by Karen Rock
An emptiness rose inside, her constant companion on the road all these years. Blake made her forget what it was like to be alone, to have only yourself to depend on. She’d come back to Dallas hoping to reconcile with her father and fill that void. Now, when she considered her life minus Blake, it loomed emptier still. Although his protective side irritated her, she also appreciated the sentiment behind it. He made her feel like she mattered, deserved his concern and was worth caring about.
Did Blake care about her?
Reese polished off another cookie and licked the chocolate smears from her fingertips.
There was one other theory for her messed-up head: she was crazy, just plain crazy to act like some lovesick girl. She needed to focus on tonight’s perilous mission. The pearl-colored purse hanging from her bedpost caught her eye. Inside it rested the Glock she’d carried since her attack. If she encountered her kidnappers again, they’d get more than just a bloodied nose. Her hunters also shot her father, and she wouldn’t rest until she’d avenged him and got them both to safety.
If her dad ever woke up…
“Reese. Five minutes!” Blake shouted from below.
Shoot.
She grabbed a rose-colored sundress with a flouncy skirt, pulled it over her head and slid on strappy wedge heels. A dab of perfume—something light and floral behind each ear—followed by another swipe of vanilla lip gloss and she was good to go.
So why did she still linger at her mirror?
Because she wanted to look good for Blake.
No denying it.
She pulled her hair up in a loose topknot and twirled, eyeing her reflection. Should she replace her diamond studs with something dangly?
Someone knocked lightly on her door.
Blake.
Her belly executed an Olympic-worthy somersault-twist combination.
“Reese? Are you ready?”
She dropped her hands, and her hair tumbled past her shoulders. “Absolutely!” she hollered. Now where did those pearl-drop earrings go?
“You said that ten minutes ago.” The exasperation in his voice carried through the closed door.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“You’re a treasure, but we really need to go,” he answered dryly.
Now stay cool and act normal, Reese lectured herself on the way to the door. Just give him an ordinary “Hi, how are you doing?” The best-laid plans…. She opened the door, and boom, her heart pounded and her mind blanked.
“Something smells good,” Blake remarked as he prowled past her.
“That’s the cookies.”
“Yeah, those smell good too.” His dimples appeared in a roguish grin—a marauder’s smile—dangerous and sexy.
Reese rolled her eyes, flattered, hyperaware of the large, edgy man she wanted to ravish this very minute.
Could a woman ravish a pirate?
This one could…if he let her take control next time.
There is no next time.
His gaze fell to her toes and slowly rose to her face, her skin heating everywhere his eyes touched. “You look nice,” he observed.
So did Blake. A crisp pair of black slacks hugged his narrow hips and long, muscular thighs, and his broad shoulders filled out a light blue shirt—the first few buttons at his throat undone, the sleeves rolled back to reveal strong wrists. He’d gotten his hair trimmed and had shaved, but he still looked intimidating. Since he was well over six feet and built like a rock, he couldn’t really appear any other way. Especially with the ever-present gun hidden somewhere on him. When they’d first met, she’d thought he resembled a hit man. No matter how much he spiffed up, an air of back-alley menace lingered, a perilous edge.
Yet she’d felt vulnerable and protected in the gazebo with him…and in this very bed. Right here, where she’d…and he’d…. Her eyes flew to Blake, who’d stopped ambling around her room and now leaned against the door frame watching her, his gaze intense. It was impossible not to stare at him. He was so incredibly virile. She took a breath and forgot to let it out.
“Those are a lot of trophies.” He pointed to a shelf holding her awards.
“Dance competitions.” She grabbed her purse and followed him downstairs and outside.
He waved in the general vicinity of the lurking officers guarding the house and hopped behind the wheel of her Jeep. “Why’d you stop dancing?”
He backed out of the driveway and headed for the northbound interstate that’d carry them across state lines to Aces Up. Overhead, a three-quarter moon bobbed through swells of clouds. Dark fields, broken by tree lines and split-rail fences, flashed by. Blake flicked on the brights once they passed an oncoming pickup. Swarming gnats appeared in the lights’ trajectories.
When Reese leaned forward to set the GPS coordinates, she inhaled the sexy spice of his cologne. “I injured my ankle a year and a half ago. It didn’t heal well enough to let me dance professionally again.”
“Do you miss it?” he slid watchful eyes her way, the intent glance anything but casual.
Detective Blake Knight didn’t make small talk. He listened, questioned and ferreted out information. Yet he had a playful side, too. Was this line of questioning tied to the investigation or an attempt to get to know her?
Had she gained Blake’s trust?
A deep attachment had formed during their intimate evening, unfamiliar and slightly terrifying. She hoped Blake felt it too, even if it couldn’t go anywhere.
And he’d finally included her in the case. Technically, he needed the in she had with Aces Up, and he’d promised not to leave her out. Still, she had little doubt resourceful Blake would have gotten backstage, one way or another. He was good at his job, even if he was dead wrong about her father.
“I miss dancing every day.” Reese leaned her head against the warm windowpane and angled the A/C vents toward her. “It’s not just a physical thing, it’s emotional, it’s the way you pour everything you feel into a dance. Poetry set to music you create with your body.”
“Like strip-club dancing.”
She flicked a quick glance at him and caught his grin. “Male revues are more than just stripping.” She huffed, defensive about her family business. Her father hadn’t run it as legitimately as she liked, but Dallas Heat was top-notch in entertainment. It could be great if operated properly. “Our guys wish all they had to do was take off their clothes and shake it.”
“Nice work choreographing last night’s firefighter routine.”
Reese pictured the six men, led by Nash, as they’d fanned the flames to a fever pitch. The complicated number had been physically demanding and smoking hot. “That was fun.” In fact, working with the dancers and choreographing new routines filled her with unexpected satisfaction. Could she be happy working in Dallas…working at her father’s club? Her mind traveled back to the old attack and the most recent ones. No. She’d never feel completely safe here, despite her newfound confidence.
Only Blake’s presence quieted all her fears.
She crossed one leg over the other and caught Blake’s stare. They were at a stop sign, but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to move. “When you’re finished checking out my legs, the GPS says to turn left.”
He grinned, unabashed. “They’re great-looking legs.”
Heat billowed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. “How much farther is it?”
“A couple hours.” He leaned forward and fiddled with the iPhone plugged into her jack. “Any requests?”
She dropped her head back and closed her eyes. “Driver’s choice. And thanks, by the way. I was too tired to get behind the wheel.”
And nerved up.
What dangers loomed ahead? While the plan was to observe the drop-off, ID suspects and collect evidence to build Blake’s case, she knew firsthand how violence erupted without a moment’s notice. Reese
’s fingers traced the gun’s outline inside her bag. She wouldn’t be caught unaware this time.
“I like driving,” Blake replied.
“You like being in control.”
“That too.”
A moment later the opening strains of Depeche Mode’s “Somebody” sounded through the speakers. A sigh escaped her. He remembered her favorite song, thoughtful, clever man. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he wanted to woo her.
Seduce her.
And if so, it was working.
The rest of the ride passed with the two of them alternating song selections to made-up themes, like Why Was This Ever a Hit? or What the Hell Was Bowie Thinking? Before she knew it, an Aces Up security guard waved them through to a rear parking lot.
“Hey, Reese!” called Nash as they stepped from the Jeep. He pulled off a motorcycle helmet and shook out his tangle of thick, chin-length hair.
Why did everything Nash do seem like it happened in slow motion? Under a rain mister? With R & B playing in the background? Kind of like the way birds fluttered around Disney princesses or Daryl Hannah’s hair never moved off her breasts in Splash. Magic just followed certain people. Wherever Nash stepped, a spotlight appeared. He’d make a great commercial for the club, she assessed, and pack the house on a Sunday, including the preacher’s wife.
Blake cleared his throat and slung a possessive arm around her waist. “What up, dude. You ready?”
Nash grabbed a bag from the storage compartment on the back of his Harley. “Costumes, baby oil, water, and kaki no tane.”
“Kaki what?” Reese asked. She gratefully accepted the water bottle Nash passed her and pressed it to the back of her steaming neck before downing a gulp. It was brutally hot, and had been all day, a bake-oven heat that roasted her right through.
“They’re spicy Japanese rice crackers,” Nash replied.
“Better hold off on eating them until after the performance.” Reese dropped her head atop Blake’s shoulder, enjoying this stolen moment. Milking it.
Pathetic. She was pathetic.
“Nah.” Nash shoved back his hair, and it fell around his face in an artful tangle. “They’re for Amafo.”
“Amafo?” she repeated as they headed across the packed lot. Friday nights meant lots of customers and staff. A perfect time to hide a drug exchange, with everyone else preoccupied…. Despite the heat sweltering up off the pavement, it felt as though someone ran an ice cube down her skin in a straight line.
“My Choctaw great-grandfather.” Nash pointed to a tattoo on his left bicep. A yellow circle with an unstrung bow, encompassing three arrows and a smoking pipe/hatchet in its center. Inked in black, the words “The Great Seal of the Choctaw Nation” encircled it inside a blue ring. “When he was a code talker in World War II, he acquired some exotic tastes. I’m visiting him and my mother after we finish.”
“That’s why you didn’t ride with the guys in the van?” Blake asked. His offhanded, just-making-conversation tone sounded too casual. Did he suspect Nash was part of the drop-off?
“Yeah. Spending the weekend with my family. Nash shrugged out of his leather jacket and stuffed it under his arm. “I’ve got six aunts, three uncles and thirty-two cousins. There’s always something happening: birthday, anniversary, graduation, wedding, funeral.”
“What’s it this weekend?” Blake asked.
“Not even sure, dude. I just always bring a tie and a gift. Plus, I got some work up here, too.”
“Heard you have a second job as a PI,” Blake probed.
Nash nodded, his usually open expression shuttered. When he didn’t elaborate, Reese bit back her curiosity about the dancer’s double life. It was none of her business…though she was dying to know more.
“I didn’t know you were Native American,” she said instead, switching topics. She eyed Nash’s high cheekbones, warrior body and bronzed skin, not spray-tanned after all.
“Half. My mother is Choctaw.” Nash held the door open and swept his arm to usher them ahead.
“And your father?” Reese asked as she passed him and entered a narrow, dim corridor.
“An asshole.”
She caught Blake’s fast, hard look at Nash and the flash of commiseration in his eyes. Blake loved his father…didn’t he? He’d spoken of him with such respect during their conversation the night of her attack.
“Is Nash short for something?” she prompted, as they traipsed down the hall. Blake strode ahead and Nash followed behind. Sandwiched between these two giants, she should feel safe, yet a coldness crept over her skin. What if her kidnappers lurked here—part of the steroids ring’s pick-up crew? They might decide she was the better target. Her fingers tightened on her purse strap. If they thought so, they’d be in for a nasty surprise.
“It’s short for Nashoba. It means wolf in Choctaw. Hawkins, my last name, is my father’s. It’s the only thing of his that’s a part of me,” Nash said, his tone suddenly fierce.
They caught up to the rest of the dancers and entered the changing room behind the stage. While Blake and the club’s DJ, Reggie, acted as roadies, setting up the sound equipment and props, the dancers went through their pre-performance routines: push-ups, sit-ups, and the critical body-lotion application.
The musky smell, condensed in the cramped space, made her sneeze while she sorted through costumes and hung them in order on a small, portable rack.
“Bless you.” Dixon held out a tissue she forced herself to take. Loathsome cockroach. She didn’t even try returning his sniveling smile.
“Hey. I was wondering when you booked this gig.” He pulled off his ball cap, and she eyed his ring-less hands as he squished the brim between them. “I hadn’t seen it on the schedule until this week.”
“It was a last-minute thing.”
“It seemed strange because—”
She cocked an eyebrow when Dixon cut himself off and got busy hauling gear from his bag. Did he suspect she knew something about the steroid supply pick-up?
She eyed the chatting dancers as they donned costumes and slicked, tousled and spiked their hair with gel. How many of them bought from Dixon? Were involved in the ring? In attempting to kidnap her? She released a shaky breath, her nerves worn to dust. None wore the ring she’d spotted during her attack, but some TMU players must own one since they’d won last year’s football conference. So, who was innocent? Guilty? The strangest urge to put her hands over her head and duck seized her.
Dallas Heat, never a welcoming home, now felt like a house of mirrors, a mazelike puzzle. She couldn’t decipher what was real and what was just an image.
Nash’s deep brown eyes bored into hers. “You okay?”
“Sure. Just feeling a little light-headed.”
“Don’t blame you.” He waved away the thickening ozone of hair products and body spray. “Go get some air. I’ll make sure these knuckleheads toe the line.”
She threw her arms around Nash, or part of him at least, considering he was built like a Mack truck. “Thanks. Tell Blake I’ll be right back.”
“You got it.”
She pulled open a door and wandered down a pristine hall interrupted by wood-paneled doors with plaques identifying different positions: manager, assistant, security chief, and so on. The thick, industrial-grade carpet, patterned with aces, muffled her footsteps. Her breath rasped in her ears along with her banging heart. Surely, she was in no danger here…yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that unfriendly eyes were tracking her.
Reese pivoted, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again.
No. She would not yell “hello?” to the guy waiting to saw off her head like one of those dumb horror-flick girls.
And Jesus, she had a sick imagination.
At least the fog in her head began to clear. She turned, and a picture amidst a group of framed shots caught her eye. A flush o
f adrenaline tingled through her body.
What the hell?
In the photo, her father stood arm in arm with her uncle, the casino owner, and Sam Lewis, the TMU football coach she’d met at Uncle Pete’s ranchette. They wore matching grins and cheesy Hawaiian shirts. A casino theme night, she guessed.
Her father used to attend them, she recalled. In fact, he came here frequently after her mother died, along with her uncle, who’d watched out for a grieving younger brother with a gambling habit.
Yet her uncle said he and her father drifted apart after he became a town councilman and backed out of their joint business shenanigans. Had her father continued gambling and lost a lot of money? Did he owe the casino for unpaid markers and they, in turn, pressured him into allowing steroid sales in his club? He’d skirted the line with his taxes and bookkeeping a few times, but he’d never done anything as bad as peddling illegal substances before.
Yet he’d permitted a criminal act to go unreported when she’d been attacked, and he’d only cooperated with law enforcement when they threatened to shut down the club for serving minors.
Reese’s eyes lingered on the casino owner, Bill Wilson, and her body froze. She’d met him as a girl, but had never studied him closely, not like now, when something familiar about him caught her eye.
His gapped front teeth. The left-tilting nose. He was older, heavier, than he’d been in the picture on her uncle’s kitchen counter.
One of the original Briar Boys.
Had he and her father reconnected to resume their troublemaking activities on a much, much bigger scale?
It didn’t sound as crazy as it should, and her suspicions rose.
“There you are.”
At Blake’s voice, she whirled and flattened her back against the picture. “Here I am.” Hiding this incriminating picture from you.