Undercover Lovers

by Chloe Cole

  Out in the hallway, he hitched his bag higher on his shoulder and strode toward the club. Inebriated laughter and thumping bass beats greeted him as he entered through a side door, already surveying the assortment of lusty, mostly drunk women. Where had she gone?

  His gut tightened as he swung his gaze in all directions, trying to see everywhere at once. What if he'd missed her? She wouldn't leave if she wanted to invite him to join her little stable, would she?

  “Hi.”

  He glanced down at the silky voice, a smile forming. Thank God. “There you are.”

  She frowned, the gesture looking completely foreign on such a cute face. Truthfully she looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a madam in her sedate skirt and blouse. She even had freckles.

  Dammit, why hadn’t he double-checked her photo in the dressing room? Then again, her appearance might just be the perfect disguise.

  “Were you looking for me?” She wet her glossy bubblegum lips and his manhandled cock strained against his zipper. Hell, he'd enjoyed the abuse. If she turned out not to be the woman he sought, he’d beg her to abuse him some more with that luscious mouth. “I wanted to, um, apologize for earlier. I can't believe I did that. I didn't think it could be real and—”

  “Didn’t think what could be real?”

  She toyed with one of her hoop earrings, glancing away from him then back again. Leaning in, she whispered what sounded like, “Your penguin.”

  “My what?”

  “Your penis!” Obviously aghast at her declaration, she whirled away into the crowd.

  Fighting the grin that seemed determined to force its way onto his face, he chased after her retreating form. Shit, she moved fast. Petiteness aside, when she wanted to shove people out of her path she appeared to have little trouble.

  The woman had spunk. He appreciated spunk. Despite her being his client’s fiancée, he’d taken a…lusting to her. Not liking. He didn’t know her well enough to like. That involved sharing mutual interests, perhaps a similar worldview. But his penguin certainly enjoyed her backside bouncing under her skirt.

  He didn’t catch up with her until she’d reached the parking lot. The warm June breeze blew her hair back while she jogged toward a miniscule car. He could watch that ass move all damn day.

  She spun around and clutched her belongings to her chest. “Why are you following me? I apologized. I didn’t mean to molest you.”

  “Molest me?” Shane had to laugh as he hefted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Honey, you can molest me like that anytime you want.”

  No, she couldn’t. She wasn’t available. But he had to keep her talking until she propositioned him.

  Right now he had nothing to give Connor. She’d touched his dick then apologized and blushed? Yeah, that proved a lot. He still couldn’t figure out how someone so shy could run any sort of escort service. Truthfully, he couldn’t imagine this woman getting naked without turning pink and holding a hand over her private parts. Not that she included herself in the merchandise, but still.

  “You’re not offended?” she asked in a tremulous voice.

  “Hardly, M,” he said, remembering what her friend had called her. Connor’s fiancée’s name was Maureen. So that wasn’t out of the realm.

  “How do you know my name?” She lifted a hand to her hair, again flashing her diamond.

  Instead of responding, he let out a deflated breath. If he dug out the photo burning a hole in the pocket of his jeans, he’d have to accept the truth. He’d found the woman he sought, even if her hair seemed a little curlier outside in the glow of pink neon from the Strippendales sign. Even if her cheekbones appeared a little more pronounced, her mouth softer and more vulnerable. Didn’t matter. Height and weight checked out. Time, place, touchy-feely behavior…all a match.

  He’d met Maureen Shawcross. Dammit.

  “Your friend told me your name.” The lie rolled off his tongue. “After the show, she pulled me aside and said she had a friend who needed to get laid.”

  The sudden flush that climbed from her chin to her hairline almost made him feel guilty. “My friend is misinformed. She’s also drunk.”

  He arched a brow. “You don’t need to get laid?”

  No, it’s your friends who need to get laid, right? Your well-heeled, discreet friends with more money than morals?

  She looked him up and down so thoroughly he suspected she was picturing him in his ridiculous stripper getup. He would never live that down, even if no one else ever knew about his secret sideline as a peddler of man-flesh.

  And now you’re trying to get picked up as a prostitute…

  He shook his head. Maybe being a cop hadn't been so bad after all. At least he got a pension and no one checked him out to deem him worthy for sale.

  “I’m not indiscriminate. I’ve also never had a one night stand,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

  Shane rocked back on his heels, studying her. Could she be baiting him? Did she test out the guys personally? Shit, how far could he take this?

  Not that sleeping with Maureen would be any hardship. Even the curve of her jaw made him want to lean in and lick her fragrant skin. She smelled of honey and cool green tea, with the slightest hint of melon. A stupidly expensive perfume no doubt, created to drive men to their knees.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he’d skipped dinner to get to the club on time. Her damn eat me perfume wasn’t helping matters.

  “So maybe I’d be better suited for one of your friends,” he suggested, pushing his free hand into the pocket of his jeans. He had to work hard to force it inside the tight fabric. He’d worn his snuggest pair to showcase his ass, his most notable asset according to several of his exes.

  A grin tipped up his mouth. Penguin notwithstanding.

  “My friends?” She drew her brows together. “They’re all married or close to it.”

  Crafty, wasn’t she? He shrugged, trying to act as if that didn't faze him. Weren’t married people the most frequent customers of sexual solicitors? “What’s your point?”

  She shook her head. “Jeez, I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Why would I need the benefit of the doubt?” You’re the damn madam.

  Granted, his instincts had yet to get onboard with that. This one played sweet and innocent so well he doubted even his buddies on the force would question her routine.

  Last thing he’d needed to think about right now were his friends at the cop shop. They’d accused him of being too susceptible to a pretty face—though that had only gotten him in trouble once, possibly twice—and easily influenced by sob stories. According to his former captain, any cute girl could hoodwink him if she had a nice smile and a tight butt. If she came with a tale of woe and a desperate plea for help, even better.

  Well, he’d show them. Once he went to Connor with proof of Maureen’s sideline in high-class trafficking, he’d become a little richer and enjoy the new customers his client threw his way, not to mention the hero status he’d gain by bringing down picturesque Stonybrook, Colorado’s own notorious madam.

  Okay, so Maureen wasn't notorious yet. But this was his daydream and he could exaggerate.

  “You’re a stripper. Not exactly the career path to respectability.”

  He clenched his jaw. Even though he'd become a stripper out of necessity, he took umbrage at her comment. A couple of the guys he’d met had families. Some were putting themselves through school. Hardly deadbeats or perverts. Besides, who was a madam to talk?

  “I used to be a cop,” he muttered, wishing he could kick his own ass for opening his big mouth. When would he ever learn?

  Yet another reason he made a crappy police officer.

  She laughed, her stiff pose altering just enough to push her breasts against her top. He couldn’t see much of them. Damn shame too. A beauty like her belonged in lacy camisoles and spaghetti straps.

  “Sure you did. Nice way to honor the badge there.” Her snigger consisted of two
parts sexy and one part irritating as hell. “Just like I used to be a model.”

  “I believe it.”

  “I’m barely five-foot-three.”

  “Print model then. You’re hot. A bit too sharp-tongued for my taste but you wouldn't need to speak.”

  Her cheeks bloomed pink. “You really expect me to believe a stripper used to be a cock?” Catching herself, she whispered, “Cop. I meant cop.”

  He grinned in spite of himself. “Still thinking about it, aren’t you?” He moved a fraction closer, nudging her against her string bean-sized vehicle. “Since you don’t believe I used to be a cop,” he stressed the word, making her redden even more, “maybe I should show you my cuffs. Or my nightstick.”

  Her lower lip trembled until she sucked it between her teeth. “I have my own nightstick.”

  “Oh, do you?” Shane tried and failed to keep the fascination out of his tone. He couldn’t afford to be interested in her beyond his investigation. He also couldn’t seem to help it.

  She thrust her plastic bag into his chest, the keys wedged between the fingers of her other hand holding him at bay. He opened the bag and withdrew a narrow wand with an on/off button. Just as he'd guessed.

  He pried off the lid, noted the lack of batteries. “Looks like you’re out.”

  “It was a bachelorette party favor. I doubt I’ll ever use it.”

  The way she wrinkled her nose made him laugh. Damn, she took cute to a whole new level. Weakness alert. “You don’t use a vibrator? Why not?”

  She clamped down on her lower lip so hard he figured he’d get no reply and possibly a key-enhanced punch to boot. “I prefer the real thing.”

  “So why are we still standing here talking?”

  Chapter Two

  Emma shoved the nightstick inside her bag. How had this all spiraled so out of control? She’d approached him to apologize for feeling him up and instead of acting affronted, he’d seemed happy to see her.

  As if he’d been waiting. As if he’d even been looking for her.

  Men like him didn’t look for women like her. Her hair wasn’t long and slinky and she didn’t wear sexy lingerie that dripped like liquid lace off her tits and ass.

  She wore plain cotton. Today she’d chosen her white granny panties to go with her equally non-seductive white bra.

  “I don’t need to get laid,” she said it almost like a mantra, in the hopes of convincing herself.

  She’d been all for a wild night of sex, until this guy strutted off stage and shook his giant pleasure tool in her face. Becky’s potion still trickled through her veins, probably why arousal already dampened her thighs. That didn't take into consideration the dark-fringed eyes that stared so perceptively into her own. She couldn’t see the color in the dark but she knew she’d never forget that stormy steel gray any more than she could forget the impressive cock she’d held for all of five seconds.

  She hadn’t held nearly enough of them in her twenty-nine years but his had to be an exemplary specimen of its kind. Firm, long, thick…an instrument he probably used to induce female ecstasy on a frequent basis.

  He stepped closer and threaded his fingers through her curls. She came scarily close to mewling. “Let's try this again. Do you want to get laid?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Name’s Shane.”

  “Shane. That sounds like a stripper’s name. Not a cop’s.” She twisted her mouth into a smile. “Is that a stage name?”

  “No. It’s my real name. Thanks a lot, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling me my grandfather’s name fits a stripper.”

  “Oh. Oops.” Her smile widened. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not a very good one.”

  “Third night on the job.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t like to dance. Pay’s decent, though I’m always up for better pay. Not to mention easier, more fun ways to earn it.” The flex of his hips against hers elicited gasps from them both. “Christ, you’re soft.”

  That made her laugh. “Women usually are. Been a while?” She risked a glance at his massive hard-on now pressing against her belly. “Sucks, doesn’t it? Though I bet you could get laid every night if you wanted to.”

  “Only if the price is right,” he muttered, the words lacking conviction.

  “Price?” Even without much experience, she didn't think that sounded kosher. “You’re not one of those gigolos, are you?” Then as a completely scandalous idea took hold, she waved her purse. “Do you take credit cards? I bet your pony would be worth a ride.”

  He yanked on one of her curls, drawing her head back until his face loomed disturbingly close to hers. The scent of mint gum wafted between them, reminding her she’d seen him chewing while he was dancing.

  Maybe he’d been nervous. Did strippers-slash-gigolos get nervous?

  “I’d do you for free,” he said softly. “But only twice.”

  Being willing to “do her for free” was hardly a compliment. Her face warmed anyway. “Why only twice? Tight schedule?”

  “The more you do something, the more likely you are to get addicted.” His callused fingers smoothed along the shell of her ear. “I don’t think you can afford me, princess.”

  He had to be kidding. Despite the whole stripping thing, Shane didn’t seem skanky. Clean cut, decently dressed, clear-eyed. No signs of drug use or anything nefarious. But he more than filled the requirements for one-night-stand material.

  Maybe serendipity—and her best friend’s big mouth—had dropped exactly what she’d been hoping for right in her lap. She probably shouldn’t be happy she’d accidentally imbibed Dr. Becky’s latest lab creation. But if it led to a night she’d never forget…

  “So…credit cards?” She met his gaze. “Do you take them or not?”

  He touched her mouth, just a skim of fingertips. She still shivered as if he’d dragged the edge of his teeth down her spine. “Maybe we should talk some more first.”

  “Talk,” she repeated. Sure, right. Didn’t that figure? Her entertainment for the night wanted to talk. He’d probably somehow discovered she had on granny panties. “You know, I’m really good in bed,” she added.

  His quick grin shot right to her nipples. “Thank you for the heads up.”

  “You took care of that all on your own, Stripper Shane.”

  His grin turned sheepish. “You’re cute,” he said as if that explained everything.

  “So are you,” she said, feeling bolder than she ever had before. Her inner wild woman was mere inches and layers of durable cotton away from letting loose.

  Watch out, world.

  “So you don’t have one night stands yet now you’re bragging how amazing you are in bed.”

  “I’m a contradiction wrapped in an enigma sandwiched in—”

  “I get the point.” He grinned again and glanced at his watch. “How do you feel about nachos?”

  Nachos. Right. Maybe Becky’s magical drug cocktail had increased her desire for sex but it sure hadn’t magnified her desirability. This guy really added a whole new dimension to running hot and cold.

  “With jalapeños?” She heard herself ask.

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a sports bar on the outskirts of town. Armed with her can of mugger spray, she’d accepted his offer of a ride though she’d been wary about getting into a vehicle with a man she didn’t know.

  Yet she was willing to sleep with him. That probably proved her decision-making skills needed some work. She’d just worry about that when she wasn’t loaded up with sex boosters.

  They sat in a corner booth then ordered drinks and a couple appetizers. The place was relatively quiet for a Friday night, especially in this particular corner. She intended to take advantage of that.

  Maybe she should take off her bra? Even with her staid top, her nipples were so overly sensitive he’d have to notice. If they were right there under the silky fabric, he wouldn’t
be able to ignore them. Or she could always accidentally spill her glass of ice. She’d already drained her iced tea. She always drank when nervous and the way Shane studied her without any concern for the baseball game playing on the screen behind her left her feeling lightheaded.

  “So,” he said, sipping his glass of soda. “What brings you to Strippendales?”

  She tossed her hair, remembering belatedly she didn’t have much to toss. Damn that cut she’d gotten two weeks ago. “Buxom bride Becky wanted strippers.”

  “Understandable.” His face remained unchanged but she heard the smirk in his voice.

  “She’s a doctor,” she said, leaning her cheek on her hand. Her cheeks were warm. Typical sign she’d had something to drink. Two sips and she became a flushed mess. “Chemist actually,” she added. “Very accomplished in her field. Works hard, plays harder.”

  “She’s getting married tomorrow?”

  “In two weeks. She met the guy on the internet. They both play chess.”

  “Ah. Okay.”

  The likelihood he’d pegged her as a weirdo was high. If she kept talking and didn’t go for it soon, she’d probably run out of chances to coax him into bed—up against the wall?—before he got annoyed.

  But he’d been hard for her. She must be doing something right. He’d called her cute. If she could just stop babbling to fill the silence, maybe he’d still want to do her. Hot guys probably didn’t have a lot of patience for slightly drunken/drugged, chatty, horny girls.

  She needed to turn him on. Quickly. Talking fish did it with Ted. She was reasonably sure that wouldn’t work here. How did girls flirt? She’d gone from one long-term relationship to another with very few regular dating breaks between. Acting witty and sexy didn't come easily to her but she could learn.

  She hoped.

  As if he could sense her nerves, he started asking her about herself. Nothing too deep, just getting to know you questions. She returned his conversational volleys, pleased they had some books and TV shows in common.

  The ex-cop-turned-stripper and the call center rep. Imagine that.