by Karen Rock
He sank his hands into her messy hair then lowered his mouth to capture hers in a dizzying, delicious kiss. He smelled incredible. “Hungry?” he asked when he released her a moment later.
Her eyes darted to his bedroom. She was so ravenous for more Blake she could eat him with a spoon.
He followed her glance and chuckled. “Not for that. I need to give you some time to recover.” He peered at his wall clock and lifted a brow, giving her such a wicked, naughty look she hardly recognized straight-laced Officer Knight. “Say, twelve hours?”
What?! That was over seven hundred and fifty-two tortuous minutes from now. She’d never last. Could you die from an overload of unsatisfied lust?
Sister Theresa, who’d lectured Reese’s confirmation class on the sins of the flesh, would certainly agree. In fact, she’d hinted at it, if the chalk drawing of a kissing couple engulfed in hellfire had been an accurate interpretation.
“Make it nine, and you’ve got a deal,” she teased, her insides warm and gooey at the thought of another heated night in the arms of the man who’d made her vulnerable in ways she’d never imagined possible after her attack. Even now, after a passionate night, she couldn’t keep her eyes away from him.
“No argument there.” Suddenly, his lighthearted expression evaporated. “And we need to talk about last night.”
Her lips curled. The cat that ate the cream…
“Before that,” he corrected, reading her naughty thoughts, a hint of humor entering his sober tone.
She shook her head. Here she was acting like a sex-crazed maniac, when something terrible had happened last night. An officer had lost his life, her home had been trashed, she the likely target. “Mind if I grab some juice first?”
“I’ve got it poured.”
Of course he did, she mused; he always seemed to be prepared, anticipating her needs. She followed his lead to the round wooden table placed before a window overlooking downtown Dallas. Outside, the gray sky hung as heavy as slate, last night’s storm still lingering.
He pulled out her chair before grabbing one for himself. “Short or tall stack?” he asked, forking fluffy pancakes onto her plate.
Her stomach growled at the sweet, breadlike aroma. “Short.” She reached for the bottle of syrup. “This is amazing.” Brown smears embedded in the pancakes caught her eye and her hand froze. “These are chocolate chip pancakes.”
“You don’t like them?”
“N-no. I love—I love them. Thank you,” she choked out. He’d made her chocolate chip pancakes.
“You’re welcome.” He added bacon to her plate, then fixed his own.
“What’s this?” She pointed to what looked like a flight itinerary folded beside her napkin.
“A ticket to NYC. Your flight’s tomorrow at eight. I’ll drive you.”
Her warm fuzzies evaporated. He was packing her off like some damsel in distress? Rapunzel stowed safely in her tower…. No. She’d returned to Dallas intending to confront her old fears, not run from them. Never again. “The hell you will.”
“No isn’t an option.”
Her teeth ground together at his bossiness. Officer Knight, back in full caveman mode. “How do you do it?” she mused. “Go from charmer to Neanderthal in two seconds flat?”
“It’s a special gift.”
“I’ll say.” She rolled her eyes. “But I’m not going.”
“It’s nonrefundable.”
“Still not swaying me….”
He heaved out a long sigh, exasperated. “It was worth a try. But I want you more vigilant than ever; you’re not to leave my side. Got it?”
She eyed his perfectly sculpted chest. Not a hard promise to make. “Got it. Any word about the missing officer?” she asked, then took a bite of pancake. Her eyes closed at the melt-in-your-mouth, maple-butter-chocolate flavor combination.
“None.” He poured himself a glass of milk, and white foam rose to the top.
“Do you think there’s a chance he’s in on it?”
Blake’s blue eyes flew to hers. “Why do you ask?”
She thought of the cop who’d extorted her father’s business and then attacked her. If she told Blake, would he understand or simply defend his brother in blue? The need to share her secret warred with fear he’d dismiss her attack out of loyalty to his fellow officers.
And she couldn’t bear that.
She took a deep breath. “No reason. Just a thought.” She cut into the bacon with the side of her fork, dipped it in syrup and brought it to her lips.
“For now, the working theory is the same person who attempted to break into your house a couple weeks ago came back to finish the job.”
“The white Escalade…Coach Lewis?”
Blake shrugged and lowered his milk. A faint white stripe remained above his top lip, and the desire to lean forward and lick it off seized her. “No witnesses yet, so we can’t be sure, but it’s likely. I dug into his background. Turns out he resigned from his last position before he could be investigated for supplying his players with steroids.”
She smiled, incredibly glad Blake kept his word to include her in the case.
“Do you know anything about Briarton?”
Everything inside her stilled, including her heart and especially her vocal cords.
Blake waved his fork before her eyes. “Reese? You still in there?” At her silence, his gaze sharpened. Officer Knight. Back on the hunt. “You have heard of them.”
She nodded slowly, shoving back at the walls closing all around her. Blake trusted her, and she should trust him. Taking a deep breath, she said, “My dad belonged to a group called the Briar Boys when he was a teenager. They weren’t really a gang. More like troublemakers. Why?”
“Because a Briarton LLC is financing Bulk Gym.”
Her heart beat double-time. “I haven’t seen it mentioned in his financial records, but there’s something else you need to know. Bill Wilson, the Aces Up Casino owner, was part of the Briar Boys, and my dad owes him—the casino—two hundred thousand in markers.”
Blake’s fork dropped from his fingers and clanged on his plate. “How did you find out?”
A roaring sound filled her ears, a thousand whispers urging her not to betray her father, to remember where her loyalties lay. “My uncle told me last night. He’s working out a payoff plan with Bill.”
Blake’s expression turned inward, and she could practically see the cogs spinning behind his brilliant blue eyes. “Why would he owe them that much?”
She shrugged and set down her fork, her appetite gone. “He’s always had a gambling problem. It’s brought him close, a couple times, to losing Dallas Heat.”
“Do you think he’s in danger of losing it now?”
“Maybe. His financial records are—” She cut herself off. Shoot. She’d nearly said too much. “Should I have my Miranda rights read?”
His piercing eyes were trained solely on her. The sensation was unnerving…and somehow left her feeling like a schoolgirl. Naïve and exposed. “Not unless you’re involved personally. But if you suspect your father is tied up in the ring, you need to tell me everything.”
Reese hesitated. Last night’s attack proved the group wouldn’t stop until they snuffed out all threats, including her and whatever incriminating evidence she possessed. Her fingers found her locket and traced its heart shape.
Worse, a man died because of it. How many more would fall before Blake cracked the case? Maybe even Blake himself, while she withheld information that might keep him safe. As much as she mistrusted the police, she should cooperate…at least with Blake, who’d placed his faith in her.
He deserved the truth.
“Can you offer clemency if you uncover any minor, illegal activities unrelated to the steroids ring?” She hoped she could still protect her father, that what she and Blake shared wa
s strong enough for him to understand that need and find a way, if possible, to make it happen…for her.
Blake stared off into space for a minute, then his expression softened, and his eyes slid back to hers. “I can guarantee it. What are you worried about?”
“My dad’s been a bit—ah—creative through the years with his bookkeeping, hiding assets to avoid taxes, some under-the-table loans and real estate deals.”
Blake drummed blunt fingernails on the tabletop, his expression thoughtful, not full of the recriminations she’d expected. “And you’ve seen evidence of this recently?”
“Possibly. The financial records on his laptop are”—she hesitated, swallowed down her unease, and pressed on—“inconsistent. I can’t figure out where sums of money are coming from since they don’t match tallies. On top of that, the deposits are quickly transferred out, sometimes the same day, to unidentified accounts.”
Blake hung his head. “A computer forensics team could have helped, except we’re too late. Your father’s laptop and phone were stolen from his house yesterday.”
Her heart pounded. Here it was. A last chance to back out. Take it?
She eyed Blake and recalled the promotion he’d mentioned wanting when they’d talked the night after the parking-lot attack, one she now believed he deserved. Although she still didn’t trust cops, she cared about this one. A lot. Maybe even loved him, though she couldn’t give her heart to someone who actually worked in this field. Her loyalty still lay with her father, but a part of it now undeniably rested with the man who moved her like no other.
“It’s not too late.”
His head snapped up at her soft words.
“The laptop and phone are in the back of my Jeep. I took them with me yesterday.”
He blinked at her, stunned, then kissed her hard, donned a shirt hanging from his chair and grabbed her keys. When she called his name, he stopped at the door.
“Promise you’ll tell me anything the forensics team finds, that you won’t hide anything from me?”
In two strides, he returned, knelt before her chair, and gathered her hands in his. His sincere expression made her ache. “I swear. No secrets. Whatever I know, you know and vice versa.” Once she nodded, he raced out the door, leaving her to stare after him.
Her shoulders slumped.
No more secrets.
What had she done?
Chapter Fifteen
“How much longer are we supposed to wait?”
At Dixon’s question, Blake peered at the wall clock hanging above Dallas Heat’s stage. Three a.m. The witching hour…or as he called it…showtime. Nothing good went down in the middle of the night. Murder, mayhem and mischief. Things that went bump in the night.
His Glock, hidden beneath his shirt, pressed against his side.
He was one of those bumps in the night, only his present company didn’t have a clue.
This long-awaited meeting between Cherie and the steroids ring higher-ups, on the pretext of expanding their customer base to Houston, had to go off without a hitch. No room for error, especially when he was outnumbered. And alone. This delay made him twitchy and put his guard up. When things veered off-plan, he couldn’t protect himself against what he didn’t see coming. The possibility existed that, if all went south, he might not make it through the night alive.
He propped one ankle over his opposite knee to give the digital recording device in his pocket a better auditory signal. Tonight’s documented conversation would be critical evidence for his planned takedown. Since his investigation into Briarton LLC had hit a dead end, he needed Cheri to name her backers, one of whom had to be the steroid ring’s leader. Getting Cheri, Coach Lewis and Bill Wilson’s names on the record was also critical. Pete Landon might join the group’s list too, depending on the forensics report from his devices.
Reese’s decision to turn over the laptop and phone moved him deeply. She loved her father with fierce loyalty, but she’d proved she wouldn’t cover for her family, either. Did any of her affection, her allegiance extend his way now?
Their past week together had been incredible. He’d made love to her every night with a fierceness, his body expressing what he hesitated to vocalize. He was falling in love with her, and he didn’t know what the hell to do about it. She’d never forgive him for putting her father behind bars, yet the closer he came to solving the case, the likelier that possibility loomed.
Cherie released a stream of smoke, then tapped the ash from the tip of her cigarette into a martini glass. “We wait till he gets here.”
“So, who am I meeting?” Blake eyed the empty, dimly lit space, assessing escape routes should shit hit the fan. The air smelled tasty and restless, like kamikaze shots and residual pheromones.
“Guess we’ll see when they get here,” Cheri smirked. She’d done something funny to her hair. Slicked it back so it looked like she’d stepped straight out of a shower, makeup intact. “Could be a surrogate or the big cheese.”
The door clicked open, and all eyes swerved to the figure striding through the entranceway. Blake froze. He knew that face. They’d never met, but he’d seen the photo posted at his bureau.
Tim Light, the cop who’d been missing since Frank’s shooting, slid into their booth, his windbreaker sagging, his eyes sunk deep. “Boss isn’t coming.” He nodded in Blake’s direction, not recognizing him, luckily, since he was new to the department, had subbed in for one of Reese’s house guards and hadn’t crossed paths with Blake that night. “So, this is the asshole you dragged me here to meet?”
One that wants to fucking kill you…
Jesus. The police were part of this ring…maybe even running it. Blake’s heart beat double-time, his thoughts racing to catch up with his eyes. Un-freaking-believable. Tim was a street cop. How much further up the ladder did this go?
Blake unclenched his hands and slipped on a cocky smile.
Stay cool.
“I’m your Houston distributor.”
Tim snorted. “We’ll see. Boss wants to know who you reported to over there. And Dixon, pour me a goddamn drink already.”
Dixon scampered to the bar. An acrid blast of Cherie’s cigarette smoke blew past Blake’s chin.
“Who’d you report to?” Tim repeated, staring at Blake with bloodshot blue eyes, testing him. Blake could hear his breath, heavy puffs through his nose, in the overheated air. The cleanup crew had powered off the A/C hours ago.
“Greg Santos.” Blake swirled his ice water then set it down. “Are we gonna play twenty questions, or get down to business? Ain’t got all night.”
Cop-killer Tim leaned forward and jabbed a thick finger across the table. “Then maybe you ain’t got time to work for us.”
Cherie trailed a fingertip down Tim’s beefy forearm. “Hey. We can trust him. He already gave me thirty g’s in advance. This guy’s legit.”
Tim’s face pulled into a grimace of pure disbelief. “Where is it, then?”
Dixon hustled back, a couple shots in one hand, a gym bag hanging from the other. He passed over one of the glasses and the cash envelope.
Tim lifted a stack of hundred-dollar bills and fanned through it with his thumb. “How much juice can you move?”
“Four times that a month.” Blake nicked the other whiskey from Dixon and drained it one gulp.
Tim tucked the envelope in his pocket and raised his shot. “Now we’re talking.”
Blake angled his head and squinted at the rogue cop. “I need assurances. Coverage. Don’t want trouble with the cops again.”
Tim guffawed. Blake dug his nails into his thighs to keep from lunging across the table and ripping his head off. “You won’t have any trouble,” Tim assured him.
A bluff or the truth?
Blake leaned in, close enough to see every coarse hair of the bastard’s stubble. His breath stank of whiskey, his
clothes smelled of stale smoke and his sweat reeked with acrid betrayal. This near, Blake could draw blood a dozen ways. Every muscle in his body clenched, holding him back. “How can you promise that?”
Dixon broke open a peanut shell and dumped its meat into Tim’s outstretched hand. “We’ve got friends in law enforcement,” Tim bragged, chewing.
Friends…plural.
“Here or in Houston?”
Tim shrugged. “Both.”
It took every ounce of training to conceal the chasm splitting Blake’s mind. The thoughts, the beliefs, the goals he’d long held, tumbled into it. Gone. Sunk into an abyss too dark for him to see clearly…certainly not the black-and-white view that’d made life crystal clear before now.
Reese had warned him about his limited perspective. Had it made him blind to corruption in his own precinct?
Don’t think about that now.
He compartmentalized. After making a mental note to contact the Houston narcotics department, as well as initiate an internal investigation of his own, he pressed on.
“Who’s my contact if things get hot?” Blake asked, needing names. Undercover exchanges were a delicate dance. Too specific and you aroused suspicion, stay too vague and you got nowhere.
The group around the table swapped long looks. Finally, Tim said thickly, “Carter Harris. A former beat cop. He made detective and transferred to Houston’s cold-case unit six months ago. He’s with us.”
A beat of grim satisfaction tolled inside at the name. “What about here?” Blake peeled the shell of a peanut, then tossed one back. “Who do you report to?”
“Who says I do?” An irritable note entered Tim’s voice. Time to change topics and circle back to it later. Tim was a surrogate, which meant someone else served as the ring’s leader. Coach Lewis took orders from Cherie, and Pete was incapacitated, which ruled them out as top dogs…
“Who’s supplying me the materials?” Blake tipped back his chair and balanced on its back two legs. “Where’s the pick-up?”