by White, Pat
J took a sip of coffee. Cold and bitter: a good thing. It kept his senses in check. He still hadn’t recovered from that damned kiss. What the hell was he thinking?
He’d been running on instinct. He’d read desperation in her eyes and need on her lips. J got the feeling she was desperate to prove something, even if that meant screwing a stranger.
The thought made him sick. Yet, wouldn’t he do the same if the job required it: seduce her, sleep with her, make love to her all night long in order to find the source of the drugs?
He leaned back against the headrest, wondering how she’d be in bed. Probably crazed and demanding. That fit her personality. No doubt she’d be into blindfolds and handcuffs, slow sex and amazing foreplay.
He could picture her in nothing but a sports bra and panties. The panties would be lace, cut high along the hip, in stark contrast to the full bra that bound her breasts. He’d unsnap the thing and free those breasts, running his palms across the tips, watching them harden, listening to her moan at his touch.
His ringing cell phone jerked him out of his fantasy. Good thing. He was getting hard.
“McBain,” he answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. He only shared this number with work.
“It’s Meek. I need an update.”
What was the hurry? J figured they wanted him to slog his way through this case to keep him away from the office as long as possible.
“Following up on a suspect, sir.”
“Who?”
“Someone on the medical staff at the wrestling promotion.”
“Someone?”
“A woman.”
“Good, you’ve always done your best work with female perpetrators.”
Disgust arced through Jason’s chest. It was no secret that in the past he’d used his physical attributes to lure suspects into confiding their secrets. Somewhere between drinks and the morning after, his female marks would open up to him and he’d get what he needed. Yet he never felt right about it—the sex, the intimate conversation, or the manipulation used to achieve his goal.
Where did that come from? It was his job to put assholes behind bars and do whatever was necessary to get them there.
“Are you with her now?” Meek asked.
Sandy happened to pull up in front of her building.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll make this short. A high school boy who’s been using this new hybrid form of steroid has been arrested for assaulting a teacher. This is dangerous stuff. We need to close this case as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long will it take to nail this woman?”
J ignored the double entendre. “A week.”
“Get to it, then.”
J hung up. He didn’t say good-bye or thanks or shove this job where the sun don’t shine. He simply tossed the phone onto the seat and stared out his car window. Sandy still sat behind the wheel of her car. Maybe she was too drunk to walk? Damn, then she shouldn’t have driven home. J reached for the door handle and froze as another car pulled up. The dork from the restaurant got out, walked up to Sandy’s car and opened her door. Aw, what a gentleman.
J suddenly wondered if Sandy had been lying about this being a blind date. Maybe this was her supplier? Nah, it was never that easy. Still, her date drove an awfully nice car—a Cadillac—and wore an expensive jacket.
Never judge a man by his clothes, his mother used to say. She should know. She’d thought she married a strong man with integrity thanks to Raymond’s neat appearance and calm nature. Boy, had she been wrong.
Jason redirected his focus to his assignment. Mr. Blind Date led Sandy up the stairs to the complex door.
“Kiss her and go home,” he said. He needed to get inside her condo, snoop around, and find out who she really was and what laws she’d been breaking.
Mr. Blind Date leaned forward and kissed her. J watched, waited, and hoped she’d push him away. Instead Sandy wrapped her arms around the guy’s neck and planted a kiss on his lips. Apparently Jason’s kiss earlier had meant nothing. Any port in the storm.
She broke the kiss, laughed and led her dopey date inside her building.
Friggin’ great. J would have to sit out here all night and try not to imagine what the guy was doing to her ...
What J wanted to be doing to her.
Jason groaned and downed the last of his coffee. Flipping on the radio, he decided to find a late-night talk show to keep his brain focused on something other than what was going on in her apartment. Hot, frantic lovemaking? More like desperate, quick sex. Only desperation would drive a person like Sandy to have sex on a first date.
“And when did you become the expert on Sandy Ryan?” he muttered to himself.
He tuned in to a talk show. “Tonight we have sex therapist Felicia Fallus as our guest. The subject: Sex and the Single Woman.”
“This should be interesting,” J muttered, glancing at the second floor window of Sandy’s building.
“What do you think the modern young woman wants out of a relationship?” the talk show host asked.
“Sex, number one. Safe sex,” Dr. Fallus answered. “The modern girl is tired of being shoved into the ‘good girl’ role. She wants to let loose, have a few affairs and do something dangerous before she settles down. These days a woman doesn’t really need a man to be complete. She needs physical fulfillment.”
“Terrific.” So all men were good for was exciting sex and a six-figure income? He disagreed. He could have used his dad growing up, could have used someone to play ball, have burping contests and impress with stupid jokes.
“Women have evolved. They’re more independent,” the doctor continued. “They know what their physical needs are and how to meet them.”
“What about long-term relationships?” the interviewer asked.
“Only if the woman wants to mate and have children with the man. If she’s not interested in marriage and children, then her focus is on sexual and ego fulfillment.”
“You mean women want meaningless sex?”
“Oh, it has meaning, just not ‘let’s have a future’ meaning. A woman wants sex to achieve a goal.”
It sounded cold and calculating. Yet wasn’t that how Jason performed his job? Wasn’t he planning to act similarly with Sandy: seduce her, make love to her all night long in order to find the evidence to bust her?
He clicked off the radio. He really was a son of a bitch like his old man, he thought, fingering the St. Michael medal around his neck. He’d put his dad’s medal on as a kid to feel empowered. He wore it as an adult to remind him that a coward’s blood ran through his veins.
He eyed Sandy’s condo. He should go back to his hotel, get a good night’s sleep and think up a new plan. He wasn’t getting anywhere by sitting here. She’d be tied up all night with her mystery date.
The thought of that jerk tying her wrists to the headboard made him grit his teeth. He twisted the key in the ignition.
Suddenly the front door to her building flung open and Mr. Blind Date bolted outside. His shirt was open in front, as if ripped off of him, and the guy’s hair looked like he’d been hanging upside down from the ceiling. What did she do to him?
Jason leaned forward with anticipation. A few seconds later a half-naked Sandy raced out of the building. God, she was even hotter than he imagined. She wore pink lace panties and a matching bra, topped off with ankle socks, also trimmed in lace. His brain completely shut down for a second.
She grabbed her date by the arm and attempted to pull him back into her building. He resisted and shoved her away. She stumbled backwards and Jason gripped his car’s door handle, ready to punch the guy’s lights out. But Mr. Blind Date put out his hands, as if keeping Sandy at bay. Jason opened his window to eavesdrop.
“It was an accident,” Sandy said, her hands out as if pleading for him to return.
“That thing’s dangerous!” her date replied.
“I’m so sorry. Come back inside.”
/>
“Not unless you lock it up.”
Jason blinked. Hell, what sexual toy did she whip out that scared the crap out of the guy?
“Let’s try again,” she said.
“Not unless you get rid of it, completely, out of your condo!”
“You’re overreacting.” She planted her hands on her nearly naked hips.
“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” He raced down the stairs to his car and peeled way from the curb. Sandy made a squeal of frustration, balled her hands into fists and did a little jumping thing on the front stoop. Breasts jiggling, hair flying, she looked sexy as hell.
She turned back to her apartment building and pulled on the door handle. Apparently she’d locked herself out.
“Why, why, why!” she cried. With a look of determination, she started to climb the facade to the second floor.
Spiderman she was not. She was going to break her neck.
Jason whipped open his car door and raced up the sidewalk. “Get down!”
“What are you doing here?” she gasped, now hanging by her fingertips from the bottom of a balcony. “I know what I’m doing.” She swung her legs.
“Get down, now. You’re gonna break your neck.” He grabbed her by soft, firm thighs and pulled. She let go and the force drove them both backward. Jason tumbled back and landed on the front lawn with Sandy on top of him. He heard a sliding door open.
“Everything okay out there?” a man asked from above.
“Go back inside and stop staring at my boobs,” Sandy scolded. The door slammed shut.
Sandy got up and towered over Jason. “I’d be inside by now if it hadn’t been for you. I could have done it, damn it.”
“I’m sure.” He stood, rolling a kink out of his neck. “What did you do to your date, anyway?”
“I didn’t do anything. It was Madame Bovary’s fault.”
“No kidding?” He eyed the balcony of her condo, trying to hide his surprise. She was into threesomes?
“Damn it, I’m cold,” she said. She pulled on the front door again.
J took off his jacket and draped it across her shoulders. “Why don’t you ask Madame Bovary to buzz us in?”
Sandy shot him a look. “She’s not that smart.”
“Okay. What about someone else?”
“I try to keep a low profile around here. The condo association wasn’t happy about someone like me moving in.”
He shot her a questioning look.
“A masseuse,” she said, making quotation marks with her fingers. “Obviously I’d have men coming over day and night. What a joke,” she added. With two hands she pulled on the front door again.
“Relax. I can get us in,” J promised.
“Yeah, how? You got a key to my place?”
“No, but I’ve got this.” He pulled a pick from his wallet.
“Wonderful. I don’t want to know why you have that.”
“No, you really don’t,” he agreed. He started working on the lock.
“What a loser,” Sandy whispered.
“Hey, cupcake,” J snapped. “This loser is going to get you back into your warm little condo.”
“I didn’t mean you.”
He felt a brief wave of relief. “Oh, you meant Mr. Blind Date? He did look pretty spooked.”
“I didn’t mean him either.”
J turned and caught the sight of tears welling up in Sandy’s eyes. Crap. He couldn’t do tears.
“Hey,” he said, reaching for her.
She put out her hand to stop him. “I need someone to want me for me.”
“It’s okay. I’m sure someone will.”
“Tonight. Now. I need you to make love to me. Will you do that, Stripper?”
Chapter Seven
Good God, did she really just say that? The Stripper patted her on the shoulder like a kid sister, and continued his breaking-and-entering routine.
Sandy closed her eyes and pulled his jacket tight across her body.
I need you to make love to me. Will you do that, Stripper? Could she have made a bigger fool of herself? The last thing she needed was a one-night stand with The Stripper. Talk about messing up her head.
Like it wasn’t already messed up. Ten minutes ago she was ready to sleep with a complete stranger. Definitely out of character. Usually a man had to earn her trust before Sandy would give away that part of herself.
There’d been only three, and the first one didn’t count because she’d been suffering from “panicked virgin” syndrome, desperate to prove her worth as a woman, her attractiveness. Maybe even prove that she was normal.
Normal? Glancing at her near-naked body wrapped in The Stripper’s leather jacket, she realized how far off the path she’d strayed. Standing on the front landing of her building dressed in lace underwear, asking a coworker to break into her condo? That wasn’t exactly normal.
“I’ve got to get a life,” she said.
“What, this one isn’t exciting enough?” The Stripper glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Got it.” The front door clicked open.
“Thanks.” Sandy slipped his coat off her shoulders and handed it to him.
He didn’t take it. “Aren’t you going to ask me up?”
“You’re kidding.”
“I need to do a repeat performance on the door to your place, right?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Get inside before you freeze something off.”
Sandy’s nipples hardened, and not because of the forty-degree weather. Fine, she needed the guy to get her into her condo. That’s it.
She marched into her building and up a flight of stairs. A door opened above them, then closed. Probably that jerk neighbor, Edward Chaddle. He was always poking his nose where it didn’t belong.
She and The Stripper took the steps to the second floor and she pointed to her door. Stripper kneeled and started his picking routine. His arm muscles tweaked and twanged. Damn him for wearing a tight T-shirt, exposing way too much of his glorious muscle. Sandy leaned against the wall and watched, enjoying the sight of a man on his knees in front of her.
Grrrr, it was times like these that made her wish for a working vibrator.
“Got it.” He swung the door open.
“Thanks. Bye.” Sandy stepped inside and started to close the door.
He shouldered it open. “Hey, I don’t even get a nightcap for my trouble?”
“I’m short on booze.”
“I’ll settle for a cup of coffee.”
Those damn blue-green eyes looked so honest and worried. About her? Nah. He was hoping for ... for what? Hadn’t he already kissed her and decided they didn’t work?
She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”
He smiled. “Look, you helped me the other day. I want to return the favor and make sure you’re okay. Let me come in for a few minutes. I won’t touch you.” He put up his hands.
He wouldn’t touch her? Ouch!
“Fine.” She swung open the door and turned her back on him. “Make yourself at home. I’m getting comfortable.” She headed for her bedroom.
“You get any more comfortable and you’ll be naked.”
“You wish.”
But he didn’t. Or he’d said he didn’t.
Sandy wandered into her bedroom, shut and locked the door. Ooops. She should have warned J about Madame Bovary, the culprit who caused tonight’s disaster when she snatch and run with Decker’s hairpiece. Sandy would have laughed if she weren’t so mortified by her cat’s behavior. But then, love, sex and this single wrestling girl wasn’t meant to be.
She collapsed at her vanity and let her shoulders slump. Things started out okay: a little wine, conversation, smooching. Okay, so Decker couldn’t out kiss The Stripper, but he definitely had potential.
Not that she’d ever get to see it fulfilled. No sir. After Madame Bovary’s ambush, Decker would never return to her place. Not unless she got rid of the cat.
“Well, that’s not happening.” She grabbed a brush and started working on her tangled hair. Decker wasn’t shy about running his hands through it, mussing it up. That’s what people were supposed to do in the heat of passion, right? Mess each other up?
She grabbed a band, wrapped her hair at the back of her neck and snatched a tie-dyed T-shirt from the dresser. It’s not like she was aiming to impress her criminal friend sitting in the living room. Only a criminal would know how to break into someone’s home.
“Brother.” She grabbed makeup remover and swiped at her eyes. The makeup, the fancy clothes—none of it was Sandy, although the lace underwear felt strangely comfortable.
She stilled and studied her reflection in the mirror. “Rough on the outside, sparkly on the inside,” she whispered. She was starting to think there wasn’t a man on earth who’d get to see the amazing light show happening at the center of her soul.
Padding into her private bathroom, she washed her face, scrubbing off the disastrous night, her disastrous failure. Sheesh, what did a girl have to do to get some sexual relief?
Drying her face, she froze. If sexual relief was what she wanted then there was a hot-blooded, sexy male sitting in her living room. She just had to…
“Not happening.” She slid the towel back onto the rack and plucked her baggy sweatpants off a hook on the door.
She’d been a fool to think one night of hot sex with a stranger would cure her of whatever she suffered from. Which was what exactly? A bad case of F.O.S.: fear of spinsterhood?
She whipped open her bedroom door and walked down the hall. No sign of The Stripper. Relief and disappointment snagged her insides. He’d up and left without saying good-bye?
“Where are your glasses?”
Sandy jumped at the sound of his voice coming from her kitchen. “What are you doing?”
“Making us something to drink.”
“I’ve had enough, thank you very much.” She plopped down on her oversized floral couch, clutching a pillow to her chest.
“I meant tea. You’re quite the connoisseur.” He appeared in the doorway and rattled a container of tealeaves. “Or do we roll this and smoke it instead?”