by Karen Rock
Cover Copy
Pounding music. Sculpted men. And a conspiracy that could cost far more than a few dollar bills…
HOT COP
Detective Blake Knight has been undercover before. But an assignment to bust a steroid ring running out of Dallas’s elite male strip club means his new cover will be nothing but his own taut muscles and oiled skin. It’s one thing for the tough, by-the-books agent to take down bad guys with his gun. Facing a rowdy crowd in only a G-string is another story…especially in front of his new boss, gorgeous, mysterious Reese Landon.
Her father’s club and shady business practices bring back terrible memories for Reese. But when he’s shot and goes into a coma, she vows to protect him the way he never did for her. That means keeping the police at a distance—especially sexy, driven Detective Knight. If she has to give him a cover job, it would be a crime not to put that glorious ass on stage. But no matter how good he looks in a Velcro uniform, she can’t trust him, or give in to the undeniable heat between them. They’re both chasing the truth. And it might expose more than either wants to show . . .
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Dangerous Moves
Dallas After Dark
Karen Rock
LYRICAL LIAISON
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Lyrical Liaison books are published by
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Copyright © 2018 by Karen Rock
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First Electronic Edition: February 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0612-7
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0612-1
First Print Edition: February 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0615-8
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0615-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband, Greg, my partner-in-crime and fellow thrill seeker. Thanks for filling my life with love, laughter, and adventure.
Chapter One
Undercover agents were no one and everyone. The job created and erased your identity so many times you forgot who you were. What you believed. Your sole focus—your mission, because without it, you disappeared entirely.
And right now, Detective Blake Knight needed to be invisible.
He pressed his back against the enclosed parking lot’s concrete wall, slid his Glock from its shoulder holster and snapped it to his chest. Outside the glassless windows, the night thinned toward a chilly gray. The acrid smell of rust, stagnant water and diesel permeated the dank space, his sinuses and his bones. His heartbeat banged against his eardrums.
The street lamps still glowed, but Dallas brightened into something resembling morning. Not that it made any difference. Blake’s undercover work existed in shadows where only drug busts, takedowns and bookings marked time’s passage. And his time on this opiate-ring case ended once he nabbed its leader, Dennison “Dez” Prandel.
“Dez?” he called in a loud whisper.
“Jesus. That you, Snake Eyes? Where the hell were you tonight?”
Sharp steps echoed, staccato, in the empty space. Blake shoved down the anger rising from his gut. He ignored the hard, cold air pricking his neck and focused on the job. Time to put away this scumbag, whose lethal heroin mix claimed twelve lives this month, part of the steady drip of drug crimes shooting through Dallas’s veins.
Taking Dez off the streets wouldn’t solve the problem. For Blake, it wasn’t just about putting away one criminal at a time, but battling the worst side of human nature. “Yeah. You alone?”
Dez’s shadow twitched on an opposite column, tall and skeletal. Did he have his .44 out? “Blasted that motherfucker chasing me down Third.”
Pain exploded in Blake’s chest. Craig Lanigan. Thirty-three. Six years in uniform, one with narcotics. Blake’s finger tightened on the trigger. Time to even up the score.
“Holy fuck, that was close.” Dez half-snorted, half-laughed. A lighter clicked, then a long exhale followed three quick puffs. “Don’t know what happened to his partner.”
Blake strode from around the corner and pointed his Glock dead at Dez’s chest. “He’s right here.”
“Whaaa—?” Dez’s cigarette tumbled to the grimy floor in a shower of red-yellow sparks. Shock widened his pale eyes, and he eased back a step.
“Face down and spread ’em!” Blake barked. He widened his stance and braced, taking up every inch of space. The world even. This bastard was going nowhere.
Dez’s head jerked sideways, and his lashes blinked rapid-fire. A tremor ran through his mind, erupting from deep within as he finally understood, finally saw Blake after all. “You—you’re a cop.”
Yes. A fucking good one. “Down on the ground!”
Dez’s jaw clamped and something hard and lethal flashed on his face. He wanted to draw on Blake.
Come on, asshole, Blake thought, staring back, almost hoping he tried. Danger didn’t bother him; he ate it with a spoon.
Then tires squealed, and a blue van barreled between them. Once it flashed past, Blake glimpsed the back of Dez’s leather jacket vanishing down the stairwell.
Shit.
Adrenaline grabbed hold of his body. He blasted after his quarry and plunged down the stairs, boots skimming over treads, in full-on hunt mode. Blake had his prey in his sights and was closing in, readying for the moment he’d have him pinned down and in his control. The smell of blood raged at the back of Blake’s nose. A victory roar built at the bottom of his gut.
Jesus, he loved this feeling.
A shot whistled by his ear. Blake ducked, then flung himself back in pursuit. How many floors left?
His heart battered against his rib cage.
Two.
Dez’s footsteps drummed, faster and faster.
Now one floor.
Only a couple more feet before Dez reached the outside door and joined the morning rush hour’s start. Civilians. Innocent lives.
No.
“Halt, or I’ll shoot!”
Dez grabbed the door bar.
Without pausing, Blake raised his gun and fired.
“Ahhhh!” With a twisty jerk, Dez careened sideways. He staggered, bounced off a wall, then crumpled to the floor, holding his shoulder.
Blake kicked Dez’s gun away and shoved his boot in his back. Hard. “Arms and feet spread,” he commanded.
Dez hauled his limbs into spread-eagle position. Red
bloomed on the concrete beneath him. Blake brought his walkie-talkie to his mouth and called dispatch, his world back in order…until the next assignment…his next identity.
Four hours later, after waiting for Craig to emerge from surgery, Blake perched on a chair’s edge across from his boss. His fingertips burned where they touched the steaming mug clasped between them.
Captain Dillard, a ruddy man in his midfifties, sat behind a bed-sized desk signing paperwork. “Good work, Blake,” he said without lifting his head.
Blake’s mind flashed to Craig, stabilized and expected to make a full recovery. With an officer down, though, he hardly deserved praise.
His superior’s eyes rolled up beneath a wiry tangle of eyebrows. “Your father would be proud.”
That caught Blake with a warmth that almost hurt. From a young age, he’d wanted to become a cop like his old man. One of the good guys. Yet he’d failed Craig.
“I hope so, sir.”
Captain Dillard pulled off his reading glasses. “You’ve probably heard Meyers is retiring from Texas DPS Criminal Investigations.”
Blake stiffened. His father’s former unit.
“I’ve recommended you, but some of the longtimers are skeptical. They say you’re too young, rash. Not seasoned enough to trust. Officer Lanigan’s shooting confirms their doubts.”
Captain Dillard paused and watched Blake, his face immobile. In the silence, a faint wind struggled against the precinct’s windows. Traffic hummed in the distance. Blake imagined the unheard noises. The stealthy drug transactions: drawn guns, cash and drug exchanges, junkies begging for their next fix, an overdosing addict drawing her last breath.
“You need to prove yourself,” Captain Dillard continued. “Might have just the case for you to do it, but it’ll be your only chance at the promotion.”
Blake set down his mug and leaned forward, knees jittering. His thumb traced the engraved edges of a St. Anthony medal in his pocket: patron saint of the lost.
The captain yanked open a drawer, pulled out a thick folder and dropped it on his cluttered desk. “A steroids ring. The biggest Dallas has ever seen. And deadly. Last night, someone shot one of our informants and put him in a coma.”
“Was he compromised?”
Captain Dillard’s eyebrows pulled together, and he clasped his hands atop his head. “You need to find out. The case might even cross state lines, though that’s only speculation. I’m putting you in charge. Bust this group and the promotion’s yours. But you play by the rules, no improvising, no stunts…every “t” crossed and “i” dotted…you got me? Mess up, and you’ll never get another shot.”
Determination rammed up Blake’s spine, locking each vertebra as he stood. He’d devoted his career, his life, to achieving this opportunity. No way would he screw it up. “Yes sir. Where’s the target? An athletic outfit? Gym?”
The corner of the captain’s mouth twitched, his eyes lighting with amusement. “Ever heard of Dallas Heat?”
Blake stared at him. Puzzled. Strange name for a gym. “No sir.”
“It’s a male strip club,” Captain Dillard said through a grin.
That pulled a hard crack of laughter out of Blake. “Good one, Captain.”
The smile disappeared, and Captain Dillard’s eyes sharpened into a glower. “This some kind of joke to you, son?”
Silence descended again, a small one this time. Sweat beaded Blake’s brow. “No sir.”
“You disapprove?” One eyebrow rose.
Blake shook his head and hid his misgivings.
“Good.” Captain Dillard shuffled through some papers then shoved the lot at Blake. “We’re calling it Operation Juiced.”
“Thank you, sir.” Blake scooped up the stack, turned on his heel and strode across the room, mind in overdrive. How the hell was he going to prove himself to the DPS higher-ups while undercover in a male strip club? He could already hear the jokes coming.
The captain’s amused voice stopped Blake at the door.
“Oh, and—uh—better grab a G-string.” Captain Dillard’s chuckle emerged, as rusty and startling as an old chainsaw. “You start tomorrow. Code name: Hot Cop.”
And there was the first joke.
Damn.
Chapter Two
“Yo, Reese!” shouted a glistening, near-naked man over the screeching women swarming Dallas Heat’s stage.
Reese Landon paused inside the male strip club’s entrance and waved at Nash Hawkins, the joint’s hottest dancer. Her eyes widened at the sexy outfit barely covering his banging body: a black cowboy hat, boots and ass-less leather chaps.
Giddyup.
Every cord, tendon and muscle seemed carved from marble. Her lips quirked. Marble with a spray tan. And baby oil, she amended. Every cowgirl’s fantasy; a damn masterpiece. One you could touch…
Dallas’s elite male revue aimed to please.
A slow R & B tune throbbed inside the inviting, neon-lit space. The sensual sound wove through the warm, musky air and pulsed off its polished floors and mirrored walls. A sea of dollar bills waved overhead.
Home sweet home.
Reese zigzagged through the horde, light-headed. Being here again, after all this time, squeezed the strength right out of her, squashed it into a wad and tossed it away.
Nash leapt off stage, earning a protest from his fans, and grabbed Reese around the waist. “Good to see you, darlin’. Sorry about your dad.”
She peered up at her father’s top draw, a little breathless. After twelve years, Nash hadn’t changed a bit. Same tangle of black hair, piercing green eyes, and a bronzed, hard body designed to drive women wild. Beneath all that hotness also lurked a secret dork who’d played Mario Kart with his employer’s lonely daughter before his performances.
“Thanks. Good seeing you too.” Though not quite so much of him…she pinned her eyes above his broad shoulders. Who could manage a coherent conversation with an oiled Adonis? Not her, especially as his new, temporary boss.
Reggie, their DJ, waved from his soundstage. The current tune transitioned into The Weeknd’s “Earned It,” winning him feminine squeals of approval. He fiddled with his earpiece then folded his arms across his large Hawaiian shirt. Dark sunglasses obscured his eyes.
Nash’s shoulders rippled in an apologetic shrug. “Better earn my keep. Will you stick around? Have a drink after?”
Reese nodded. “I’m managing the club until Dad’s back.” Saying it out loud twisted her stomach and made her return real.
A slow smile spread across Nash’s handsome face. “Always told him you’d come home. No matter what you said.” He backed away, and hysterical women fell over themselves as they got up close and personal with his impressive rear view.
He vaulted onstage and gyrated to the beat, alternating arms forward and back, pointing at one screaming woman after another. And when the cacophony reached glass-shattering levels, he doffed his hat with a wink and thrust his hips into it. Hard.
The air rained green.
Reese maneuvered through the hyped women grooving beside zebra-patterned chairs. Nash hauled up one wearing a bride-to-be sash, wrapped her legs around his waist, then bent her backwards while she and her hell-raising group whooped and hollered.
Dallas Heat: edgy entertainment, where good girls came to be very, very bad…
Or, in her case, where a very bad thing happened to a good girl…
At the bar, a smooth-chested stud wearing a cowboy hat and low-riding jeans raised a Jack Daniel’s bottle. With his brown hair buzzed on the sides and overlong bangs obscuring half his lean face, he resembled a young Johnny Depp. “Looks like someone could use a drink.”
“Sounds good.” Anything to ease the pounding in her temples and the ache in her heart.
What if her dad didn’t recover from his wounds? What if the doctors and her uncle were wrong a
nd her father’s temporary state of unconscious became permanent?
What if he never woke from his coma?
“You’re Pete’s daughter, right?” The hard-body’s pecs flexed as he held out her glass. Brown eyes sparked behind lashes long enough to look fake.
Seriously.
Where did her father find all these hot guys? 1-800-STUD?
She slid onto the stool, lifted the drink and sniffed. Her eyes closed in appreciation at the familiar woody smell. It whisked her back home with her father and mother. She was ten, flush from her first solo dance recital performance.
“Here’s to our prima ballerina.” Her father clinked his tumbler against her smiling mother’s wine glass, whiskey splashing over its side. “Someday she might even be as good as her old man.”
“Let’s hope not,” her mother groaned, then mouthed “Never” at Reese.
“What are you saying?” her father blustered, mock outraged.
“That I didn’t marry you for your moves,” her mother teased, and they’d dissolved into laughter when her father struck a corny disco pose.
A week later, a doctor diagnosed her mother with breast cancer. Eighteen months later, she was dead.
Liquid dripped onto Reese’s knuckles, jolting her back to the here and now. She downed the double shot, and her eyes watered as her throat caught fire.
“How’d you know who I am?” she managed once the burning died down. At least her migraine eased and the painful memory faded.
“Nash’s hug.” The bartender refilled her glass. “He doesn’t get that close unless money’s visible.”
A short laugh escaped her. Given the club’s perennial financial struggles, her father would approve.
She sipped her drink and thought of her earlier hospital visit. Wearing a thin gown and surrounded by buzzing machines, his head bandaged from a gunshot wound, her larger-than-life dad appeared diminished. Not the man who’d once shrunk her with his withdrawal and ultimately his abandonment after her mother’s passing…when she’d needed him most…when they’d needed each other.