by Karen Rock
Just then someone banged on the kitchen’s back door before opening it and stepping inside. A tall man with a round, squat head on beefy shoulders jerked to a stop. His ruddy face drained of color. Before his gaze settled on Reese, his eyes darted to the living room and he cleared his throat.
“Hello?” Reese set down the chopping knife. An uncomfortable prickling sensation began at the bottom of her spine and scraped along her vertebra at his intense stare.
“Coach Lewis,” boomed her uncle. He and Marisol hurried into the kitchen. Her aunt plunked a wooden bowl down next to the chopping board while her uncle clapped the middle-aged man on the back. “Here to pick up your players?”
“Should have been here an hour ago.” Coach Lewis had a thick Southern accent, a tight smile and cold eyes. He fidgeted with his TMU windbreaker’s zipper toggle.
“Let’s get them. They’re clearing out the old barn. Have you met my niece, by the way? Reese, honey, this here’s Sam Lewis, head coach over at TMU. And this is her friend Blade.”
Sam kept his hands in his pockets and jerked his chin in a curt nod, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet.
After an awkward pause, her uncle’s smile faded. “Well, then. Be back in a moment, darlin’.” With a wave, Uncle Tom and the coach disappeared out the door.
“How do they know each other?” Reese asked, sliding the chopped vegetables into the bowl, then carrying it to the table. Blake stood at the sink, staring out at the yard. She couldn’t see the two men, but the murmur of their voices rose as they passed by on their way to the barns.
“He headed the hiring group that recruited Sam five years ago.” Aunt Marisol opened a glass-fronted cabinet and pulled out clear bottles containing oil and vinegar. “They’ve been friends ever since. Of course, your uncle’s generosity as a team benefactor may play a role as well.”
“Or his record as a former TMU all-star running back.” Reese struggled to return Aunt Marisol’s smile. Something bothered her about Coach Lewis—more than his strange reaction to her.
“What are the players doing here?” Blake asked without turning.
“They help out with odd jobs,” Aunt Marisol said offhandedly, holding back a bit of the truth. Reese knew boosters like her uncle gave football players high-paying, low-responsibility jobs to sweeten their recruitment packages without breaking the rules against athlete compensation.
“Dad’s got a few of them dancing at the club,” Reese said, her mind tumbling, struggling to latch onto the source of her unease. This unsettled feeling was so out of character. King’s Ranch had always been a second home to Reese, the people who lived here showing her more kindness, more guidance than her own father. But for some reason, being back here now felt off.
“He’s a booster, too,” Marisol murmured in her ear as she plucked a wilted flower from a bouquet set in the center of the table.
Reese froze. Being a booster explained the mysterious funds vanishing from Dallas Heat’s books, since he’d pay the athletes under the table. But from where did those monies originate? And how much had her father been paying these players? The numbers recorded in her father’s ledgers were huge, way more than could be explained away by a few college dancers.
The hairs on the back of Reese’s neck rose as her thoughts stilled and fell into place. Her mind drifted back to the night, twelve years ago, her father refused to even acknowledge…and then more recently, to the night in the parking lot.
Her attacker’s ring. It’d been huge. Shiny and gaudy—just like her uncle’s Big Twelve conference ring. He’d mentioned TMU won last year.
Did her attackers play for TMU? Work for her father? If so, then she wasn’t safe even inside the club.
“You know how crazy your father and Tom are about TMU,” Marisol added, louder. “Anything for the team.”
Blake turned and their eyes met. Her heart beat fast.
“Right,” Reese murmured slowly, her thoughts on her sports-loving parent. “Anything for the team.”
Did that—could that—mean her father was also supplying them with steroids?
No. Not that.
But the erratic bank transactions. Could her father be unwittingly laundering money for the ring? Working with someone from TMU like Coach Lewis who might be strong-arming him? Lying to him? Someone who’d ordered a hit on her father when they’d discovered he’d agreed to be an informant?
And now, she was their next target.
* * * *
Blake pressed two hundred and fifty pounds, lowered the barbell to his chest, then repeated the maneuver as he powered through another set of ten. His muscles ached after a grueling ninety-minute workout. Sweat plastered his short hair to his scalp and turned his tank into a second skin. He sat up, peeled it off, and stuffed it in his gym bag.
He dragged in a ragged breath and peered around Bulk Gym, the newly opened deluxe workout center where Dixon moonlighted as a personal trainer. Metal clanged, men grunted and acid rock throbbed in the open space filled with state-of-the-art machines, high-end equipment and free weights. Overhead fans whirred warm air reeking of sweat, body odor, and sanitizer spray. A couple of players wearing TMU gear alternated arms as they whipped heavy ropes anchored to a post.
Where was Dixon? Blake had groomed him all week, buying steroids and grabbing beers together after ensconcing Reese in her guarded house, finally earning the dancer’s trust and scoring this invite. He needed to find out more about Dixon’s day-to-day operations and chain of command. The sooner he cracked the case, the faster he could ensure Reese’s safety, as important to him now as earning his promotion.
He’d agreed when her uncle urged her to return to New York. After a difficult childhood, she deserved happiness. When he’d voiced his opinion on the car ride home, however, she’d stonewalled him, insisting her father needed her. It didn’t seem like they had a close relationship, yet she stuck by her dad.
Her unswerving devotion, without regard for her own welfare, impressed him. Gutsy Reese didn’t abandon those she loved easily. What drove her from Dallas twelve years ago? Something traumatic, he surmised, painful enough to make her cut off all communications with a father she still adored. Curiosity to understand everything about Reese grew with each passing day.
It’d been a long time—if ever—that a woman snared his attention this way.
Would she stand by him or despise him if he put her father away? He shook away the thought. Reese’s take-no-shit attitude, tantalizing looks and sexy-smart banter was driving him insane.
But as much as Blake enjoyed his time with her, and despite their sizzling chemistry, he had to walk the line. Reese was off-limits, a ticking sex bomb ready to detonate his case if he didn’t take care.
Technically, she wasn’t a suspect, so he wouldn’t cross any professional boundaries by indulging his growing desire. Still, he needed to maintain laser focus, and right now Dixon demanded his attention. Not the lovely, sexy, contemporary dancer who’d snared too many of his thoughts.
A small group of raucous, bulked-up men entered through the front glass doors. Their booming voices caught the attention of a few gym-goers as they swaggered in with an unmistakable authoritative gait.
Police.
One of the officers, Shane O’Neill, nearly jeopardized Blake’s meth sting last year when he’d intercepted a drug transaction and mistakenly tried to arrest Blake.
He bent over his gym bag and rummaged in it to conceal his face until their voices faded. He wouldn’t risk one calling out to him with Dixon close.
Speaking of whom…
Blake peered around the room, spotted the officers disappearing into the changing area, then hoisted his gym bag and strode to a back hall where he’d last seen Dixon loitering. A few paces carried him down the narrow corridor. Dixon’s familiar voice halted him in his tracks.
“That’s all you’ve got? I
could sell five times this tomorrow.”
Blake flattened himself against the wall, keeping to the shadows, and edged closer to the doorway. A woman’s voice drifted out, low-pitched and curt, as if Dixon’s complaint irritated her. Blake peered around the hallway, his eyes settling on the tiny plaque mounted next to the office door. Cherie Drew, Owner.
Cherie Drew.
The name on the card he’d discovered in Dixon’s gym locker.
“We’ve got more coming in soon,” Cherie said airily. “You’re dancing for me at my birthday party, right?”
Dixon made some kind of grunting acknowledgement.
“I should have more for you then, babe.”
“Another three days?” Dixon grumbled. “What am I supposed to tell my customers?”
“The shipment was delayed.” Annoyance edged Cherie’s voice. “You think I can just whip this stuff out of thin air? Jeez, you dealers. Always a pain in my ass.”
“I’ll give you a pain in your ass.”
Cherie tittered. “Naughty boy. Good thing you’re one of my favorites. Some of my boys got nothing today.”
Blake’s professional instincts leapt into high alert. Cherie was the ring’s distributer. Another step up the ladder, bringing him closer to his prize. Who supplied her?
“Now be a good boy and bring five of the club’s dancers to the party. Nash, if you can get him. Oh, that man’s a sex god.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dixon muttered.
Blake scuttled back to the corridor’s opening and bent over the water fountain just as Dixon emerged from the office, followed by a petite woman with a fountain-spray of auburn hair. With her pinched features and twitchy expression, she resembled an electrified fox.
“Hey.” Blake straightened and scrubbed a hand across his mouth as the pair approached.
“Well now, if it’s not Hot Cop,” drawled Cherie. A talonlike nail trailed up his abdomen, and her avaricious eyes tore through him.
He nodded, recognizing the regular who came every Thursday for their margarita specials. Channeling Blue Steel, he dropped his eyes to the tips of her pointy heels and dragged his gaze upward, forcing a smile of appreciation.
“Ooo. You feel as good as you look.” Cherie squeezed his bicep and slid her other hand down to the waistband of his gym shorts.
Blake willed his smile not to falter. He needed an invite to her birthday party to check out the place. Someone supplied Cherie, and he had to follow the bread crumbs until he uncovered the conversion lab where they mixed and bottled the steroids.
“Did Dixon invite you to my party?” she purred.
“I was going to,” Dixon huffed, his voice clipped.
Tread lightly. Don’t alienate Dixon or Cherie.
“I’d be glad to go.” Blake raised then dropped his shoulders, hands spread, his “I’m-no-threat” gesture. “Though I’m mostly tending bar these days.”
Cherie pouted, and Dixon’s glower disappeared. “You booked Dallas Heat for bar service,” Dixon reminded her.
Cherie slipped a fingertip beneath Blake’s waistband, exploring. “All right, then. Shirtless. Tight jeans, boots, and cowboy hat. Got that? And a private lap dance…”
Blake nodded. Clearly, Cherie was a fan, and he owed Reese for teaching him the hardcore moves that’d hooked him this fish. Finally, a break in the case to keep his attention firmly where it belonged. “I aim to please.”
Cherie’s crimson lips split into a broad smile. “See you then, boys.”
She swatted Dixon’s ass, turned on her heel and clattered back to her office.
“Hey, I’m not trying to creep in on your woman,” Blake reassured Dixon as he zipped up his hoodie and pulled the strings to cover his face.
“Appreciate that, man. Do you mind waiting another minute before we head back to the club? I’ve got a little business to do.”
Blake followed Dixon’s gaze to the officers racing each other on treadmills. A cold, clammy suspicion swelled in his gut.
“No problem, man.”
He watched as Dixon crossed the gym, spoke to the officers, then led them to the locker-room.
Blake followed and stopped in the tiled alcove, listening.
“It’s all I’ve got.” Dixon’s supplicating voice grated on Blake’s ears. “But I’ll have more in a couple of days.”
“Don’t fuck with us, man,” one of the officers growled.
“N-no. Promise. You guys are my number-one customers,” Dixon practically whimpered.
Number-one customers? The police?
Blake’s vision grayed momentarily. Cops upheld the law; they were the good guys who risked their lives to defend what was right and just. These guys had to be outliers.
Minutes later, Dixon caught up with Blake in the parking lot.
“You sell to cops too.” Blake shoved his arm into his leather jacket’s sleeve, got the wrong one, then tried again before jumping on his Harley.
Act cool, asshole.
Dixon donned his helmet and nodded. “Lots. They want an edge for the streets. Helps them chase down bad guys.”
“Right.” Blake waved, gunned his engine and zoomed through an intersection behind Dixon.
If steroid-taking cops chased down bad guys, then who the hell was Blake after? He hugged the white line dividing the black paved road, feeling off-balance, the crisp edge starting to blur.
Chapter Eight
“How about a French Kiss, handsome?” purred a heavily made-up woman shrink-wrapped in a silver sheath dress. Her eyes lingered on Blake’s bare abs then rose to his mouth. She licked plumped lips. “Extra creamy.”
Was that a proposition or a drink order? he wondered. So far, he’d averaged a fifty-fifty ratio at Cherie Drew’s anything-goes birthday bash.
“Coming up!” Bryan, the second bartender hired for the event, grabbed a stainless-steel shaker and bottles of vodka, raspberry liqueur and Grand Marnier.
Gales of laughter, clinking glasses, and chattering feminine voices swelled in Cherie’s two-story great room, making it tough for Blake to home in on any incriminating conversations. These well-heeled guests didn’t resemble drug dealers as they air-kissed, drank and nibbled on caviar-laden crackers. Still. Appearances could be deceiving.
The three women wiping their noses as they emerged from the powder room could have just snorted blow. The hazy-eyed lady slumped on a settee might have popped a Xanax or five on the way here. As for the hyped attendees crowding a cordoned-off area where Dallas Heat elite dancers performed, they had to be on either Ecstasy or their fourth shot of tequila. Their screams, as the men pumped their hips to an electronic dance tune, nearly tore the roof off the place.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” the partygoer quizzed Blake. “You’re the hottest guy here.” She grabbed a cherry from the fruit bin then sucked it into her puckered mouth, her tongue tangling with the thin stem.
“I’m new. Still learning the ropes.” He wiped down a wet ring on the freestanding bar, then slapped the towel over his shoulder. A resounding crash signaled another, possibly goosed, waiter had dropped his tray. If so, it’d be the third time tonight. The randy women were fired up and ready to party.
“You can practice on me anytime.” She leaned forward, her chest nearly spilling out of her dress. Blake ducked his head and lined up more wine glasses. He appreciated the view, but she just didn’t do it for him, not like sexy-smart-sassy Reese whose dry quips and ready challenges kept him on his toes and slightly off-balance. Reese tempted him to throw away his restrictions and lose himself in her.
Something sweet-smelling squirted to his left. Bryan plunked down a canister of whipped cream and carefully handed over a sloshing, white-topped drink.
“How’s that? Making women cream is one of my specialties.” Bryan’s pierced eyebrows wiggled. “Whenever you need me, I�
�ll come for you.”
Blake bit back a grin and wished like hell Reese was here to enjoy Bryan’s latest pathetic pick-up line. At least she was safe at home, out of danger, and unable to distract him from what could be the most important night of his career…as a cop, not a dancer or bartender. He needed to search the steroids ring distributor’s home to uncover her supplier. A background check revealed that Cherie filed for bankruptcy just two years ago, yet she’d somehow found a lucrative backer to finance her new gym and this kick-ass expensive home. The steroids ring’s kingpin?
“I’ll take more cream.” When Bryan picked up the canister, the flirting woman pointed at Blake’s belly button. “Right there.”
“Uh-uh,” tsked Cherie, joining them. “He’s mine. Come on, Hot Cop. I’m ready for the lap dance you promised.”
Shit. He had agreed to one.
Leading him by the gray tie knotted around his neck, she crossed to a white wooden folding chair set in the middle of her living room, then released him. The other dancers cleared out, thumping him on the back as they passed.
“Rock it, bro.”
“Do us proud.”
“Don’t fuck it up, dude,” Dixon hissed in his ear. He slid a small, foil-wrapped square package into Blake’s jeans. “Please Cherie, and she’ll supply us with more juice than we can sell.”
“Got it. Hey, can I borrow your hoodie?” He yanked on the white muscle tank stuffed in his back pocket, swapped his tie for Dixon’s hoodie, then sauntered into the open space with the authoritative swagger that sent thugs scrambling for cover.
Instead, the women screeched and crowded closer. Cloying perfumes clashed in the thick, humid air, pressing against his slick skin like a living thing.
Cherie circled him, dragging a red manicured fingernail across his lower abs, then dropped into the chair and crossed her legs. Gold heels matched a cut-out strapless dress, which revealed her prominent clavicle and ribs. She signaled to the DJ, and the bass-heavy opening to “Pony” thudded.
Damn. He’d have to struggle through this impromptu freestyle.