by Loki Renard
I sit primly in the backseat, a little disappointed I wasn’t thrust in the front next to Rico. My brother slumps in the front seat, his jaw tight, as if he’s furious he’s getting hauled into jail, but it’s all an act. We intended to get apprehended this time.
“It’s like the boy who cried wolf,” my father said, his cold blue eyes calculating, fingers drumming on his desktop as if he was planning a simple business move. “If we play this right, we’ll wear them out and they’ll ignore us when they most need to pay attention.”
A risky move, but one we’re willing to make.
I both love and loathe that the one who arrested us today is Rico. Why couldn’t it have been some no-name officer who’s wet behind the ears? At the same time, I like being in Rico’s near proximity, because when he’s close, my body thrums with a barely-tempered need. He signifies the catch I haven’t made, the heist I can’t quite procure, but the cat and mouse game makes the chase that much more gratifying. I live on a razor’s edge, danger at every turn. Hell, I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes from what I do, and it bores me when I don’t get enough action.
But my intuition tells me nothing is as dangerous as Agent Rico.
My sources say he was a linebacker in his college days, and a damn good one. He chose the force over professional football, but he still keeps his massive form in prime condition: broad, muscular, powerful, and still follows the successes and failures of his alma mater. I suspect a part of him regrets not having pursued the football route.
Silver tinges the dark hair at his temples, a stern brown above piercing blue eyes that miss nothing, a chiseled jawline that’s perpetually clenched. And hell, his deep, raspy voice rakes over my body like liquid sex. My skin still tingles where he’s touched me.
I want those hands all over my body. I don’t need to bed him to know he’s a man who gets what he wants, and Christ what I’d give for him to want me. Powerful, stern men like Rico don’t favor soft, missionary sex.
I shiver. My mouth is as dry as my panties are wet, and I’m only sitting in his car.
What that man could do to my body…
“This is such a waste of your precious time, Ricky,” I purr, leaning as forward as I can in my seat. “You have real criminals to catch.”
My brother looks out the window in silence, but he hears every word. I have to play this right, or he’ll report back to my father and the rest of them that I fucked this up.
“You are a real criminal,” Rico says, glaring at me in the rearview mirror.
C’mon, Ricky. You can do better than that.
I laugh, a musical sound even to my own ears. “How quaint of you to think so.”
I’m playing this off, of course, but the reality is, if he knew the half of it, every one of us would be serving decades behind bars, if not life sentences.
It’s part of the appeal.
A clench of his jaw is his only response while he pulls into the police station to run us.
I know this routine by now. It’s so predictable I stifle a yawn when he pulls my brother out of the front seat and hands him to a uniformed officer who was waiting for us when we pulled in before he hauls me out. The officer is middle-aged, with dark skin and an upturned nose. If I hear him speak, I’ll be able to tell where he’s from.
“Hello, officer,” I say in a polite, sweet tone.
He turns to me and raises a brow.
“Hello,”
“Do you know the time?”
“It’s four o’clock,” he says.
“Five o’clock somewhere,” I quip.
He smirks. “I suppose it is.”
My mind races, cataloging every detail. Solid gold ring on his left finger, but it’s shiny and possibly new. He’s spoken enough I detect a Puerto Rican accent. His shoes are a bit scuffed, so he’s either frugal or careless, his slightly rumpled clothes indicate he’s either pulled a full shift or he’s careless. It’s so much more effective to con someone you know than going into things blindly.
“You know, officer,” I say, with exaggerated concern. “Aquí hay gato encerrado.” It’s one of my favorite Puerto Rican phrases, literally meaning there is a cat locked up here, but in this context telling him something is suspicious. It doesn’t matter what I say, though, I achieve my goal. The officer blinks in surprise and loosens his grip on Leon, but better still, it infuriates Rico.
I speak five languages fluently and hold three degrees in international communication, foreign language, and psychology. My family looks to me to swap our dealings with my looks and charm, but I have a higher purpose. Any girl can slide on lip gloss and suck a cock. I have more cultured methods.
“I’ve got this one,” Rico says, when a second officer comes our way. This one looks like he’s stepped out of a Boy Scout catalog: short, mousy brown hair, well-ironed clothes, glossy shoes, no ring, and a stance like he’s about to throw down. He’s a mama’s boy who pleased his parents by joining the force, a law-abiding citizen who decided to level up. He probably eats oatmeal for breakfast, and I’d bet my Ferrari he’s a virgin.
The officer is a pushy one, though. “I’ll take her for you, sir,” he says. “Let me, so you can—”
“I said I’ve got this one,” Rico snaps. The officer stiffens, then nods.
“Yes, sir.”
Sir. God, I want to call him sir but in a very, very different way. As we go through the utterly dull process that takes hours and lands my ass in jail, I let my mind wander, reveling in the thrill of my sordid fantasy. Rico, fully clothed as he is now, wearing an impeccable charcoal-gray suit that brings out the blue in his eyes and silver at his temples. Me, stark naked and cuffed, over his lap. He’s lecturing me in that sexy-as-fuck growl, fisting my hair for emphasis. He’s so angry he vibrates with tension but controls his anger like a surgeon, with masterful precision.
“You fucked up, little girl,” he rumbles in my ear, his cock pulsing against my naked belly. “And now you pay.”
I’ve watched enough porn to know what happens next, and fuck if I don’t want to feel the searing smack of his palm on my exposed skin. I want to scream for mercy and have him give me none, until I writhe on his lap in helpless agony, bearing the marks of his palm. My gaze roams over his massive, powerful hands, his broad lap. It’s an hour into processing and he’s taken off his suit coat, a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his brows, and when he rolls up his shirt sleeves, I lick my lips.
“You look tired, Ricky,” I purr. The only indication he heard me is the slight tensing of his jaw. “Did you not sleep well last night? Up watching football again?” I tip my head to the side and wait for his reaction. I know that’s exactly what he was doing, because to his detriment he’s as predictable as clockwork. “You really should get to bed early when the Bills are on the West Coast, you know.”
“You,” he says, clicking away on his computer, “have no right admonishing me for reckless behavior.” But there’s a twinkle in his eye and a lift of his brow. He’s amused.
“Ah, quite right ma chérie. Perhaps you ought to be the one scolding?” I lean in and lower my voice. “I dream about that, you know.” It takes considerable effort to keep myself from flushing, because this part is not an act and he’s no longer amused. “Hearing you lecture me before you punish me. Before you take me across your lap and give me the long, hard spanking you know I deserve.”
A desperate longing claws at my chest that’s so sudden it takes me by surprise. I calm my breathing and still my racing heart by watching his reaction. Flared nostrils. A hard swallow. A smack of the delete key because he fumbled at the keyboard. He plays the part well, but he’s affected by the image.
“You deserve far more than a spanking, Miss Francoise,” he says in a low growl meant only for my ears.
I lean in closer. “Is that right, Ricky?” My pulse races. I want to hear him say it. I need him to threaten me. I swallow and pluck up my nerve. “What else do I deserve?”
For a split second
it looks like he’s going to play this game with me, when his gaze swings to mine, but then his eyes shutter and he’s once more the staid business man. “Prosecution,” he grumbles. “Jail.” But his parting word gives me an inkling of hope. “Humiliation.”
It’s sordid and twisted, but hell if I don’t want him to strip me down and degrade me. Use me. Make me hurt.
If I gave a shit, I’d admit I probably need psychological help.
But I don’t admit faults. I revel in them.
The room pulses with power and need and sexuality.
“You know, Ricky,” I say, almost sadly. “Just one kiss, and you’d change your mind.”
I bite my lip after I say it. I didn’t mean to. Thankfully he’s gathering up papers and sorting them out and doesn’t look my way. When he draws closer, I can smell him, virility and pride, leather and pine, and my core contracts with need.
“That’s enough now,” he admonishes, grasping my arm in his firm grip once more. “No more talk, young lady.”
“Young lady? Does that make you my daddy?”
He smacks my ass so hard and unexpectedly, my breath whooshes out of my body and I utter an involuntary yelp. Before I recover, his palm slams into my ass a second time, then a third. My pulses races a crazy, erratic beat, my breath hitches, and I’m completely taken off guard by the swift, merciless spanking.
“That’s enough,” he says. “You’re goddamned lucky I’m not your daddy.”
I don’t hear anything after that, because the blood rushes in my ears so hard it deafens me.
And before I recover, I’m in a holding cell, alone and cold, and Rico’s gone.
I close my eyes briefly and begin the mental berating I can’t seem to stop.
“He doesn’t want you. He wants a pretty little moral housewife who’ll have his babies and take yoga classes and bake him homemade muffins.”
I despise housework and baking and yoga and am way too fucked up to even think about raising a child. I commit many sins, but one I refuse to do is bring a child into my iniquitous world. Children deserve good parents, who raise them right and give them a really fucking solid head start, not someone like me.
Someone like Rico.
Tears sting my eyes when I close my eyes and wait for what happens next. Soon, my lawyer will arrive, and the charges will be dropped. They always are. He’s on both my father’s and the governor’s payroll, so it’s inevitable. Leon and I will stand before my father and report back. Then we’ll do this again. And again. And again.
I’m tired, though. So damn tired.
I wake with a start with the clang and scrape of metal on metal. Voices. Rote protocol. A ride home. Rico is gone.
Maybe his shift ended. Maybe he opted not to see me again.
But he will. And soon.
Chapter Three
Rico
“That’s your second one today.”
I turn around to see Colt standing in the doorway of my office. I’ve been staring out the window for ten minutes straight, my glower focused on an innocent pigeon.
Colt used to be my rookie. Now he has one of his own. She’s twice as much trouble as he was - and that’s saying something.
“Hmm?”
“Your second coffee. You never drink the stuff here. What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong is that I just had one of the most humiliating interludes in my career courtesy of a smart-assed little girl.
I went from being so certain I had her, her brother, and inevitably her scumbag of a father, to watching her sashay out the door. She didn’t even need the expensive team of lawyers who made their presence known in a phalanx of paperwork. The smile she gave me as she walked out that door, the way her hips performed a sultry wiggle in that dress - it was utterly sinful.
“A billion dollars of illicit jewels landed on the Hudson today and I missed it,” I tell him. “A source confirmed it for me an hour ago. That incident with Jasmine and Leon was a distraction.”
“Oh.” Colt scratches his chin. “Well, we all missed it.”
He knows that’s not good enough. It’s our job not to miss things like this. We’re the only thing that stands between an international web of criminals and the safety and happiness of our citizens. Every single member of the Francoise family is a criminal, including Jasmine, and they all need to be brought down.
And there’s insult to injury. Not only did Jasmine and Leon walk away scot-free, they also have rock solid alibis for what went down today. Thanks to me. I played right into that girl’s hands, because she can do what no woman, no person, has ever done. She can get right under my skin. She can make me make mistakes.
“What are you doing, Colt?”
He pauses, my cup in his hand. “You don’t need any more caffeine, boss,” he smiles. “You need a round or two on the heavy bag.”
He’s right.
We head down to the office gym, get changed, and Colt holds the bag for me while I pound it. Usually, times like this, I’d be imagining beating the shit out of the perp, but I’d never hit Jasmine this way. That girl needs a totally different dose of physical correction.
The memory of how her ass felt under my hand when I swatted her for messing with me has stayed with me. Firm, round, perfect. A bottom made to be spanked. And the expression on her face when she felt the slaps. The way her cheeks bloomed with color, even under all that make up which I’m sure is designed to make her look composed when she isn’t. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened and then closed in a pout which almost made her look the one thing she isn’t: innocent.
She has no idea what I really wanted to do to her. I didn’t want to leave that room. I wanted to stay there, close the door, strip her out of those clothes which demean her elegance. I wanted to hold her down across that interrogation table and whip her little butt until she promised to be a good girl - then show her what it really means to be one. But I couldn’t do any of that. Her lawyers would eat me alive. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t report me for the swats I gave her.
“Feeling better?” Colt peers out from behind the bag as my combinations slow.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting the boxing glove to my face to pull the velcro strap away with my teeth.
“Umm, hi?”
A smaller, female voice interrupts us. It’s Sonya, Colt’s rookie. I fired the girl once. Didn’t take.
She’s a little thing, small in stature, but with more spirit in her little finger than some guys have in their whole bodies. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a tendency to deviance make her Colt’s natural companion in a lot of ways.
“Yes, little girl?” Colt drawls the greeting. Sonya blushes and looks around to see if anybody heard. Only I did, and the little girl part isn’t a surprise to me. She is embarrassed about it, but she shouldn’t be. It means she’s cared for.
“The Francoise stuff,” she says. “I know you told me to look at cold cases, but…”
“But what, brat?” Colt’s voice deepens. I pull the other boxing glove off and watch this little scene unfold.
Sonya is back on something of a contingency basis, that basis being that she can behave herself, and he can keep control of her. It’s starting to sound like neither is happening.
“I looked into it… in my spare time,” she explains quickly. “I think there might be a connection we’re missing.”
“What’s that?”
“The mother. She’s missing.”
“She left Jaques Francoise a long time ago,” I say. “What could she possibly have to do with this?”
“Everything,” Sonya says. “Mothers don’t just disappear on their kids.”
“Yeah they do,” I say. “Not the good ones, but the good ones don’t marry men like Jaques in the first place.”
“I just think…” Sonya twists up her face. “I just think there could be something there. I mean, where is she? Why can’t we find her? Did Jaques kill her? Is she alive? Is she planning something?”
“Sonya, I told you to g
o through those cold cases and highlight every instance of Brabinger’s Coffee in crime scene photos,” Colt says sternly. “I didn’t ask you to speculate on Rico’s case.”
“But that was busy work,” Sonya says. “This isn’t. This means something.”
“It’s not. It’s speculation. It’s you doing what you were told not to do. Remember what happened last time you pushed your way onto a case?”
She bites her lower lip, and I see an internal war going on in her. She wants to tell him to go fuck himself and to listen to her, but she also wants to be able to sit. The fact that this is playing out in front of me isn’t a good look for Colt, something I’m sure he’s completely aware of.
“Go to my office,” he says, his voice cool and stern. “Wait for me in the position.”
“But Colt…”
“Go.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but there is a force to his tone which sends her scampering away petulantly.
“Sorry, Rico,” he says, turning to me. “She’s just curious. I’ll keep her out of this case.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
I have more to worry about than bratty rookies. Sonya is Colt’s problem. Mine is a much bigger troublemaker, and a whole lot harder to deal with.
The anger and adrenaline and frustration has faded now though. Maybe I didn’t catch her, but I did get some time with her. And maybe letting her get away with this little victory isn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe, if I let her have enough rope, and keep on her ass as close as possible, I’ll catch her when she makes a mistake.
I go and grab a shower. For as long as it takes, I’m going to be Jasmine Francoise’s shadow. I’m going to eat where she eats, I’m going to shop where she shops, I’m going to take up residence near her place, and I’m going to bring that little minx to justice.
Chapter Four
Jasmine
“What did you learn?” My father sits at his desk, glaring at me and Leon. We waited all day for him and the longer we waited, the more my apprehension grew. Today was the day he landed a gem heist on the Hudson, but his partner’s lack of planning caused a grievous error in communication, and I’m usually the scapegoat in a fuck-up.
