by Norah Wilson
“Whoa! Wait.” Dylan caught me around the waist and hauled me back. “Listen, Dix. It makes sense. Think about it. If we had managed to come out of there with incriminating evidence, what would we have done with it? This isn’t a cheating spouse case, Dix. It’s potentially a murder case. If the fruits of the investigation are going to hold up in court, it needs to be an official investigation. If there’s evidence to be found, it has to be documented, with a clear chain of possession from the time it’s seized to the time it’s logged into evidence.”
Dammit! He was right.
“Exactly!” Dickhead said. “Listen to the kid.”
I think I growled, though I’m not sure whether it was at the position Dickhead had put me in or the fact that he’d just referred to Dylan as the kid. Dylan wisely tightened his grip on my arm.
“It’s not the opening of the file I object to, you weasel.” I felt my fingernails digging into my palms and forced my fists to unclench. “It’s the timing. By fleeing the scene last night, you managed to avoid being tarred as a cuddler, and as a convenient bonus, you get to tell your buddies that I came to you for help.”
Head blew out an exasperated breath. “Jesus, Dix, chill out. The optics are fine. This will not put you in a bad light with the cops. On the contrary. It looks like a smart move, the only responsible thing to do under the circumstances.”
“Under the circumstances?” I tugged my arm and Dylan released his grip. I guess he must have judged me cooled down enough not to assault a peace officer. He was right, but just barely. “Which circumstances would those be? Oh, wait, I remember—the totally bogus ones which you manipulated to your advantage.”
“Okay, okay!” Dickhead dragged a hand through his short hair. “I was a jerk to leave. I’ve admitted it. But what’s done is done. This was the only way to salvage it.”
I turned away, closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I turned back to Dickhead. “Okay, that’s how we’ll play it. We don’t have any choice now. But you owe me, mister. Big time!”
And I would surely collect.
Chapter 9
YES, EVENTUALLY, I calmed down. Possibly because by the time Richard Head left my office, he looked thoroughly dejected. I made certain of it.
Let me back up a bit. Back when he hired me to work this case, Dickhead had explained he’d originally gone to Gaetan Land on a lark when his cousin, a Pinellas County Sheriff’s Deputy, had been visiting from Florida. You know how it is: boys have too much to drink, boys do something stupid. Like get a circle of barbed wire tattooed on their biceps. Or worse, a flaming heart with someone’s name on it. (Urgh.) Or—I don’t know—hit on somebody’s mother (God help them, not mine! Katt Dodd would hit back). Or maybe join the dancers on stage at a strip club and get bounced out of there. (Okay, we women have been known to do that, too. And not just me and Mom, right? Right?) And okay, sure, a pair of intoxicated men might even end up at a cuddle club, just for the giggles.
Yeah, I’d bought his story then, and I still believed it. I could totally see that happening on one of those boys-will-be-boys nights. (Have I mentioned that I’ve met the aforesaid Sheriff’s Deputy?) But why had he kept going back?
He’d effectively deflected me the first time I asked the question, but I put it to him again: “You never answered my question, Detective. After your cousin headed back down south, why did you keep going back to the cuddle club?”
He’d still had no answer, other than to growl, “Jesus, Dix, why does anyone do anything?” Honestly, I think it was a mystery to Head himself, one he really didn’t want to ponder.
And while I was at it, I also demanded to know why he hadn’t forewarned me that I could expect to encounter Elizabeth Bee at cuddle club. His response to that question was perhaps even more disturbing. He admitted he hadn’t made the connection between Elizabeth Bee and the Case of the Flashing Fashion Queen. At least, not until I rattled his cage about it. I could see that fact troubled him as much as it did me. What was it about that place? Somehow, it not only kept him coming back, but it apparently also took the edge off his observational skills.
So, like I said, Dickhead left looking miserable, thanks to me poking him about things he’d rather not have poked, but he did promise he’d see us again at Gaetan Land for the next cuddle.
Dylan and I would be there, that was for damned sure! Was I overly fond of the cuddle club? Nope. Nor was Dylan. But more and more my intuition was tingling itself all the way up my spine, and slapping me upside the head. Something was not right in Gaetan Land.
So, yeah, we were working for the weekend....
We decided there really was not much sense in working at the office when my condo would be so much more comfortable. More room. More coffee. More... everything. So we cleared our schedules (which in my case meant postponing my date with a couple of Torchwood reruns), unpacked the whiteboards and dry erase markers which were still packed in their moving boxes, and stowed them in the trunk of Dylan’s car for transport. Then we each went our own way for the afternoon, agreeing to meet at my place at 7 p.m.
Yep. A night for hard work. Brainstorming. Nothing more.
Oh boy...
More indeed.
Dylan arrived right on time. He had his own key to my condo, of course. It came in handy on those occasions when I was working surveillance and he had to retrieve something from my place (such as clean underwear; ah... memories). Tonight, though, he rang the buzzer.
I buzzed him in, and when I heard the elevator across the hall stop on my floor, I opened my door.
He was grinning as he stepped off the elevator. My eyes raked over his body. He held the whiteboard under one arm and something else in his other hand, but that’s not what grabbed my attention. His attire did. He wore his usual leather jacket, of course, and those size 13 motorcycle boots, but between the hem of his jacket and the top of his boots, he sported silk pajamas. “Headed for a sleepover, are we?”
His grin widened and he arched a provocative eyebrow.
Oh shit! With the current of sexual tension that had been humming between us, that’s what I came out with?
Okay, pulling foot out of mouth now.
To make room for something else, possibly?
Dix! I slapped that sly, dirty-minded little voice down and stepped back. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He followed me inside. As soon as I closed the door, he fished something out of the bag he’d been holding in his right hand and passed it to me. “I brought yours too.”
Omigosh, it was Aunt Gert’s latest creation, a pair of silk pajamas. I’d left them at the office, figuring I’d be in on Sunday before cuddle club to collect them.
“Thanks.” I think.
Dylan said, “Why don’t you change into them while I get the whiteboard set up?”
I did a double take. Maybe this was shaping up to be a sleepover.
“Relax,” Dylan chided.
“I am relaxed,” I squeaked.
“Seriously, Dix,” he said. “I just figured the more we’re in cuddle club mode, the more we’ll be in that mindset.”
“Oh. Oh, of course.”
“Unless maybe you were thinking something else?”
The lazy, teasing note in his voice made my toes curl. Literally.
But what if he was just teasing? He had brought the whiteboard, after all. And it did make sense to get into cuddle club mode. Sort of.
Lord, did I want him to be just teasing?
I caught myself and laughed. God, the man had barely just got in the door. Even if he was interested in... more, I wasn’t that desperate. Well, I didn’t want to appear that desperate, anyway.
He smiled as though he’d followed my entire mental process and didn’t need to ask why I was laughing.
“Pajamas it is, then.” I nodded to the living room. “Set us up in there, would you?”
With that, I took the bag with Aunt Gert’s PJs into my bedroom, stripped down to my underwear, and tried them on.
&
nbsp; The pajamas were royal blue, and if I do say so myself, royal blue looks pretty damned amazing on me. Seriously. I own it. The vee neck was low, plunging even. The soft sleeves were flared, and they floated down over my wrists. The pajama bottoms floated down to my toes. (I bent over, pulled them back up and tightened the drawstring. (God, that would have been embarrassing!) Then I turned to look in the mirror.
Okay, yeah, I’m tough-as nails Dix Dodd, PI. But damn, I love the feel of silk against my skin. And I loved the way these PJs looked on me. Well, almost loved the way they looked. I turned around and glanced over my shoulders. Yep, there they were. Those little bulges right below my bra where it dug in.
Argh! I’m not one for fashion, but even I knew this was not especially attractive. I bit my lip as I pondered the options.
“All set out here,” Dylan called.
Okay, I’d have to go bra shopping before the next cuddle club meeting, but for now...
I stripped back down to my underwear, took off the same, then pulled the pajamas back on.
Wow. I looked—
“Fantastic,” Dylan said as I joined him in the living room.
“I’m sorry, what’s that?” I said, cupping my ear.
“I said you look fantastic,” he repeated, his mouth curving in that half smile I loved so much. “But you heard me the first time.”
I had. I just liked hearing it. Does the guy know me or what?
He’d set everything up. The whiteboard was on its stand and the various color markers awaited. A couple of the yellow notepads I worked with (I’m a doodler) sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Then I spied it—the Cuddle-Uppie Dylan had wrangled from Babe earlier in the day was thrown over the sofa. Was that why he’d wanted it? For us to cuddle up under? Then I noted the other details. Soft music played in the background. Two low candles burned on the coffee table, and he’d poured two glasses of red wine.
Dylan caught me looking at the set up and shrugged. “Just trying to recreate the scene.”
“But we drink smoothies at cuddle club,” I said dryly.
Another lift and fall of those shoulders. “Yeah, but you don’t have the equipment to make smoothies, let alone the ingredients. Whereas you do have a shitload of wine.”
Well, that was true. “And the candlelight?”
He grinned. “No dimmer switch to lower the lighting like they do at cuddle club. I just improvised.”
I laughed, but it had a breathless quality even I could hear. “You have an answer for everything tonight, don’t you?”
His grin faded and his face turned serious. “If this scares you, if this is too much, just say the word, Dix,” he said. “The candles go out and the lights go up. I’ll dump the wine.”
Okay, decision time. If I gave the word, it would be boss and employee. If I didn’t...
God, I’d shut the guy down so many times. Shut myself down.
I swallowed. It didn’t help much. “Shame to waste good wine.”
We settled in on the couch. Oh God, we more than settled in. We got under the Cuddle-Uppie (though we used it more like a blanket, stopping short of poking our heads through those whack-a-mole holes). Of course, I was as tense as a board to start with—that whole closeness thing. Dylan didn’t make any sudden moves, but rather just waited for me to relax. (Did I mention he knows me pretty well?) Eventually, with the wine and the warmth and the talk (we really were here to try to solve the case), I actually did relax into him. It felt good. Better than good, but by focusing on the case, we kinda kept it normal. In fact, by the time I crawled out from under the blanket to pour us a second glass of wine, the weirdness of it had completely dissipated.
“So,” I said, handing him his refilled glass and crawling back under the blanket, “why does a macho guy like Richard Head keep coming back to cuddle club?” This time, I let my leg relax against his without having to will the muscles to cooperate. Progress. Or maybe it was the wine. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t Gaetan’s fine company.”
“And why do those women keep going back? Seriously, on a Friday night, why would those beautiful girls find themselves at Gaetan Land?”
“You’re thinking of Eva again? Or Brandy?” I felt a little twist in my gut as I thought of Brandy. Eva was sweet. Zoey was cute. Brandy was absolutely interested. Even though we’d only had one cuddle, she’d latched onto Dylan every time she got a chance. Flirted with him. Gave me the evil eye and that little smirk I just wanted to slap off her face...
He laughed, low in his throat, knowing. “Brandy’s a pretty young thing, but she’s got nothing on you, Dix, and you know it. Same goes for Elizabeth, Eva, Zoey, or any of the others.”
“Thank you,” I managed to say, trying so hard to pretend his words just now hadn’t affected me. “Okay, back to the case. Maybe... maybe there is a genuine appeal to cuddling.” I plunged on, determined to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “I’ve heard of stranger things, I guess.”
I could have added I’d seen stranger things, but didn’t want to bring up my porn collection just then. Though that 70’s classic, Men Who Keep Their Socks On, came to mind. Ooh, ribbed...
“Yeah, but most of the cuddle clubs I’ve looked into online are free. Folks just get together at homes or rec centres or church basements or some such place where it’s free to assemble. Why are people paying Gaetan Gough such high fees to join his little club?” Dylan asked. “And why are they staying there? I mean, why not take the activity to a home venue once they’d all met? That guy Elizabeth was with—Hugh Drammen—you know he’s loaded. Why doesn’t he offer up his place for the group to gather, sans payment? Okay, granted, Gaetan’s got this really fine blond Richard Simmons thing going on. Some people might find that appealing, I guess. But seriously, except for Drammen—and you know he’s probably footing the bill for Elizabeth Bee—who could really afford those rates? Geez, Eva cleans the place for the privilege of hanging out there.”
Tingle. Tingle. Tingle. Oh how I felt the tingle.
Yep, something was going on in that mind of mine. This didn’t sit right. But what was it? What made all those very different people keep coming back? What made Gaetan’s club such an addiction?
But then I realized Dylan had stopped talking and was looking at me. Specifically, he was looking at my mouth. Suddenly the tingling feeling wasn’t just in my mind. He was going to kiss me. I tipped my head back and, lest he had any doubts that I wanted this, parted my lips. I had the satisfaction of seeing the heat leap in his eyes, then his face blurred as he leaned in to kiss me. I felt a shudder of anticipation rack me as his lips neared... then stopped.
“Dix?” My name was a warm breath oh-so-close to my lips. “I’m gonna kiss you.”
I sucked in air to fill my suddenly oxygen-starved lungs. “I sorta figured.”
“I’m gonna do more, too, if you’ll let me. Will you let me?”
I shuddered again. Would I let him touch me? Strip me? Make love to me? Sitting here beneath the blanket, breathing him in, my breasts swelling and an ache starting low in my belly... damn right I would!
“God, yes!”
I slid an arm around his neck and tried to pull him down that last few millimeters so our mouths would meet, but he resisted.
“Dix?”
Dear Lord, did we have to analyze this before it even happened? “Yeah?” I husked.
“You’re hurting my neck!”
“Oh, sorry,” I loosened my grip.
“If we start making love, you’re not going to suddenly have a brain wave, solve the case and bail out on me, are you?”
Okay, so I’d done that to him once. Okay, twice, if we’re counting. I suppose I couldn’t blame him for asking. But there was no danger of that this time. I hadn’t a clue what was going on at that cuddle club. And just now, I didn’t much care. “No, I’m definitely not going to do that.”
Finally—finally!—he closed that tiny distance and kissed me.
For a moment, that was our only p
oint of contact—our fused mouths, our shared breath. Of course, he tasted of the Starbucks breath mints he always carried and that other taste that was uniquely him. The clean smell of whatever shaving product he used invaded my senses. It was just exactly as I remembered, and yet it felt new and impossibly exciting.
Then he cupped my face in his big hand (yes!), angled my chin and deepened the kiss (yes, yes, yes!). My hands found his chest, sliding over the silk of his pajamas, thrilling at the hard heat of him beneath the blanket and the strong thudding of his heart.
Then his hand dropped lower. I moaned my approval against his mouth as his thumb stroked my throat. That was enough for a while (God, the man kissed just how I liked!). Then he slid his palm down, splaying his fingers beneath my collarbone. His flesh was so hot against mine, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a brand materialize on my skin. Of course, the moment he did that, I needed more contact. I leaned into him, pressing my breasts to his chest. This time it was Dylan’s turn to groan. As I hoped, that big, talented hand slid down further still, to cup my breast through the thin silk of my pajamas. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
My hand flexed of its own accord and I dragged my fingernails lightly down his side, drawing a shudder from him, then another as I slid my hand under his pajama top to smooth over the bare skin of his abdomen. Flat, hard, warm, smooth. I soaked up the tactile sensations. Soon I would have to shuck off the cozy blanket so I could see the glorious landscape I was touching, but for now, it was kinda hot—by which I mean hawt—being under the Cuddle-Uppie with Dylan. Probably because it reminded me of fooling around under the blanket on that too-short flight back from Florida.
“God, Dix, you feel good.” His hand was sure and urgent as he palmed the smallish mound, but his voice was gratifyingly hoarse.
“Oh, I feel good all right,” I said shakily. “But not as good as I’m going to feel very shortly.” And that was God’s honest truth. I was so aroused, it was going to take embarrassingly little effort on his part. But afterward... after he’d... um, bounced back, so to speak, I intended to put the man through his paces. The thought sent my excitement soaring even higher.
