by Chloe Cole
That she had no fortune didn't seem pertinent at the moment.
“I couldn’t wait any longer. We have to talk this through.” He reached for her left hand and stroked the ring she wore. “This is an engagement ring.”
Genius. “Yeah. But it’s not mine.”
Shane sucked in a breath. “What do you mean, it’s not yours?”
She said nothing, too busy concentrating on not punching his lights out. Or at least making them flicker.
When he attempted to touch her shoulder, she shoved him back. He looked at her as if she'd sprouted an extra head and possibly a forked tongue too. “Are you all right?”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I told you my name is Shane—”
“Shane what?”
“Madison,” he said with no small amount of trepidation, heightening her suspicions.
Was he on wanted lists all over North America? Would she see his picture on the wall at the post office?
Dammit, this was what she got for paying all her bills electronically!
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“What is your birthday?”
“October seventh, nineteen-eighty-one. What is this all about? I think we both know that of the two of us, you're the guilty one here.” For the first time she noticed the way he studied her, the intense speculation that lent credence to his claim of once being a cop. Watching for any signs of weakness, any cracks in her armor. “Are you going to tell Connor how you propositioned me or will I?”
Emma balled her hands into fists to compensate for her trembling lips. “Propositioned you? I most certainly—” She broke off, remembering how she'd done just that. Numerous times. Then they'd had wild, uninhibited, one-night-stand sex because she'd been on drugs and now she'd be left a broken, destitute woman.
She flung herself back on the mattress and stared hard at the ceiling. Get a hold of yourself.
Just because she’d never done anything even half as impetuous before didn’t mean this would be anything more than one hot night. With a hundred mornings after of recrimination.
“Who is Connor?” she asked once her breathing had steadied.
His rough chuckle grated on her nerves, even if a couple hours ago the sound alone had been capable of triggering spontaneous implosion. “Listen, there's no need to play games with me. I know who you are.”
“Oh, do you? Who am I then?”
She actually heard his molars grinding together. “Why are you pretending with me? We both know what's going on. Your fiancé knows, Maureen. He set this whole thing up.”
Chapter Five
Emma hissed out a breath. So much for a blissful night. That she'd wanted a fun, no-strings fling was no excuse. Next time she’d find out more about the guy she intended to sleep with before they—
Wait a second, what next time? There would be no next time. She was done. Finito.
“I don't have a fiancé, you dolt. And my name’s not Maureen.” She tugged the sheet with her as she rolled out of bed and groped for her clothes on the floor. “As for Connor, if he's as boneheaded as you are, I'm not surprised it took both of you to set up a trap for this poor woman.”
“What do you mean you're not Maureen?” He clambered out of bed and started his own frantic search for his clothing. “You answered to M—”
“Emma. My name is Emma Donegan and I'm not engaged and I don't know anyone named Connor, you jerk!”
“How am I a jerk? I told you who I am. You're the one who didn't tell me your name.” He hopped around on one leg while he pulled up his jeans. At least he’d found them.
He’d gotten up a while ago and brought their clothes in the bedroom. What had he done with her top? Had he hidden it so she’d be forced to stay here with him in his sex den?
“I thought you knew my name, remember? You said you talked to Becky. But you didn't. You didn't even know who I am. You put your,” she screwed up her face, “thing inside me and you thought I was someone else. How icky is that?”
He snapped his jeans and crossed his arms over his entirely too tempting bare chest. That it happened to be too dark for her to see most of it didn't diminish the memory of all those muscles in the slightest. “I didn't hear you complaining. Nor did my neighbors when you were begging me to ram it in harder.”
She fastened her bra and then donned her panties and skirt. “Don't think I used the word ram. Maybe thrust. But ram?” Giving up the search for her shirt, she sat on the edge of the bed and yanked on the socks she'd balled neatly in her shoes. “It doesn't matter what I said.”
“No? Why is that?”
“Because I was drunk and drugged.” She couldn't keep the haughtiness out of her voice. He thought he had her number. Yeah, right. “Anything I did is because of that. I would never behave so wantonly—”
He stepped forward and grabbed her chin in two fingers. “What are you taking?” he asked in the same measured cop tone she'd heard him use throughout this entire conversation. Not once had he raised his voice.
“I'm not taking anything.” She batted his wrist but his grip held firm. “I accidentally drank Becky's drink and she'd added an enhancer to it. I'm really susceptible to anything alcoholic to begin with. Add a sex drug and well,” she waved at the mussed sheets, “you get what happened here. It's probably even why I came a couple times. Trust me that never happens.”
She expected him to stiffen at the verbal jab to his prowess—most men would—but nope. “What sort of sex drug? Is Becky a habitual user?”
He turned around and picked up his shirt from the back of the chair next to the dresser, the same place he found her top. Once he'd handed it to her, she pulled it over her head, grateful she could hide her face for ten heavenly seconds in fabric that still smelled of his woodsmoky aftershave. Her own fault for rubbing all over him.
She'd done that naked too. God, had it felt good. Amazing. In fact, all this talking was sort of pointless because she still wanted him naked.
Had to still be the aftereffects, but it had been hours. The drug couldn’t still be working. Could it?
“Emma?”
Startled by the use of her actual name, she poked her head out through the neckline of her top like a turtle emerging from its shell. “No, she’s never done it before. She created some sort of potion in the lab. Becky's a chemist,” she reminded him.
“What kind of chemist mixes up drugs like that?”
“A creative one,” she muttered. She glanced at the nightstand. “Where’s your alarm clock?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Excuse me? How do you get up in the morning?”
“I wake when I wake. My morning starts around ten.” She heard the shrug in his voice. “Probably another reason I didn’t fit the mold of the almighty blue stripes.”
She couldn’t fathom being so lackadaisical that you didn’t even own an alarm. Her job at the call center started at nine and she’d never been more than a couple minutes late. She didn’t mind mornings. In fact, staying up past ten p.m. for Becky’s party had been a real stretch.
One more incompatibility between them. She didn’t have to try to convince herself this would never work, because the evidence was everywhere.
Stripper, call center rep. Sex god, puritan mouse. Just didn’t fit.
“I'd say her concoction worked,” she said finally. “I don't normally behave like I did last night. No way I would've slept with some random stripper—”
“Christ, I'm not a stripper. You said it yourself. I can't fucking dance.”
Shocked that Shane had finally lost his cool, Emma bit her lip. The quick flare of pain reminded her how she’d burned the hell out of her lip and tongue at the restaurant. Funny she hadn’t noticed the residual pain until now.
Goodbye, buzz. Hello, cruelest hangover ever.
“I saw you stripping,” she said as he sat down beside her on the bed.
“You saw me trying to strip. You're much
better at it than I am.” Hearing his smile in his voice, she didn't flinch when he brushed a hand gently over her hair.
“If you're not a stripper, then who are you really?”
“I told you who I am.”
“Shane,” she said, her patience fleeing. If she'd had any to begin with. This had to be the oddest conversation she'd ever had. “Who's Connor? Why are you setting up sting ops?”
“Sting ops?”
She shrugged. “Hey, I watch the cop shows.”
Rather than answering her question, he rose and went over to his dresser. After turning on a small lamp, he came back holding his wallet. He thumbed it open and withdrew a photograph. Studying it, he shook his head. “Maybe he was right.”
“Who?”
“My captain. He said I wasn't cut out for police work. Told me my instincts were off and I was too susceptible to people's manipulations.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “That he was my dad didn’t make it any easier to hear.”
“Your dad?” she gasped. “He headed your squad?”
“Yeah. He’s been on the job thirty-five years. I couldn’t even hack five.”
“Wow.” Emma struggled to find something to say. “I’m not super tight with my parents but they’d never fire me.”
“He didn’t fire me. He strongly suggested I consider a new path. So I did.”
“That completely sucks. You’re saying because you're a nice guy you can't be a cop?” She frowned hard enough to make her forehead ache. “I'm sorry, that’s pretty shitty.”
“It is what it is. He may be right. But I am going to make a good PI. Maybe not yet,” his tone firmed, “but soon. Even if I’ve bungled this, it’s just one case. My first. My biggest so far. But I’m not throwing in the towel yet.”
“You haven’t bungled anything. I won’t tell anyone.” She took his hand, surprised by how much she wanted to help him.
“Now that I look at this photo of Maureen, I see I was wrong. You don’t look alike.” He reached up to trace her jaw. “Your lips are so much fuller, with that little twist that makes you look like you're up to no good. Your eyes are a brighter green. Hers aren't even close to as expressive. And your hair...all those curls...”
Her belly trembled. “What about my curls?”
“They're beautiful. Your hair's such a silky black.”
She took the photo from him. “This? This is who you thought I looked like?”
“Well, I know she's not as pretty—”
“Shane, she's a knockout.”
He shrugged as if he hadn't noticed. “You don't think there's any resemblance?”
“We're both brunettes, both have green eyes and fair skin. But she's so...”
“So what?”
“Sexy. Provocative. The kind of woman men would kill to get their hands on.”
He took back the photo, still smiling faintly. “I risked my only client and my reputation to get my hands on you. You must not see what I do when I look at you.”
Emma gazed at him for a long moment, noting the way he rimmed his lower lip with his tongue as their eyes met. Need clenched in her core. Her breasts weighed heavy with desire and her skin flushed hotter the longer he stared.
Was the drug really that potent? Or had she finally tapped into her inner sex goddess?
“Emma.” His large hand closed over her bare knee. “Can we start over?”
“You don't have your suspect. So now what?”
“Now I go back to the club and keep dancing until I find her. I shouldn't have told you nearly as much as I did.”
“I promise not to say anything. I guess you can't tell me what she's accused of?”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I have to protect my client's confidentiality. What's left of it anyway.”
“Your client...are you in some sort of private security now?”
“No. I'm a PI. I haven't proven too great at that yet either.” He broke eye contact and stared at the photo one last time before shoving it in his wallet.
“How long have you been in business?”
“Almost two months.”
“So you're new. You'll get better. I sucked at my cardio dance classes for months. Eventually I just sort of picked up the rhythm. I'm sure there's a rhythm to being a PI too.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” The smile she'd already learned to anticipate returned to his face. “That's true. Most things do have a rhythm.” His gaze roamed over her body, lingering in a few choice locations that liquefied and tightened under his perusal. “Like good sex.”
“Very good sex,” she echoed.
His smile deepened. “Incredible, fantastic, mind-blowing sex.”
Panic iced her spine and she leaped to her feet to keep from leaping on him. Enough was enough. She whirled around and grabbed her purse. Without another word, she fled into the connected bathroom.
She pried out her cell and checked the time. Nearly five a.m. It had been seven hours since she’d had that drink. How could she still be feeling the effects? Even the erection drugs she saw commercials for on TV only warned of hard-ons lasting more than four hours. But her thighs were soaked, her nipples taut and sensitive. Just like her clit. If she hadn’t run for her phone, she’d be mounting Shane even now.
Probably begging for more ramming too.
She called Becky, each ring pumping more fear through her bloodstream. God, she had to pick up. She needed answers. Clarity would help too. “What was in that drug?” she demanded the moment Becky answered. “Why am I still horny?”
Becky's smooth, satisfied laughter raised the last of Emma's hackles. “Maybe because you're overdue to get laid? Really laid?”
“Wrong answer. Try again.”
“Sweetheart, faking more orgasms than you actually have isn't a sign of a good sex life.”
“Not talking about Ted. Which is why I called you. I've had sex twice. Twice! I came before, during and possibly will after if I think about it too hard. What is wrong with me? Did your concoction permanently alter my brain chemistry?”
“Holy shit. Way to go, Emma, the almighty empress of sex!”
“You’re missing the point.” Emma huffed out a breath. “Why do you sound so funny? Were you asleep? I thought you normally get up at four-thirty to hit the gym.”
“Today’s still last night for me. Besides, I may not need to go to work so early anymore. My little potion made last night the best night ever. I need to market that stuff.” She let out a happy sigh. “As for you, no clue what happened. Maybe you just exploded after years of denial.”
“But the drug—”
“You didn't get the glass with the drug. I realized after you ran off to apologize to the stripper you groped. Sorry, I was a little tipsy.” Her giggle heralded the understatement of the year. “Speaking of tipsy, you have my ring right? I can’t believe I took it off.”
“Yeah, it’s safe and sound. I’m glad you gave it to me. You were a little out of control.”
“Just a tad. Not surprising, since I had the right glass all along. Wowza, did my blend ever work. I came so hard I think I broke one of my bedsprings.”
Usually by now Emma would be turning a nice shade of putrid at yet more proof of Becky’s wild and crazy sex life. But tonight she’d enjoyed her own slice of wild and crazy. “I know I drank your drink. I wouldn't have done this otherwise.”
“What’s this? Letting loose for once?” Becky’s tone turned conspiratorial. “Who’s the lucky guy? Did you meet someone at the club?”
Emma clutched her phone. “Do you remember the guy I grabbed?”
“Oh, hell yeah. The one with the badge. And the really nice cock.”
“It looks even better naked.”
The silence that filled the line made Emma grin. “No way. No how! You slept with a stripper? A hot as Hades stripper?”
“I did. Twice. And I want to again,” she whispered the last part, staring at the thin door that separated her from Shane. “So much.”
“He’s stil
l there? So he spent the night, which means he’s not the hit and run type. Nice. So, uh, Em, why are you on the damn phone with me? Go sex that boy to within an inch of his life.”
Becky did have a point.
She hung up, her best friend’s assertions ringing in her ears. Shane was still perched on the bed when she reentered the bedroom, though he rose as soon as he saw her. “Maybe we should get you to the hospital.”
“Hospital? Why?”
“You've imbibed a suspicious drug, combined with alcohol. A doctor should damn well know better. I'd like to wring her neck for doing something so reckless.”
She walked toward him, liking this new protective side of his personality. She couldn't say she found the cop vibe a turn-off, even if part of the reason she'd slept with a stripper was the inherent bad boy factor. The drug had given her something to blame for her behavior but she'd wanted to do exactly what she'd done.
Now it looked as if she had nothing—and no one—to hold responsible for how she’d acted but her.
“Becky said it was a safe herbal formula, Shane. She wanted to have an incredible night with her husband-to-be after her bachelorette party. It's just that nothing's safe with me. That's why I don't drink. Two sips and I'm loopy.”
He touched her cheekbone. “I liked you loopy.”
Uh oh. Her heart fluttered and she pressed her legs together so she couldn't feel the surge of dampness between her thighs. She should tell him she hadn’t grabbed Becky’s drink after all but she wasn’t ready to go there.
“How come you're not mad at me for being the wrong woman?”
“Not one thing about what happened here tonight was wrong, Emma,” he said, clearly annunciating her full name. “Honestly, I thought I was fucked.”
When she cleared her throat, he laughed. “Okay, doubly fucked.”
She cleared her throat once more and he laughed again. “I’m serious. Sleeping with a client's fiancée is career suicide. It’s beyond wrong for a million reasons. But I couldn't stop myself. You're so beautiful and funny and straightforward and I wanted to be close to you. I didn't care what happened after.”
