Lovers Unmasked

by Katee Robert

  She’d always been more comfortable with the physical part of their relationship. The boundaries she’d enforced applied almost exclusively to their emotions, which she liked to pretend didn’t exist. Pretended to the extent he’d always had to say the words for her. They’d gotten into a game where, each night before they drifted off to sleep, he’d say, “I love you.” She’d snuggle against him, maybe fiddle with the silver chain of the St. Michael pendant his grandfather had given him when he’d graduated from the police academy, or, if she was feeling especially feisty, cup his balls. But she’d remained exasperatingly silent. After a beat or two, he’d pitch his voice up a couple octaves and say, “I love you too, Ian, more than anything.” She’d always laugh and kiss him, but dammit, she’d never say the words.

  Raw, sincere emotions frightened her, and, when scared, Stacy fell back on detachment as her preferred defense mechanism. He’d figured that out early on—pretty much from the first moment he’d seen her, framed by the door of the rundown Hollywood apartment she’d shared with Kylie, wearing a plaster cast on her leg, a criminally short robe that barely covered her obscenely gorgeous body, and a smile that extended him all kinds of invitations. One look and he’d been hooked.

  Her “dare me” grin had disappeared as soon as he’d shown his badge and requested that she join her twin down at the station to answer some questions about why Kylie had been posing as Stacy and obstructing their investigation into a couple of murders at Deuces. She’d made the trip in cool, unflinching silence, but he’d sensed the fear beneath her ice-queen facade. Still, he’d had to admire her control. She’d held herself together through grueling hours of questioning designed to make hardened criminals cry for their mommas. Stacy had never so much as sniffled.

  No surprise, considering she’d spent years polishing her crack-resistant protective shell. She’d needed one to endure a crappy childhood in a small town where everyone liked to think the worst of her and most of the men under eighty wanted to sleep with her. His beautiful, tough-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside survivor had concluded that if she never invested her heart in anything or anybody, then nothing and nobody could hurt or disappoint her.

  He rinsed her soap off his hands, picked up the right bottle, and worked his soap to lather. While he scrubbed his chest, he relived that lazy Saturday morning not so long ago, when she’d sneaked into his shower, pressed her soft, wet breasts against his back, and ordered him to “spread ’em.” Only a miracle explained how he’d managed not to slip and knock himself unconscious in his rush to comply. She’d proceeded to run her hands all over him, under the pretense of patting him down. When he’d helpfully pointed out he had nowhere to conceal a weapon, given his state of bare-assed nakedness, she’d begged to differ. She’d bent his upper body to the wall and proved him wrong. The move had surprised a groan out of him, and, for a moment, he honestly hadn’t been sure whether he’d wanted her to stop or do it harder, but soon enough, he’d found himself incredibly appreciative of her out-and-out dedication to the job. His lonely, despondent dick perked up at the memory.

  Stand down, Officer. If he gave in now and went crawling back to her without the promises and commitments he’d asked for, he’d never have her on the terms he needed. And if he accepted less, he’d lose all self-respect. He knew himself, and her, too well. Allowing Stacy to define their relationship meant she’d sell them both short.

  Not physically, of course. He washed his stomach and ignored the semi, jutting out like a fifth limb, casting a clear vote for the crawling-back option. He couldn’t blame his lower half for hoping. Stacy gave 100 percent in bed and took the same from him, but contrary to the current evidence, he couldn’t be content with 2:00 a.m. get-your-ass-over-here-and-fuck-me-’til-my-eyes-cross calls, and pretending their feelings for each other only went skin deep.

  He loved her, and what’s more, he knew she loved him—even if she didn’t want to. Even if she wasn’t ready to admit her feelings. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that’s why she’d pulled away when he’d asked her to move in with him. But he had the degree and wasn’t afraid to use it. Basic human psychology dictated he stand firm. He reached around and soaped his lats, where the phantom weight of her breasts still rested. Stay strong. Don’t reward behavior you don’t want to reinforce.

  Easier said than done. Basic human psychology didn’t greet him in a see-through nightie at the end of a long day, or send him a text that read, “Got your request for a twelve-minute blow job,” when he sent it a dozen roses out of the blue. Basic human psychology didn’t snuggle up close in the blurry light of dawn and trace his features with a whisper-soft touch when it thought he was asleep.

  He missed her, dammit. Her smart-ass comments, her smell, her touch, her taste…everything. Surrendering, he reached down and took his now-throbbing cock in a soapy grip. He closed his eyes and remembered how she’d tortured him that Saturday morning…one busy hand working him from behind with a thoroughness that had him choking back a prayer, the other moving up and down his shaft in slow, measured strokes. He’d alternated between threats and curses while he’d watched the head of his dick appear and retreat from the snug, soap-lubed tunnel of her fist. Eventually she’d quickened the pace and reduced him to begging, which he’d done willingly, hell, enthusiastically, until his voice had gone hoarse, his muscles rigid, and he’d come with the debilitating force of a fire hose at full blast. If she hadn’t been there to brace him he would have collapsed and drowned in his own shower.

  This time he slapped a hand against the wall in front of him for balance and uttered a long, ragged stream of curses as weeks of pent-up frustration poured out of him in a long, slightly agonizing rush.

  Somehow, over the pounding blood in his ears, he heard his phone ring. Fucking perfect. Couldn’t a guy get ten lousy minutes of peace to jack off in the shower? He would have let the call go to voice mail but he knew by the ringtone it was Trevor. They were off the clock, but they had a couple investigations going and sometimes leads came in without regard for their work schedule. He flipped the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stalked into his bedroom for his phone.

  “This better be important.”

  “Happy Halloween to you too, asshole.”

  “I’m standing here in a friggin’ towel, dripping water all over my hardwood floors. ’Scuse me for skipping the ‘Hi, how are yous.’”

  “That’s a visual I didn’t need.”

  Ian took a deep breath and struggled for the calm he usually exuded with no effort at all. “I didn’t need a phone call in the middle of my shower, so we’re even.” He tossed the towel onto his dresser, balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder, and pulled on a pair of black jeans. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m on my way to pick you up. Be there in, like, two minutes. Put on a costume.”

  He figured Trevor was calling about a case, but the last part piqued his interest. “To the best of my recollection, we don’t have a date to go trick-or-treating.”

  “Kylie called. Stacy got a threatening letter from some anonymous wacko who had a lot of personal information about her. Told her to quit the series and leave the business altogether or she’d be sorry.”

  Anyone in the public eye occasionally drew unwanted attention. Most of the time the loser in question got his jollies writing a few letters and that was that, but nonetheless Ian battled a compulsion to track the freak down and pound him into the pavement. “Who’d they report this to? Who’s working it?”

  “No one. That’s why I’m calling. You know as well as I do the first person Stacy would share something like this with…uh…now…would be Kylie. But apparently Stacy never showed her the letter. Kylie happened across it tonight at while they were getting ready for the party at Deuces.”

  Yeah, Ian thought, reading the “now” comment easily enough. Now that she’s dumped you. “Hold on.” He put the phone on the dresser and pulled a long-sleeved black T-shirt over his head. �
�We should talk to her right away. Get the letter…and any others she’s received. She’s got personal security for the party tonight, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fuck. That’s a huge mistake.”

  “I agree. I’ve called Vern and gotten us on the guest list, but he warned me the costume policy is strictly enforced at the door, guest list or no, so unless you want to show our badges and make a scene—”

  “No, I want to blend in. I’ve got a costume.” He dug into his ski bag at the bottom of his closet and pulled out a black knit ski mask. The bedside clock caught his eye as he left the bedroom. “Jesus, you drive like my grandma,” he complained as he strode down the hall. “Where the hell are you?” He swung his front door open.

  Trevor stood there holding his phone to his ear, wearing a dark suit and tie, same as he wore on any workday, and a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses Ian had thankfully never seen before.

  “I’m at your front door.”

  Ian disconnected and stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s not a costume.”

  His partner pocketed his phone and stepped inside. “This is the most successful costume of all time.”

  “Seriously, man, what the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Clark Kent. I went classic and heroic.”

  “You went lazy and uncreative. You’re a step down from ghost.” He dropped down on the living room sofa and shoved his feet into black boots.

  “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  Ian stood, rolled his ski mask down over his face and arranged the bottom until it covered the crew neck of his long-sleeved black T-shirt. “Cat burglar.”

  “Strange and creepy.”

  He shoved the ski mask up and smirked. “Mysterious and dangerous.”

  “Whatever. We’re not here to win an award for best costume”

  “Which is good, because you don’t stand a chance,” Ian shot back and walked down the hall.

  “I’m here to help you protect your imprudent girlfriend from some crazy stalker.”

  He punched in the combination to the small steel gun safe at the bottom of the hall closet and muttered, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “That’s on you to solve. I can’t mastermind everything.”

  “Oh, I am solving it, don’t you worry.”

  “Really? Because it looks more to me like you’re sitting on your ass, moping around, and tearing my head off for breathing.”

  “I’m employing psychology.” He ground his back teeth together and chose the small, efficient Smith & Wesson M&P. “A little tactic called ‘waiting her out.’”

  “Ah. Impressive. At this rate you ought to have her right where you want her in”—Trevor made a show of glancing at his watch—“never.”

  Ian closed the safe and somehow managed to stop himself from banging his forehead against the doorframe. “The ‘waiting her out’ part of the plan weakened her resolve and gave her a chance to realize how much she misses me. Now she’s ready for phase two.”

  “Phase two?”

  He didn’t miss the doubt in his partner’s voice. He took his ankle holster from on top of the safe and stalked back to the sofa. “Where I tell her I’ve had enough of her ‘I’m not a relationship kind of girl’ bullshit. I know she’s in love with me, I’m in love with her, and here’s how things are going to be. End of story.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  “Keep your luck, hater. This is going to work.” He wrapped the holster around his ankle and closed the Velcro strap. “I have the upper hand.”

  “You and your upper hand are in for some more lonely nights. Why don’t you try apologizing?”

  “Apologize! Are you fucking kidding me? What did I do wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, you don’t know, and you know what? You may never know, even after she explains it to you five hundred times. That, my friend, is part of the beautiful, complex mystery known as woman. But I am trained to examine the evidence in front of me and draw logical conclusions. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? You guys dated almost a year, you asked her to move in, and she dumped you like a stale keg. Logical conclusion? You did something wrong.”

  “That’s not a logical conclusion. It’s a superficial, idiotic interpretation of some circumstantial facts.”

  “Maybe.” Trevor shrugged and stared out the window. “But the woman I love wears my ring and, when she leaves the party tonight, she’ll be on my arm, so which one of us is the bigger idiot?”

  Point taken, though he’d tear out his tongue before saying so. He tilted his head left, then right, to work the kinks out of his neck. “Can we put aside my personal life for a minute and concentrate on the reason we’re going to this party in the first place?”

  “Fine by me. How do you want to play things?”

  He wanted to stride in, toss Stacy over his shoulder, and walk out…and not put her down until she told him she loved him and begged him to take her back. Then they’d turn the damn letter over to a forensic team, pick her brain for a list of suspects, and talk her into adding personal security to her entourage until the threat was resolved. But Stacy would dig in her heels and refuse to cooperate if he tried the shoulder-toss tactic.

  “You go in and find Kylie. Stick to her, because she and Stacy look so much alike, if some sicko has his sights set on Stacy, there’s a chance he’ll mistake Kylie for her, which puts them both in danger. I’ll find Stacy, stay close to her, and ensure nobody tries anything. At the first opportunity, I’ll try to wrangle her outside so we can move to a more secure location and question her about the letter.”

  “Okay. I’ve got your six. How do you plan to get her to leave with you?”

  “I have no clue, but I’m figuring the ski mask might come in handy.”

  “You don’t think she’ll recognize you, just from…I don’t know…pheromones or what have you?”

  “Under flashing lights, in the middle of a jam-packed costume party?” Ian shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “If you get her out of Deuces under false pretenses, she’s going to be pissed.”

  “Better pissed at me than staving off the advances of some delusional lunatic.” He inspected the pistol and loaded a magazine. “Besides, she’s already broken up with me. What else can she do?”

  “Okay. Agreed. And if she’s with a…ah…new friend?”

  “She’s not looking for a new friend, because she’s still in love with me.” He forced some confidence into his voice, but in truth, his vision went red around the edges and his pulse spiked at the idea of Stacy in the arms of some other guy. Technically, she was a free agent. She could hook up tonight, tomorrow night—any night she chose.

  “Maybe she loves you, but after a month of your famous ‘wait her out’ treatment, she’s probably given up on the notion of receiving the heartfelt apology you owe her.”

  “I told you before. I do not owe her an apology—”

  Trevor simply kept talking. “She’s probably decided you’re a lost cause, hence…new friend.”

  Ian leaned down and holstered the Smith & Wesson in his ankle holster. “She can un-fucking-friend him.”

  Chapter Three

  Lights blinded Stacy the minute the chauffeur opened the limo door.

  Cameras whirred. She lifted her chin, plastered a sly smile on her face, and let the driver help her out of the car. An audible gasp came from the small crowd of media and onlookers gathered around when Kylie got out and stood beside her. She expected the reaction. They’d elicited it their entire lives. They looked that much alike.

  She had a moment to tell the driver to take Mandy wherever she wanted to go, before a petite, auburn-haired entertainment reporter from the local news thrust a microphone in their faces. “Okay, ladies, who’s who?”

  “I’m Stacy, and this little devil right here”—she gestured to Kylie—“is my sister, Kylie.”

  “Twin sister, obviously,�
� the reporter observed, working her way between them, smiling for her cameraman. “The resemblance is…amazing.”

  “I’m the pretty one,” Stacy said, and everyone laughed.

  “Kylie, are you an actress too?”

  “No, no. Stacy got all the performing genes. I’m a yoga instructor.”

  “Nirvana on Ninth,” Stacy added, figuring Kylie ought to get a little plug out of the interview.

  The reporter aimed the mic toward Kylie. “You must be very proud of your sister…breaking out so big in the hottest new show of the season.”

  “I am.” Kylie smiled at Stacy. “For a lot of reasons, including the show.”

  “We’re proud of each other,” Stacy said.

  “There you have it, folks. A mutual admiration society here with the Roberts twins. Are you ladies ready for Deuces’ infamous Halloween Hedonism party?”

  “I think we are.” Stacy angled to the side and struck a pose for the cameras, arching her back to maximize the profile of her figure, which she knew the little white angel gown showed off to perfection. “What do you think?”

  Hoots and catcalls came from the crowd of onlookers.

  “Sounds like the costumes are a hit, girls.” The reporter winked at the camera. “Is this your first time at Deuces?”

  Stacy forced her smile a little wider. Show no fear. “God, no! Coming to the club is like visiting family. Deuces gave me my start in Hollywood. I danced here for two years.” She let that statement hang for a beat and then waved, turned, and strutted to the main entrance, where a big bouncer held court over a long line of costumed hopefuls waiting to get into the party. He held the velvet rope aside to allow her and Kylie to enter. Behind them on the sidewalk, all hell broke loose. Questions flew from the cadre of reporters, cameras clicked and flashed. Stacy tossed her hair, aimed one last smile at the media, and walked into Deuces.