Dangerous Moves

by Karen Rock

  “Not that I’m aware of, specifically. But if anyone approaches you with unusual requests or a threat, call me. Especially if it’s a stranger.”

  “Like you?”

  Jesus. She didn’t quit. “I’m not the bad guy here, Ms. Landon.” Despite himself, a defensive note entered his voice.

  The medal in his pocket pressed against his thigh, the one his adopted father found pinned to his diaper when he’d rescued a crack-addicted, newborn Blake from a dumpster. It was a tangible reminder of his tainted roots and the lost boy he’d been, the person he could have become…the man he’d never let himself be. He always chose right over wrong, good over bad, to prove to his father he was worth saving that day, to show the world he shouldn’t have been abandoned. Wasn’t disposable.

  Life only held two colors when viewed correctly. Black and white.

  Reese’s hoop earrings swung as she cocked her head. “The jury’s out on that.”

  “Consider me the fucking cavalry. If you call, I’ll come charging. Also, lock all your doors and windows. If your father has a home alarm system, activate it.”

  He threw back the last of his lukewarm coffee and set the mug down on the desk’s corner. The bitter dregs of the last gulp stuck in the back of his throat. Time to wrap this up and pursue a lead he’d gotten on his way over here. “So, when do I start?”

  “No openings managing the door. Any experience tending bar? Mixing drinks?” Her eyes narrowed, a challenge in their depths.

  He rubbed his jaw bristle. “Mostly a beer guy, but I’m a fast learner.”

  She nodded, thoughtful. “Your inexperience would draw too much attention.” Her gaze dropped to a paper stack before her. “But I’ve got a resignation letter here from one of the dancers.”

  He slid to his feet and bit back a grimace. Damn woman. “Do I look like a dancer to you?”

  Her eyes fell to his feet then rose slowly to his face, a slow, sensual perusal. Heat rushed south, along with his blood and his sense. “Your other attributes will compensate,” she said smoothly, fingering a large, heart-shaped locket.

  “Such as?” Jesus. Was he a piece of meat now?

  “Turn around.”

  “What? No. That’s not going to—”

  “Do you want to work here or not? You’re lucky I’m even considering this. The last member of my family to cooperate with you ended up shot and in intensive care.”

  His shoulders lowered. Fine. She had a point. He spun around.

  “Are we done?” he snapped after a few seconds, then turned, his body rigid.

  Her appreciative eyes met his, tightening his groin. “We’re just getting started.”

  “Look, lady. I’m not one of your pretty boys.”

  He cleared his throat and breathed in a steadying gulp of air. Too bad her scent filtered through as she glided around the desk, seducing his senses with the knowledge of how she smelled.

  Clean. Like soap rather than fragrance. The intimate realization made him want to know what her hair smelled like too. Hell.

  “No. But variety spices things up, don’t you think?” She leaned against the desk and cocked her head. “Take off your clothes.”

  He stepped back and crossed his arms, shock rippling through him. After a moment, he managed to unclamp his jaw and say, “Not happening.”

  She pouted and made a noise that sounded more amused than sympathetic. “Too bad. I can’t hire you without an audition. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  His feet stuck to the floor as she brushed by him. Her hand landed on the doorknob before the truth hit him. She wanted him out of here and had no intention of hiring him. She’d made it impossible on purpose.

  To hell with that.

  He could impose his will, but then he’d jeopardize any chance at building rapport with her, a critical tool of his undercover work.

  He pulled his gun belt out of the back of his pants, placed it on the chair and whistled, making her head snap around. When her eyes fixed on him, he tugged his T-shirt from his jeans, lifting it slowly, inch by inch, the air conditioning making his abdominal muscles contract. When the tee reached shoulder height, he pulled it off and tossed it at her feet.

  There. She wanted a show, and he’d give her one.

  Reese sucked in her cheeks, her gasp filling him with pleasure, strong and tart. Had she thought he’d back down? She’d learn, soon enough, he didn’t run from challenges…ever.

  At last her mouth closed, and she stepped closer, chin raised. “Not bad. Why’d you stop?”

  “Because you can’t handle seeing the rest. Trust me.”

  One eyebrow arched, and she gave him a speculative stare. “Didn’t peg you for the shy type. Guess a job here won’t work out after all.”

  His head jerked back. She wasn’t letting up on this little game. She believed if she pushed him hard enough, she’d get rid of him completely.

  He set his jaw.

  If she wanted more, he’d sure as hell give it to her.

  His fingers fumbled with his belt before yanking it loose and dropping it to the floor. He hesitated a moment, his hands on his zipper.

  Now or never.

  He slid the iron teeth apart and turned on his heel, dropping his jeans and boxer briefs so they pooled at his feet. The air slid across his bare ass, her sharp intake of air the only sound in the room.

  He planted his feet far apart to give her some bonus footage and peered at her over his shoulder.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  Her mouth worked silently, her eyes saucer-sized.

  “Want me to turn around?” He bit back a chuckle, enjoying this sexy cat-and-mouse game.

  “Hell, yeah,” she breathed.

  “Nope. Not happening. At least not until I’m ‘hired’.” He slid up his jeans, donned his shirt then faced her again. “When do I start?”

  The heat in her frank stare belied her off-handed shrug. He’d gotten to her, and damn if it didn’t please him a lot more than it should. “I’ll have to get back to you. You know…don’t call me, I’ll call you…”

  He grabbed his gun belt, buckled it on and slid it out of sight before brushing by her, holding in a laugh. Reese Landon had more swagger than many of the tough guys on the force. And she was whole lot nicer to look at.

  “I’ll start tomorrow.” He pulled open the creaking door and strode down the treads, asserting his authority and putting himself back in charge. Just how it should be.

  Her next words stopped him halfway down the stairs.

  “Dance practice begins at 10 a.m. I’ll let you know when you’re ready to perform. Oh, and uh—Blake?”

  He glanced up and caught her sardonic smile. She sure as hell didn’t stay rattled for long.

  “Yes?” He drummed his fingers on the banister.

  “Bring a G-string next time. We run a legal establishment here. Don’t want any trouble with the law.”

  Her mocking laugh followed him as he clomped the rest of the way out, swearing under his breath. He eyed the purple-lit space packed with screaming women. Confetti cannons boomed, competing with the cash floating through the air. A howling man, clad in an animal-print G-string, swung from a rope and beat his chest. Women grabbed at him as he passed overhead.

  A frustrated breath escaped him as he burst outside. The neon sign behind him blared, “Men! Men! Men!”

  He hopped on his hog, shoved his helmet on and zoomed out of the parking lot, his mind racing as fast as his ride.

  What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  * * * *

  A crushing weight presses the air out of Reese. She struggles to rise, disoriented, her vision limited by the wall of flesh pinning her down. What’s happening? She’d brought out the club’s garbage, heard a sharp noise behind her, and then…

  S
omeone pants hard in her ear. Hot, heavy breaths.

  “Don’t move or I’ll kill you,” the man growls. Low. Like a vicious dog. It’s a voice she recognizes. Trusts. Or used to. Officer Bates.

  How?

  Why?

  Panic seizes her, freezing her in place. Immobilizing her limbs, breath, and vocal chords. She opens her mouth, but only her silent terror flies out. In the back of her throat, a howl scratches and claws for release.

  She twists beneath him, but it feels like he’s burying her alive. No escape. Immutable and elemental, primal as earth. The clods of dirt pour into her ears and lungs, about to fill the rest of her until she sinks completely beneath its weight and disappears. Lost. Already lost.

  Inevitability is the mother of despair. Of helplessness.

  You cannot fight what you cannot change, whispers an insidious voice.

  No.

  Rough fingers claw at her skirt, shoving it up around her waist. Her underwear is ripped off like tissue. She heaves beneath him. Manages to raise her head. Enough to open her mouth again.

  A hand clamps over it then shoves her head into the asphalt. Pain explodes in her skull. Blinding. Spots fizz and pop on the edge of her tunneling vision like fireworks. She’s sure her head has cracked open like an egg. Just as fragile. It shocks her how little it takes to break her.

  Those fingers are back, but she’s clamping her thighs together. He’s digging his sharp fingernails into her stinging flesh. Scraping so that he draws blood as he leverages, pries, forces her legs apart.

  Relentless.

  Inevitable.

  Flight or fight. She can do neither.

  A loud bellow erupts somewhere in the distance. Then the weight is gone and she feels as though she might float away. Released.

  Officer Bates staggers back and her father, her father…she tries crying out…her father is there, pointing his gun at the bigger, uniformed man, refusing to back down until he leaves, swearing. Saying, I’m not done with you… Then she’s weeping in her father’s arms. Telling him at last what she’d been too paralyzed to say.

  No. No. No no no no no.

  A walloping shriek jerked Reese upright; the bedcovers pooled at her waist. Her heart flung itself against her rib cage. She swiped the damp from her cheeks with a shaking hand, and her eyes darted around the muggy, shadowed room, orienting herself, the tentacles of her old, recurring nightmare slithering away. The digital clock by her bed read three a.m.

  She was inside, safe.

  An alarm blared from the floors below.

  No. Not safe.

  She sucked in a fast breath. After activating her father’s security system, she’d dropped straight into sleep in her old attic bed last night.

  Now something had triggered the alarm.

  Someone.

  The old, paralyzing terror of her attack, the fear that’d chased her from Dallas, slammed into her.

  Her heart sped as she recalled the cop who’d assaulted her twelve years ago. After her dad thwarted the ambush, her gratitude turned to confusion and betrayal when he’d refused to report the officer who shook down local businesses for “extra protection.” The struggling club didn’t need negative press or reprisals, he’d insisted. Plus, snooping law enforcement might uncover his questionable business shortcuts and petty financial schemes needed to keep the club afloat.

  The fact that her father had prioritized the club over her, a common refrain from her lonely, motherless childhood, still hurt. Frightened and crushed, she’d fled Dallas and launched a career she could be proud of. It affirmed she was worthy, someone a father should value, through her hard work and drive. No shortcuts. Just grit. Soon she’d open her own dance studio, a legitimate business no one could threaten.

  Only now, she’d been delayed in Dallas, in danger once more.

  She needed to run. Hide.

  Outside, a howling wind lashed tree branches against the window screens. It carried the scents of the no-man’s-land encircling the remote, three-story house. Dead grass, moldering dirt, burnt brush. She pressed her palms together, jammed her fingers up against her mouth and breathed hard into them, staring at nothing. The black night glared back at her, full of threat. She’d always hated the dark…ever since…

  Her hands went to her head. She rubbed the heels back and forth over her temples and crushed down her dread. Change your thinking, her former therapist had advised. Then your actions and feelings will follow. But the alarm’s insistent ringing was knocking clear thought right out of her.

  Had she forgotten to close the windows she’d opened downstairs to counter the heat? The rising wind could have tossed something against the screens, triggering the motion detector.

  …or it might be an intruder forcing a door or window. Officer Bates, back for her? No. That’d be crazy…wouldn’t it?

  And shouldn’t the security company have called by now to check in? She snatched up the landline beside the bed and pressed the set to her ear. Nothing. Only dead silence. It crashed to the floor from her numb fingers.

  Scrambling over the side of the bed, she checked the cord still plugged in behind the nightstand. Was another handset off the hook, or had someone cut the line? Someone who knew she was here and didn’t want her calling for help?

  Her pulse hammered right through her, practically lifting her off the floor. Where was her cell? She grabbed for her purse and came up empty. In her exhaustion, she must have left it downstairs.

  Damn.

  She whirled and the room twisted around her, bending, stretching into obscene shapes. She had to get out of here. Do something. After fleeing Dallas, she’d vowed never to feel helpless again. Yet here she was, back only one day, snatched right into the vortex of her old fears.

  Her new self’s first test.

  At a clattering bang, she froze. Someone was prowling close by. Her father’s attacker? Back to gun her down? Take whatever her father had on him?

  Not to mention Officer Bates might still live and work in the area…Maybe he hadn’t forgotten her in twelve years. She sure hadn’t forgotten him.

  She needed to get her phone and call 911.

  A skittering sound followed by a jolting thump made her leap to her feet and tiptoe down the first flight of stairs. The moonlight pouring through the second story landing’s window tossed her shadow ahead of her. She pressed her back to the wall and slipped down the last flight into the kitchen.

  On hands and knees, she crossed the wooden floor to the table and grabbed her purse. Her fingers fumbled the zipper three times before the teeth parted. In a flash, she snatched up her cell and pressed the power button.

  Nothing.

  Out of juice and no charger. She must have forgotten it in New York…or left it upstairs in her suitcase. Alarm slithered under her skin. She grabbed a chef’s knife from her butcher block, crawled to the back door and reached up to check the lock.

  Jesus. A push lock, not a dead bolt? And the chain latch wouldn’t even keep out the mice. The dark air seemed to twitch in the corners.

  Her pulse battered the walls of her veins. Officer Knight called himself her fucking cavalry. Well, where was he when she needed him?

  She strove to control her breathing and center herself the way she’d been taught.

  You can defend yourself.

  No one needs to rescue you.

  At a hard rap on the door’s upper glass, she dropped the knife, and it skittered by her feet, just beyond reach.

  “Reese. It’s Officer Knight. Let me in.”

  She froze. A cop.

  “Reese. Hold up a hand if that’s your head I’m seeing.”

  His deep, masculine baritone penetrated her flickering, flitting mind. Yes. She knew that voice. Knew him. She lifted her hand then shot to her feet, palms pressed against the glass.

  She could make out his
large shape, a shade darker than the night, those impossibly broad shoulders, that powerful build. Throwing open the door, she flung herself at him, her heart thumping.

  It took a few minutes for her shaking to subside. A few more to realize his warm hands smoothed her sleep shirt across her back while hers wrapped around his waist.

  A flush crept from her neck and flooded her cheeks. She jerked away. Damn it. She was not a damsel in distress.

  Then stop acting like one.

  She was failing this first test.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Why are you playing with knives in the dark?” He glanced over at the metal blade.

  “I asked you first.”

  “I’m here to protect your ass.” He pointed to the alarm pad by the door. “What’s your security code?”

  She relayed it then let out a long breath. “Fine. You win. I thought someone was trying to break into my house so I grabbed the knife. If I’d known it was you, I would’ve gone for the gun.”

  His quick laugh dispelled some of the tension, yet his face remained sober. “Bet you would have.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Heard the dispatch request for officers to respond to a security alarm out here. When I called, your cell went to voice mail, and your phone’s out of order.”

  It didn’t hit her all at once. It came like the slow cold of an IV crawling up a vein. Every pore in her body was prickling. When she ran her hands over her head, her hair didn’t feel like hers. For the second time today, her knees gave out, and she sank into a kitchen chair.

  “Someone must have cut my phone line. It worked when I got home and called the hospital.” Meaning someone intended to harm her. Suddenly, helping Blake solve the case wasn’t just about avenging her father. She, too, was in serious danger.

  His head whipped around, those watchful eyes darting every which way. “Do you have a scarf?”

  She glanced at her chair’s back and pointed. “It’s pink.”

  “My favorite color,” he muttered, tying it over most of his face while pulling on a baseball cap before bolting for the door. At the last minute, he whirled, his eyes fierce. “Stay put,” he commanded, his tone stronger and more intense than before. His cop voice, she guessed, feeling oddly attracted despite the danger. Without another word, he vanished into the night again, his gun drawn.