“My pleasure.” Concerned by the weak, almost longing sound of her reply, which echoed the weak longing in her heart, she stood. Time to put some space between herself and Detective McCade.
He rose as well, and unnerved her by taking her hand. “It’s been my pleasure, actually.”
Her mind flashed back through a montage of erotic memories: Trevor watching her onstage the first night she’d danced, giving him a lap dance…the private performance. “Not entirely,” she admitted, as heat snuck into her cheeks.
She stole a glance from beneath her lashes. The raw desire she saw in his expression warmed her face even more.
“You’re a beautiful, intriguing mystery,” he said quietly. “Scrupulously honest, but clearly hiding something. An experienced exotic dancer who somehow manages to project a sweet innocence. Nothing fits.”
“I’m not trying—”
“I know you’re not. That’s the hell of it. But I’ve always loved a mystery, and damn if I can resist you.” In hypnotic slow motion, he tilted her face toward his and lowered his mouth, stopping with his lips a mere hairbreadth from hers. Her eyelids drooped. She inhaled in anticipation.
He hovered there, his warm breath feathering over her lips, while his big, strong hands moved. One cupped her neck, and the other slid down her back with an intimacy that made all the calculated eroticism she’d attempted at Deuces pale in comparison, and left her hungry for more. Desperate to satisfy the craving, she gave a tiny warning cry, then surged to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.
Such a simple thing, really—just lips against lips—but oh, she felt the magical electricity of it all the way to her toes. Rather than sate her hunger, the gentle kiss was like a taste of chocolate to a starving woman. She wanted, needed, couldn’t deny herself more. Her fingers threaded through his hair and held on, as if she possessed the strength to keep him in place if he decided to move. But he didn’t. He stayed absolutely still while she brushed her tingling mouth over his upper lip, with its fascinating center dip and the tiny, vulnerable little scar riding the outer edge.
When she strayed to his lower lip, captured it between hers, and slowly nibbled the irresistible curve, he groaned, low and deep. The hand at the small of her back slid lower, cupped her backside, and hauled her against him. Her breasts crushed against the warm, solid wall of his chest, and all the barriers—her workout bra, her thin T-shirt, his dress shirt—might as well have evaporated. She parted her thighs, so her soft, yielding parts aligned intimately with the hard ridge straining the fly of his gray trousers.
A subtle tightening of his hand on her butt lifted her higher. The blunt head of his erection found and pressed a pleasure button she barely knew she possessed.
She practically crawled up his body, curling her arm around his neck, wrapping her leg around his hip, arching and opening so the place he’d discovered was his for the taking.
And he took, sliding back and forth over the throbbing spot, capturing her helpless sighs deep in his mouth with a long, overpowering kiss. Heavy, luscious heat pooled between her thighs. She needed to rub them together, or rub against him, or…something, but he kept up the slow, steady stroke until she thought she might lose her mind.
A frustrated sound built in the back of her throat. Jamming the arch of her foot into his calf for leverage, she rocked her hips against him in a frantic, imprecise effort to put deeper, steadier pressure on the aching little spot he’d teased to unbearable sensitivity. “I want…I need…”
His lips found her ear. “Easy. Easy. I know what you need. Don’t worry—”
A loud knock at the door reverberated like a shot in the quite room. Her eyes jerked to his.
“Shit.” He breathed the word slowly, and reluctantly loosened his hold. “Excuse me for a moment. I have to go kill someone.”
Arms crossed, she stayed where she was, facing away from the door, while he stepped over to answer it. She recognized Ian’s voice, but was too mortified to look. One glimpse of her and she feared he’d know Trevor had held, kissed, and caressed her to the very brink of insanity. Even now her body trembled with deprivation, primed and ready and unwilling to relinquish what, seconds ago, had hovered so exquisitely close.
After a brief conversation she didn’t bother trying to follow, the door shut. Moments later Trevor rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” His breath fluttered the hair at her temple as those strong, capable hands turned her to face him. “Bad timing on my part.”
“Mine, too.” Not just the last few minutes, but the last few days. Had they met at a different time, under different circumstances, who knows what they might have meant to each other? But they’d met over lies and murder. The combination doomed their chances for something else. Trevor upheld the law. He wasn’t the kind of man who would appreciate being deceived.
It hurt, but there really was only one thing to do. Kiss him good-bye and get the heck away.
He took her hand and smiled. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
Her return smile felt wooden. Somehow she kept it in place as they walked to the street. The city lights glowed diamond-bright against a black velvet background of evening.
Again he took her shoulders, turned her to face him. Held her captive with those patient, perceptive eyes. “I want to see you again, Stacy, without this case between us.”
Hardest thing ever, but shook her head. “I’m sorry Trevor. I can’t. I wish I could but…” But what? I’m not who you think I am. I’ve lied to you since the moment we met. Blinking back tears, she settled on, “It’s not going to work.”
He stepped closer and she placed a restraining hand on his chest. She meant it as a distancing move. Unfortunately her fingers ruined the gesture by curling into his shirt. He cocked a brow at the mixed signal, but dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel what I feel whenever we’re together, because I won’t believe it.”
She shook her head. “Lust isn’t high on my priorities.”
“If you think this is only lust, you’re kidding yourself. Aren’t you the least bit curious to see where this could lead?”
Chin to her chest, she shook her head. “The cop and the stripper?”
“The cop thing is a problem for you, huh?” He jammed his hands in his pockets and took a step back. “Fair enough. It is for some women. Lousy hours, less than extravagant pay, occasional risk to life and limb.”
Some painful history there, she realized, and because of that, couldn’t bring herself to take the easy way out. “It’s not your job,” she said quickly. “I think what you do is heroic. Any woman would be lucky to spend time with you.”
“Any woman but you.”
“I’m not—” She broke off. Those consuming eyes of his interfered with her ability to craft a lame explanation. Shifting her attention to the center of his chest, she tried again. “I’m not at a place, at this point in my life, where I can date.”
He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and stared at her for several seconds. “You’re afraid,” he finally said, his voice a combination of disbelief and certainty. “A woman brave enough to follow her conscience into a dark parking lot at two thirty in the morning is scared to follow her heart toward something right in front of her.”
Her heart felt like an anchor at the moment, heavy in her chest, incapable of leading her anywhere. When she didn’t reply, he dropped his hand and gave a small, humorless laugh. “You’re a tough one, Stacy Roberts, and yet something this simple scares you to death. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve been a bundle of contradictions from the start.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and forced herself to take a step away. At least she didn’t have to lie. She was afraid to pursue a relationship with him, just not for the reason he assumed.
The jaded smile stole across his lips. “One look from those baby blues and I almost believe you.”
Before she did something stupid, like burst into tears, she turned
and started walking to her car.
“Hey, Stacy, wait.”
Something reluctant and resigned in his voice stopped her, like he’d tried to talk himself out of saying whatever he was about to say.
“Ever consider another line of work?”
She looked over her shoulder. He stood there, so big and solid and fundamentally good, his concerned expression practically shattered her resolve. Land’s sake, this man cared. Of course, thanks to her ridiculous charade, he was wasting his care on someone who didn’t need—or deserve—it.
“Sometimes,” she replied. It seemed like a safe answer.
“I think you’ve got a lot of untapped potential. Someone so smart and observant could go far in any career she chose. The stripping?” He shook his head. “It’s not for you.”
Yeah. Mustering up a smile, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. Some say I’m pretty tough.”
“As nails,” he agreed. “But you’re not the one I’m worried about. Have some pity on those poor saps sitting in Deuces, kidding themselves into thinking for the price of admission you’ll share some of your mysteries with them.”
She wanted to tell him “Deal,” just to wash the world-weary cynicism out of his face, but it wasn’t her gig to surrender. “At least you don’t have to come down to Deuces and pose as my client anymore.” That alone should have been a load off her shoulders, but instead the realization sent her anchor of a heart sinking deeper in her chest.
Chapter Six
Customers packed Deuces, making Thursday feel more like a Saturday. Between two twenty-first birthday parties, a bachelor party, and a bunch of guys in software sales out to blow their bonuses, Kylie barely had time to miss Trevor—provided scanning the crowd for his entirely too attractive face every ten minutes didn’t count as missing him. For some stupid reason, she found herself hoping he’d show up. God, she was an idiot.
The thought repeated in her head like a mantra as she made her way back to the dressing room after her second featured dance. You’re an idiot…an idiot…an idiot. Absently, she pulled tips from her garter belt and white satin thong.
The door flew open. Ginger breezed in. “Christ, Snowflake, you’re an idiot,” she said and tossed something at her.
Kylie caught the item and frowned. It was the gossamer baby-doll top that went with the thong and completed her “naughty virgin” outfit. She’d forgotten to wait by the stage for the runner to bring her discarded clothes.
“Oh. Thanks.”
Ginger braced a hip against the vanity counter, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and met Kylie’s gaze in the mirror. “What’s with you? You haven’t been yourself lately.”
Kylie dropped her eyes and shrugged her top on, then focused on fastening the tiny snap between her breasts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but these last few times we’ve worked together you’ve been strangely nice. You say ‘hi.’ You say ‘bye.’ You even say ‘thank you.’ What’s happened to the coldhearted ice queen we used to know?”
“Nothing happened. I’m working on my manners. No big deal.”
Ginger held up her hands. “Fine, fine. Forget I asked. But for what it’s worth, the girls and I thought what happened to you a few weeks ago—when Carlton pulled you offstage—was terrible. We went to Vern and told him to fire Ramon’s worthless ass. He didn’t, naturally, because Ramon is one of the owner’s nephews, but we tried. Then last Saturday, finding Carlton by the Dumpster? Awful. Like a nightmare. We figure you’ve had a pretty tough patch lately. So, if there’s anything we can do to make things easier, just let us know, okay?”
“Thanks, Ginger.” Kylie closed the lockbox and turned around. “I’m good, honest. Also, you don’t need to worry about Ramon anymore. I think the police took him into custody earlier this week, for killing Carlton and possibly another customer.”
Ginger’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “Are you sure? Last night he was—”
Before the redhead could finish, Vern pushed through the door and pointed at them. “Let’s move it, ladies. Ginger, you’re giving the birthday boy at table five a lap dance. Now,” he added, and stared until she hustled out of the room. The finger switched to Kylie. “You’ve got a private dance in VIP room two. Benny’s bouncing. If the private doesn’t extend, come see me. We’re busy, so I may be able to squeeze another client in before we call it a night.”
“Great,” she said to Vern’s departing back, then stuffed her tip box into her locker and slammed the door. On her way to the room, she could barely concentrate on the private dance. She was too fixated on Ginger’s unfinished sentence. Last night he was…what?
Still puzzling the words, she slipped into the VIP room. The lights were low. Smooth, smoky jazz simmered from the sound system, and the telltale gleam of a polished shoe told her Benny already occupied his corner. Inhaling a deep breath, she turned to the client chair—and stopped dead in her tracks.
…
The emotions flitting across Stacy’s face were worth the price of admission. Trevor read surprise, followed by a hint of unguarded pleasure, overrun almost immediately by concern, and then suspicion.
Her brows knitted and her lips formed a small frown. He imagined she thought it a stern expression, and wondered what she’d think if she knew it gave him an instant hard-on.
“Trevor, what are you doing here?”
“Would you believe I came to get a dance?”
She shook her head. “Ramon?” She said the name softly, mindful of their audience.
Now it was his turn to shake his head. He watched apprehension steal into her face and found it less of a turn-on than the stern expression. Seeing no reason to include Benny in the conversation, and every reason to bring her closer, he tapped his knees. “Sit down. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Might have been then she noticed the bottle of vodka on the side table, two-thirds full, along with two shot glasses, one full, one already empty. Considering her history with over-served clients, he wondered if the bottle worried her. Then her anxious eyes flicked to his, and damn if she wasn’t worried for him.
She hustled her sexy little self over until she could get in his face. He was having some difficulty keeping his eyes on hers—they kept straying down to where her soft, perfectly uptilted breasts challenged the confines of a lacy scrap of a top. The combination of blush-pink skin and frothy white lingerie had him imagining a bride on her wedding night, shy but eager to please. Too bad he couldn’t put the blame entirely on her outfit. Whether he liked it or not, a wall had come down when he kissed her in the interrogation room. They’d simply been a man and a woman, not a detective and a witness.
He was having a hell of a time putting the wall back.
“When you said you’d be picking Ramon up for questioning, I thought this was all over. You wouldn’t be around anymore. What happened?”
Hands at her waist, he settled her on his lap. She was either too upset or too distracted to object to him taking the initiative. Good thing, because the wedding night fantasy definitely worked for him.
“Ian questioned Ramon. Turns out he had a decent alibi for the night Carlton was murdered.”
“But how ironclad could it be? Carlton never set foot inside Deuces Friday night, so there’s no telling when he showed up in the parking lot. Didn’t you say the exact time of death was hard to pinpoint?
Trevor shook his head. “Hard to pinpoint, yes. Not hard to ballpark. Although Carlton’s whereabouts Friday night are still in question, we know he died exactly where you found him. There’s no blood trail or other evidence suggesting someone killed him and dumped him there. One of the barbacks at Deuces took trash to the Dumpster around 1:00 a.m. and there was no sign of Long at that time. You called 911 at two thirty. He died sometime during that hour-and-a-half window. Ramon went to a club downtown on Friday evening with his cousin and stayed from 10:00 p.m. until just after one thirty. Cocktail waitress at the pla
ce remembers him well enough because he put the moves on her all night. After they left, he drove his cousin home and then went straight home to bed.”
“He could be lying about where they went afterward.”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah, but at this point, with no eyewitness, no physical evidence, no big inconsistencies in Ramon’s story, and not a hell of a lot of opportunity, we don’t have enough to charge him.”
“So, is he in the clear then?”
“We’re watching him, and digging deeper into his background. Ramon could be involved, he’s still got motive, but we’re a long way from ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’”
Her shoulders slumped as she blew out a nervous breath. “Well, shoot. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want the man spending time behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit. It’s just…I’d convinced myself Ramon was the killer. I was so relieved to consider it over.”
He ran a hand along her back, in what he’d intended as a consoling gesture. The slide of lace over skin turned it into something else. He dropped his hand. “I understand. But we’re still pursuing all leads, and we’re not exactly starting from scratch. All the connections we made earlier are still valid.”
The comment pulled her nervous gaze back to his face. “The earlier connections? You don’t mean—?”
“I do. Deuces still connects Long and Montenegro, and just a bit more tightly, their preference for you. Still more tightly, their bad behavior, related to you, almost immediately before they were murdered. And now, thanks to you, we know there’s even one more link.”
“Another link? I don’t understand.”
“You told us Carlton was drunk the night he pulled you offstage. Out of character for him, but his credit card receipt confirms he bought a bottle of vodka that night. Alex always paid cash, which is why the original investigators never linked him to the club in the first place, but Vern says he got a buzz going pretty much every time he visited. He started and stuck with vodka most nights, including his final one. We’re looking very hard at all the regular customers, all the employees, over a twelve-month time frame. But that kind of digging takes time, so, meanwhile”—he gestured to the vodka and smiled up at her—“I’m going to order a lot of vodka, buy a lot of private dances, and you’re going to treat me like you treat your best clients.”
Lover Undercover Page 7