Dangerous

by Patricia Rosemoor

  As well they should be after the display with the guy Titus called Buzzard.

  Dangerous…Drago really was.

  Crazy…that was her.

  The moment Drago had said she was his woman—even while part of her mind had been protesting—he’d gotten to her deep, buried, primal level.

  Dangerous as he might be, she wanted him more than ever.

  She just couldn’t let herself have him.

  Chapter Seven

  Camille was outside and checking her cell when Drago caught up to her. It had been so noisy inside she might have missed a call or text.

  “Jackson?”

  Nope. Nothing. She shook her head and slipped the cell back into her pocket. “What in the world are we doing at a biker bar, Drago?”

  He actually had the nerve to scowl at her. “You mean what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home, getting some sleep.”

  “Is there some reason you didn’t want me to come with you?”

  “I didn’t have a second helmet with me.”

  Right. She was certain that was it.

  Not.

  “So you’re a biker? What else? What else do you not want me to know about you?” His scowl deepened and she could feel waves of something dark and uncomfortable emanate from him. Anger? Or something else altogether? Obviously, he wasn’t going to answer, so she said, “This is my case, and—”

  “Jackson’s case!” he snapped.

  “And you’re the hired help.” She clenched her jaw to keep herself from reacting to his flinch. He was more than hired help to her, but she couldn’t let him know that. She wasn’t about to give him the upper hand. “I won’t be kept in the dark.”

  He walked away from her.

  “Drago! Wait!” She quickly caught up to him. “Where are you going?”

  “Home to get that bastard’s blood off me.” Stopping at his motorcycle, he put on his helmet and skimmed her body with his gaze. A flush of heat washed through her until he added, “You could stand to do likewise.”

  A glance down at the front of her shirt reminded her that Buzzard’s blood had sprayed her when she’d whomped her forehead into his nose. At least the fact that it was blood wasn’t obvious against the dark green material. But her blood-splattered face and neck were another matter.

  He swung a leg over the motorcycle and settled into the seat.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Where do you think?”

  Without bothering to give her an address, Drago took off.

  Running to her car, Camille cursed him roundly. Was he always this difficult or just with her? She shot out of the lot as fast as she could, but she’d already lost him. Good thing her memory had always served her well. She backtracked to where he’d left the Trans Am. He must live somewhere on that block. But where? She sped up and practically made a two-wheel turn. If he didn’t wait for her…

  But to her surprise, he did wait.

  When she got to his street, Drago was leaning against the car, arms crossed over his chest. He must have just put the helmet back inside. A sigh of relief. She parked and joined him.

  He led her past what looked like a multistory frame single-family home, and then down the gangway between it and the brick 2-flat next to it. Thinking he must have a garden-level apartment, she was surprised when he crossed the back patio and took the walkway to another building at the rear of the property—a coach house with a garage on the ground floor and stairs leading to the second floor. He led her up the stairs, apparently to his apartment.

  “So you don’t use the garage?” she asked.

  “Don’t own it.”

  She should have realized the place was a rental. He might be a PI now, but four years ago, he’d spent half the year in jail. Undoubtedly the lawyer who brokered the deal for him was the recipient of any savings he might have had.

  Even so, the apartment itself was impressive. It might be a rental, but it was definitely high end. Open concept, a kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances and granite counters at the far end overlooking the alley, then a large plank dining table in the middle of the space, and a living area with lots of windows on the patio side. It even had a gas fireplace.

  She stopped in the middle of the room, keeping some distance between them. “Very nice.”

  “I was lucky to score it. Bedroom’s big enough for a king-sized bed.” His expression shifted to one more intense, and he narrowed that distance between them. “Want to see it? I can give you a personal tour.”

  A frisson of temptation shot through her. Drago wasn’t just suggesting she take a look at his bedroom and she knew it. Buried memories of the things he’d done to her that weekend, of the way he’d explored her so thoroughly, had tasted every inch of her skin, of every crevice, had played with her and plied her with experiences new and exciting, came rushing back. Her skin was alive now, attuned to his nearness, prickling with wanting. Her fingers wanted to curl in that dark hair and pull his head to her. Her breasts ached for his touch, and her center radiated heat.

  Even so, she said, “I’ll take a pass on that.”

  He took another step closer. “You’ll have to check out the bed if you want to use the bathroom. You have to go through the bedroom to get to the facilities.”

  She didn’t like the way this conversation was going, so she attacked to deflect the growing need to do something about it. “Titus—how do you know him?”

  “Cook County.”

  “You met him in jail?”

  He shrugged and backed off. “I met a lot of men in those months.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Burned a truck.”

  “He set it on fire? This is the guy you went to for help?” What the hell had he been thinking?

  “Titus Dixon is all about taking care of his own. The truck belonged to his sister’s boyfriend. The bastard not only cheated on her but beat her up and then stole from her, leaving her destitute. And of course got away with it. Charges were never even brought against him.”

  The cop in her knew she should condemn the biker for his actions, but the part of her that was removed from her job was less rigid, though the sister’s case was one that Justus Investigations could have handled. If it had existed at the time, of course. Drago’s brother had still been a CPD detective back then.

  She said, “Titus sounds like someone with a history.” Not just anyone would take that kind of revenge.

  “Probably. He didn’t detail his back story for me.”

  “What makes you think he can help us?”

  “He gets around. Knows a lot of people with underground info. People who owe him. Hopefully, he’ll get us some kind of lead.”

  “And why would he do this for you?”

  “Because he owes me.”

  “What did you do for him?”

  “Stopped him from being on the receiving end of a shiv.”

  Homemade knives were common in Cook County Jail. She’d seen enough reports to know how deadly they could be. Drago might have saved Titus’s life.

  Friends with another criminal. Hackers were criminals, too.

  That acknowledgment made her face just how far apart her and Drago’s lives were.

  Focusing on the case, she said, “The question is, can Titus get something for us quick enough to get that bastard Angel.”

  “You have a better idea, speak up.”

  Now there was the rub. She’d worked the case for months and had never caught up to Angel until that fateful IM had come through on her computer. And she hadn’t even been there to get it.

  “I’m hoping that Jackson will get some helpful information from the realty company.”

  If he ever got back to her. She checked her cell. He’d gone off more than an hour ago and still nothing.

  She was slipping the cell back into her pocket when Drago pulled off his blood-streaked T-shirt. “Huh. Should I try washing this or just throw it away now?”

  Camille stared at his bared ches
t decorated with the fire-breathing dragon head and suddenly realized her mouth was gaping just a little. When she met his gaze, she realized his rugged features had tightened, his blue eyes had narrowed on her. Her pulse rushed. She quickly licked her lips and pressed them together and realized her mouth had gone dry. If only she could shut off her mind.

  “Um, cold water. Rinse it while it’s fresh. Soak it for a while and use a little shampoo on anything that’s left and rub the material. Hard.”

  He looked hard. Sculpted. More than she remembered. His abdomen was flat as a washboard, but that six-pack…

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Take off your shirt. I can get them both at the same time.”

  “You want me to take off my shirt?” The very idea made her tense.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” His voice held that tone again.

  Heat crawled up from her middle, encasing her breasts, even as she protested. “The material’s dark green. No one will know what I got on it.”

  “C’mon. You need to wash up anyway. Just take it off.” When she stood there unmoving in stubborn silence, he added, “I dare you.”

  The way he said it got to her. Did he think she had no control over herself? That if she took off her shirt that meant she was ready for anything? That he could simply will her to do what he wanted?

  She started to undo her buttons.

  One. At. A. Time.

  His gaze dropped to her fingers, then didn’t shift again. He didn’t even blink. He was staring straight at her chest. And her flesh was reacting to his focused interest. Camille gritted her teeth together, shed the shirt, and held it out to him. His eyes never leaving her breasts, encased in a thin, flesh-colored bra that didn’t hide her hardened tips from him, he reached out as if to take the shirt from her.

  Instead, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and tugged her so that her body slammed against his, so that her breasts flattened and her heart beat double-time against his chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she choked out.

  “What you want me to do.”

  “You’re so sure of—”

  “You. I’m sure of you.”

  Fighting the impulse to give in to him, she said, “Don’t be.”

  He murmured, “Then do something unexpected,” as he swooped his head closer and covered her mouth with his.

  With a gasp, she kissed him back.

  For a moment, the world stood still, leaving them the only living, breathing beings caught in a bubble of time. She felt as if he’d swallowed her whole, as if she was somehow inside him, or part of him or an extension of him. Not a separate being. Not Camille. Not herself at all.

  This was more than sexual tension. This was sheer transformation. Giving up oneself to another human being. To Drago. To the man who’d hovered at the edges of her emotional interior for four long years. She’d lied to herself. She’d never been able to put him behind her.

  For a moment, she lost herself in the kiss. Dueled tongue to tongue. Reveled in Drago’s arms around her again. Immersed herself in a way that she’d experienced with no other man. When his hands slipped beneath the lace of her bra to cup her breasts, her head grew light. She imagined the things he was going to do to her…the things she would do to him.

  The things they had done that had been unexpected…

  He presses her against the wall. Pins her there and enters her. She wraps her legs around his thighs. They kiss long and deep and with such vigor she thinks he’ll come fast and hard.

  Instead he stops moving. Stops kissing. Simply pins her in place, his hands pulling hers up over her head into the wall.

  He looks so deep into her eyes that she can’t turn away. Their eyes connect them in a way she can’t explain. But deep inside, she needs. Wants. Must have.

  As if compelled, she rotates her hips, trying to make him move with her. Her body is on fire. She needs relief. He’s not cooperating. She shoves herself against his length, drawing back to shove again. Again. And again. Pumping against him with a fury born of desire. Finally, lit from within, she climbs to the heights of ecstasy with a war cry torn from her throat.

  Only when she drifts down and regains sanity does she realize he’s smiling at her. Still hard, he now begins to move and she comes again.

  Again.

  And again…

  Moaning, she felt her head go light as he stroked her hardened nipples. Felt her inner flesh soften and grow moist with growing desire. She wanted him. Now. Again. And again.

  Why not? Why was she hesitating?

  Doubt crept in. Drago’d had four years to contact her. Four long years to make a simple call. Besides, he didn’t feel like the same person with whom she’d spent that amazing weekend. How could he? He’d spent months afterward in jail, consorting with criminals. Might still be there if he hadn’t taken a plea. He was simply taking advantage of her weakness.

  With a gasp, she shoved him away from her. “Is that unexpected enough for you?”

  He reached out as if to touch her face. She intercepted his hand with her shirt.

  “Here. This is what you wanted. Isn’t it?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You wanted that kiss. You wanted more.”

  “Don’t touch me again!”

  His expression closed. Now he was the one gritting his teeth. She was, of course, lying. And she was certain that he of course knew it.

  Sounding ticked, he plucked the shirt from her fingers. “Next time, you’ll have to ask me to touch you.”

  “That’ll be…”

  But he turned his back on her before she could add never. She wanted to deny that would ever happen, but he didn’t give her the chance. He went straight to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. She forced herself under control.

  “Keep it cold,” she reminded him.

  He muttered something, but the pouring water covered for him. She stood there for a moment simply staring at his back.

  Angry. Frustrated. Wanting.

  She told herself she wanted to be done with him. Now. The last thing she needed right now was getting involved with anyone.

  Looking around, she found only two doors leading to other areas of the apartment. The first was to a storage closet, the other to the bedroom. A glance back told her Drago was paying her exactly no mind. He was scrubbing the heck out of her shirt, making her wonder if it would survive his irritation with her. She crossed through the room, trying to ignore the king-sized bed, trying to stay the picture-perfect memories of other things they’d done in that hotel room now flicking through her mind.

  Oh, Lord, stop!

  Aroused, she forced her mind to the task at hand and entered the adjoining bathroom. She couldn’t do this to herself. Couldn’t remember. Couldn’t allow herself to want Drago again. It was just physical, nothing more. Nothing to bind them together other than sex.

  Besides which, they had work to do. A killer to find. A young girl to save. She didn’t really know Sandy, so she didn’t know how the girl would react to Angel, didn’t know if Sandy could protect herself, at least emotionally. The way Camille needed to protect herself from Drago. Because when they nailed the killer and rescued the girl, that would be that. The end.

  Saddened by the thought, she glanced into the mirror at her blood-spattered skin. Filling the sink with warm water, she tried to wash away the memories along with the spattering of Buzzard’s blood on her. She succeeded getting clean, but knew she could never scrub away the past.

  She dried herself and fashioned the towel around her. A glance at the mirror told her she was just setting herself up for more uncalled-for attention. She hung up the towel and went back into the bedroom in search of something to wear. Poking around in his dresser drawers, she found a black T-shirt and slipped it over her head, then checked the mirror. It was so big on her it made her appear sexless. Perfect.

  About to leave the room, she stopped when her cell chirped at h
er.

  Jackson!

  Pulling the cell from her pocket, she realized her hand trembled slightly when she saw his name. She connected. “What did you get?”

  “More frustration. It took awhile to track down the owner of Welby Realty. He remembered Paul Fox because he paid his rent in cash for three months in advance. And then he just fell off the grid and the agency rerented the apartment when they didn’t hear from him.”

  “What about his furniture and linens? Maybe we can get his DNA.”

  “Asked about that, but apparently the place was empty.”

  Camille sank down on the edge of the too-inviting bed. “Did Fox ever actually live at that address?” She’d been hoping neighbors could give them a better description.

  “Welby couldn’t swear on it. I’ll have someone check on it tomorrow morning.”

  “In the meantime, we still have nothing.” And she was too exhausted to think of a new move.

  “We have a little something. Welby remembered Fox because of the way he looked.”

  “So his description didn’t fit what we saw on the mall camera?”

  “Welby said the blond hair wasn’t real. That he could tell Fox was wearing a wig. And face makeup. Said it looked like he was covering up something because it was thicker along the right side of his face. Maybe a birthmark or a scar.”

  “Whoa. That might give us something.” They could have someone run through electronic mug shots looking for marked faces.

  “I already have someone working on it.”

  Of course he did. Jackson was good. With him working on the inside of the department and her working with outside help, they would succeed in stopping Angel this time.

  “He also said Fox looked young, probably early twenties.”

  The same age as his victims. That would narrow down the field a bit. “So what’s your next move?”

  “Next we get something to eat and some sleep or we’ll be no good to anyone. We’ll start again at daybreak. I advise you to do the same.”