO LOVE by Nikita Black. Keep reading for an excerpt . . .
SLAVE TO LOVE by Nikita Black
Chapter One
The Iceman cometh.
Special Investigations Section Officer Caroline Palmer rested her back against her partner's chest and contemplated Homicide Detective Michael 'Mick' McGraw as he strode through the SIS—better known as the vice squad—door.
Okay, cometh was the wrong word to use. Arriveth would be more in keeping with the glacial Detective McGraw, who probably hadn't come in years.
Caroline lowered the pimp's case file her partner, Julio, was reading over her shoulder and tapped his linen-clad thigh. When she saw McGraw turn and head straight toward them, she dropped the file.
Damn. Why was it every time she ran into the frustratingly cool detective, she was dressed like a hooker? She stooped to retrieve the scattered contents of the case file from the floor. She'd just come off working a night of decoy out on Colorado, and was dressed in her favorite pro outfit—bright red mini-skirt and a glittery off-the-shoulder sweater—guaranteed to attract any man's attention.
But not the Iceman. McGraw was unmovable. Unfortunately, the five minutes of flirting she’d done with him before being informed of his “untouchable” status probably had him convinced she threw herself at anything in pants. Which of course couldn’t be further from the truth. Since coming across the street from Traffic a year ago, she’d been as unobtainable as he was. She just didn’t make a religion of it like the Iceman. Not that she cared about his interest or lack thereof. She’d simply like to make a good impression on the department legend, on the off chance she got her fondest wish—a transfer to Homicide. Playing with fire was not her thing.
Ignoring the expensive spit-polished shoes which came to a halt directly in front of her, she gathered up the papers from the floor, tugging down on the hem of her skirt, vainly attempting to cover as much black-stocking-clad thigh as she could manage. The outfit was naturally designed to make any red-blooded man break out in a sweat, even at eight a.m.. Good thing McGraw's veins were filled with ice. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
She could hear the guys at their desks softly snicker, but she knew it wasn't her they were laughing at. Although the whole department admired Mick McGraw’s near mythical skill and tenacity on the job, everyone thought he should lighten up. He had nothing to prove to anyone...even if his father was a murderer.
McGraw braced his feet apart, one shoe coming to rest on the edge of the last paper from her file. What the hell...?
She lifted her gaze, up past long, muscular legs encased in well-fitting navy slacks, up past lean masculine hips and waist. Past the absurdly broad chest which stretched a white button-down shirt to maximum capacity. And up past the choke-knotted red-striped tie and strong, shadowed jaw. All the way up to McGraw's sharp, icy-blue eyes.
God, he turned her on.
Shit.
No. He didn’t, she told herself firmly.
“Detective?” she said, clearing her throat. And noticed that her scoop-necked sweater was gaping open, giving him a taste of what he'd be missing if she were that kind of girl. But she wasn’t, so she slammed it to her chest with one hand. “You seem to be on my case,” she snapped.
His cool eyes assessed her, and for a second she thought he might make a retort. Instead, he wordlessly moved his foot just enough for her to retrieve the paper, which she did and then rose. Four-inch platform heels on top of her own five-foot-eight height let her look down at most men. It instantly irritated her that she had to crane her neck just to meet this one's gaze.
“You're wanted in my office,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Subtle approach, McGraw. Does it usually work?”
His chiseled lips thinned. “Every time. Let's go.”
She hiked her brow at his impassive tone. Lord, he was serious. “Sorry, I'm busy. We’ve been out all night and I have a pile of paperwork to finish before my shift ends.”
Her partner Julio's hand came around her waist from behind and pulled her back to rest between his thighs as he sat on the desk they shared. “What's this all about, Detective?”
McGraw's glance flicked to Julio's proprietary hold on her, but his expression remained shuttered. “Taking your role to an extreme, aren't you, Sergeant Martinez?”
Julio played pimp on their john busts while Caro trolled sidewalks. But her partner tended to look the part even when they weren't on the job.
“Just watching out for my girl,” he answered with a good-natured smile, his other arm coming around her waist, too. It was all part of their arrangement. Kept the goons off her, and suspicion diverted from him.
McGraw wasn't impressed. He looked down at her and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, everyone's waiting.”
Caro crossed her arms under her breasts. “Everyone who?” He might be the reigning god of Homicide, but she really did have a ton of work to do before going home. And her chances of working for McGraw anytime in the near future were somewhere between slim and none. “Look, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on.”
“Chief Trujillo will explain when we get there,” McGraw said, stepped back and looked at her with an iron-willed expectancy. The good detective was obviously not used to anyone balking at his orders. Of course, the minute he'd mentioned the Chief, she knew he’d won this little battle.
“At least let me change out of these clothes,” she said, frowning at her attire. Hooker gear was not her first choice for an interview with the chief of police.
“Don't worry about it.” McGraw turned on a heel and headed toward the door. “No one will even notice.”
She gritted her teeth and whipped a quelling glare at Julio, who chuckled behind her.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Now, now, querida. The man may be blind, but he's in Homicide. Do you realize what this means?”
“I'm a murder suspect?”
Julio winked, and whispered, “All your favorite fantasies may come true in one fell swoop.”
She gave a derisive snort. “Shut up, Julio.” Would she never live down that tiny crush she’d had on McGraw after seeing him for the first time? She rued the day she’d confessed it to her partner. But he’d gotten her wondering just what the hell was going on.
It had been her goal to work in Homicide ever since joining the force. She'd started out across the street in Traffic—of course, she was a woman, wasn't she? When she'd put in for a transfer a year ago, the male powers-that-be agreed she had the brains for it, but decided she'd be more useful in Special Investigations—the vice squad. Something to do with her legs in a short skirt, no doubt. Up until now she'd been pretty much stuck on the anti-prostitution team. She was good at it, and she’d actually learned a thing or two in the way of street-smarts. And to be honest, she'd just as soon not get involved with drugs or gangs anyway. But if she had her preference she'd take a nice, clean murder any day of the week.
Unfortunately, until this point Homicide was as big a fantasy as seeing Mick McGraw naked.
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she made a face at Julio and hurried after McGraw, who paused at the door and waited for her to go through. She smiled at the ol
d school gesture, and geared up for the rest of the hike to the second floor.
She tried not to swing her hips, but she knew he was watching her backside. She could feel his eyes on her body all the way to the elevator. Well, who could blame him? She looked good. Yeah, it had taken her years to come to that realization—twenty-nine to be exact—but during her five years in L.A. her confidence had peaked. Before coming to California she’d felt insecure and awkward in her own skin and with every wayward thought or impulse. Her daddy had seen to that. With her and Mama, it was his way or the highway. Finally choosing the highway had been the best decision of Caro’s life. Mama’d never had the guts. But since moving away from home, Caro had come into her own as a person...and as a woman.
Sure, her hips were too wide and her top too small, but she'd learned that didn't matter. It was attitude that made a woman sexy. Daddy hadn’t liked attitude. But she wasn’t in Daddy’s power any longer. She’d found her own.
Along the way, she’d found out something else about power. Something important. As strange as it seemed, dressing as a hooker, and therefore putting her sexuality out there for all to see, it had allowed her to become just one of the guys, and be more professional in the job. She’d seen how far baggy uniforms and androgynous haircuts had gotten most women in the department. The way Caro figured, the male officers were so busy trying to imagine what was under the sexless attire they never forgot the wearers were women. With Caro, there was never any doubt. Therefore most of the men got past it in a hurry. Those who didn’t were quickly set straight.
Well, except for the Iceman, of course. He pointedly ignored her femininity, as he did with all females.
They got to the elevator and sized each other up as they rode up one floor. Normally she'd have taken the stairs, but evidently McGraw didn't trust himself not to look up her skirt. She gave him a smile but remained as silent as he. When they got off she stopped to get a drink from the water fountain by the restrooms, to rinse the streets from her suddenly dry mouth.
“I've always wondered why hookers wear panty hose,” he remarked, leaning a hip against the wall as he clinically observed her bending over the fountain. “Seems like they'd just get in the way.”
“I suppose that depends on what services they're offering,” she said between sips.
“Ah.” There was a slight pause and she could practically hear his mind assessing her leg-wear. “I see you're wearing them.”
“You sure about that?” Turning, she licked droplets of water from her lips and gauged the effect she was having on him. Nada. Not even a crack in the façade.
“Yeah. And any john would, too.”
“I don't actually screw the johns, Mick. I just arrest them.”
She might have thought the Iceman didn't like women, except, on rare occasions in the past she'd caught him with his precious guard down. She'd be parking her car in the lot, or pouring herself a cup of coffee in the lunch room, and he'd be there in the shadows, watching her with a hooded expression that sent shivers down her spine. Something hot and feral and very male lurked deep in that man.
Something that liked women.
“That may be true,” he said. “But in Homicide, there's more to it than just making the arrest.”
And then, there was that persistent rumor about a woman a long time ago, when he was still on patrol in the LAPD. He'd beaten up her husband—a lieutenant on the force—for some undisclosed reason, and almost ruined his career. A new start in Pasadena was the only thing that had saved him as a cop.
“Remember,” he continued, “the three things that make a good detective are detachment, determination and details. If you're working with me you better get the details right or I'll have you back in SIS so fast your head will spin.” He pushed off the wall and strode down the corridor toward his office.
Her mind snapped to attention. “What? What did you say?” She hurried after him, shifting gears, hardly believing what she'd heard. “McGraw!”
But it was too late. They were at his office door and he was already opening it. Technically, it was Lieutenant Fredrickson's office, but as lead detective, Mick shared it. He ushered her in and closed the glass door behind them. Inside, she found Chief Trujillo, Lt. Fredrickson, Bobby Staunton, and another man she didn't know.
“Hey, Chief.” She greeted Trujillo with a smile. She liked the Pasadena Police Department's gray-haired commanding officer. He was the epitome of professionalism and fairness. She hadn't had any dealings with Lt. Fredrickson, but his rep was sterling. She smiled at him, too.
“Come in, Officer Palmer. Have a seat.” Trujillo waved at a wooden visitor's chair.
She glanced around. The small office fairly reeked of testosterone, all of which was standing with their hands in their pockets or lounging on desk corners. If there was one thing she'd learned in her year with the Big Boys, it was always look 'em in the eye.
“No thanks, Chief, I'll stand.”
“You know the Lieutenant, and Mick of course, and his partner, Detective Staunton.”
She nodded to Bobby, who nodded back with a neutral expression, but in his eyes she swore she could see a streak of amusement.
Chief Trujillo indicated the third man she didn't know. “And this is Detective Jeff Cody from LAPD.” Then he motioned to a row of four crime scene photos lined up along the edge of Mick's desk. “You recognize these?”
She walked over and took a look. Two females, stripped down to their lingerie, strangled, and laid out on their beds. Sightlessly looking on from the foot of the beds were two males, tied to chairs, their stomachs gutted.
Suddenly, her midnight lunch decided it wanted to do an encore. She swallowed hard. She'd seen crime photos before of course, but the two shots of the men were really nasty.
“The Teddie Murders,” she managed to get past the bile.
Two Pasadena couples had been found murdered during the past month, obviously victims of the same twisted killer. The press had been quick to pick up on the most titillating link—the women's attire.
Trujillo nodded. “How'd you like to join the task force?”
She yanked back her shock and said, “Sure,” as casually as she could.
She wished she'd taken that seat he'd offered. This was too good to be true—working on the biggest case to hit the area since the Hillside Strangler. She kept her excitement at bay and inquired professionally, “What would I be doing?”
Trujillo cleared his throat. “As you know, Detectives McGraw and Staunton are in charge of the investigation. In the past couple of days it's taken a somewhat...bizarre turn.”
She eyed Bobby Staunton narrowly. He was sitting on the back corner of the desk casually studying her legs. Caught, he jerked his gaze up, then over her shoulder to McGraw.
“Actually, more like kinky,” Bobby said.
“Kinky,” she repeated, frowning. “Like how?”
“Nothing we say leaves this room.” McGraw's rumbling voice came from behind her, where he'd propped himself against the wall by the door, arms folded across his chest. “Is that understood?”
She bit back her knee-jerk reaction to being treated like an idiot in front of the Chief. Wouldn't do to alienate McGraw before she'd even found out what they wanted her for. “Yes, sir, perfectly.”
“This guy's good,” Chief Trujillo said into the momentary silence. “No indication of forced entry. Hasn't left a single piece of traceable evidence at either crime scene. No weapon, no hair, no semen. Nothing except fibers from some absorbent material, a tiny residue of leather—probably from gloves—and the ligature marks. We haven’t had any leads on the killer, and as you probably know, other than the obvious we'd been unable to find a linkage between the couples, either.”
Hard to avoid knowing, since it had been plastered all over the papers for the two weeks since the second murders. She nodded.
“Until now, that is,” he went on. “A few days ago, Mick’s team uncovered an interesting lead, but he'll need some help running
it down. That's where you come in.”
She caught her jaw a nanosecond before it dropped to the floor. She'd expected to land in the smoke-filled conference room with the other grunts, making the endless phone calls necessary to eliminate the thousands of dead ends generated by a special hotline they'd set up. Not tracking down important leads with the primary investigator.
She tried not to look too incredulous. “How?”
The quartet of men exchanged a brief look. An uneasy feeling suddenly tickled the hair at her nape.
Trujillo swiped a hand across his mouth. “Here's the deal. We have very good reason to believe both victim couples, the Atkins and the Connors, were into the leather scene. Aside from the leather glove residue, the forensics field unit—FIS—logged a few implements consistent with the BDSM lifestyle which were hidden in closets at both homes, and under the Connors' bed they found a leash and collar.” He looked up. “The Connors didn't have a dog.”
BDSM?
Bondage and domination?
She blinked. Ho-boy. “I see.”
“The task force has traced both couples through credit cards to a leather fetish club in West L.A. called Brimstone. It took a few days to track because the club masked the charges by using other company names. But the dates are all wrong for the murders, and LAPD—” he tipped his head at Detective Cody “—has hit a brick wall at the club. Everyone's clamming up. No one admits to seeing the victims or anything unusual, and we're getting nowhere fast.”
This time her jaw did hit the floor. She stared at the chief, dumbfounded. “Leather fetish club? You mean, like—”
He steepled his fingers over the desk. “Yeah. Whips and chains. That sort of thing. We want you and Mick to go in undercover. See what you can find out from the inside.”
He had to be kidding. Her pulse kicked up. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go to this place with...Detective McGraw? Undercover?” She was totally knocked off balance for a second. “You mean, as in...dressed like that?”