But mostly, she needed to forget for a few minutes about the ice in her chest.
Because tonight was the anniversary of her little sister’s kidnapping.
She’d hoped the conference could make her forget, but that was stupid. She’d known better, and yet had hoped she could drown herself in work. Now…
The song ended, and out of breath, Taylor clung to Matt. Another song started—this one slow and sexy—and he raised a single brow.
An invitation to stay on the dance floor.
In the middle of the other couples now gluing their bodies to each other, Taylor held his gaze. “Who are you working for, Matt?”
“Schock Investigations,” he said, and then pulled her close and started rocking her body to the slow tune.
“Private investigations, huh?” She liked the way he felt against her. Solid, strong. Competent. “I’ve heard of them. They work a lot of cold cases, don’t they?”
“It’s our specialty.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
His eyes danced with humor. “You were worried I was only here to stalk you?”
He wanted information on some missing persons case, no doubt, but she gave him credit for trying to seduce her first. “Anyone who stalks me is going to get more than he bargained for.”
She believed in giving fair warning.
“Sounds like fun.” One of his hands went to her lower back and rubbed a thumb through her silk blouse over the sensitive flesh there. Leaning forward, he sang softly in her ear, “I wanna be your stalker,” to the Prince tune.
And damn, if he didn’t hit the notes perfectly.
A man who could sing and dance.
My lucky night.
Three dances later, Leo and the other experts in the room were a distant memory as Matt pressed her up against the door of her hotel room while she tried to get the keycard into the lock. His lips nibbled at her earlobe as his hands cupped her ass.
“Will you stop for a second and let me unlock the door?” Taylor chided, but she was laughing. She didn’t really want him to stop, but letting him molest her in the very public hallway wasn’t professional.
“Here, let me do it.” He snatched the card from her hand.
In. Out. Boom. The stupid button went green, Matt hit the door handle, and they practically fell into the room.
“I’m not used to sleeping with the enemy,” she told him, flipping on a light as he went to work stripping off her white, button-down shirt.
“I returned Riley Miller to her mother but I’m a bad guy in your book?” He unzipped her pencil skirt, not looking the least bit chastised. “Something about that seems wrong, Agent Sinclair.”
The image of the eleven-year-old girl reuniting with her mom after six years of being held captive by her estranged, drug-dealing father filled Taylor’s memory. It had been her first case with the FBI’s missing persons unit and they’d never been able to solve it. Six years later, Taylor had had the file in her desk drawer, one of the cases she’d still been trying to close when Matt Stephens had come along and done it for her.
He was a hero and the press loved his boy-next-door looks and cavalier attitude. She could only imagine the number of women who had thrown themselves at him after that.
But those women weren’t here and she was. Good for me!
Having a weekend fling with him wasn’t the best idea, but it wasn’t the worst either. He was a playboy and playboys didn’t want commitment—that worked for her. Her job was everything.
“I think you owe me some mind-blowing sex in order to make it up to me,” Taylor said, kicking off her shoes.
Matt let her skirt drop and then he shoved her unbuttoned shirt off her shoulders. For a moment, he stood still, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.
Taylor sucked in a breath, pulling in her abdomen at the same time. Total vanity, but she couldn’t help the reaction. She wanted the man in front of her to continue thinking she was the brainiest, sexiest woman in the place.
He reached out and touched the satin of her bra, brushing his knuckles against her tight nipples and whistling softly. “You are stunning, Agent Sinclair.”
Taylor sat on the bed and reached for the zipper of his slacks. “Bring it on, Mad Dog.”
* * *
Ringing phone.
Matt opened his eyes to a ray of light slipping through the curtains. He stared at the back of a very attractive blonde head, but focused on the sound of a ringing cell phone.
Not his.
Good. Because his extremely engorged dick had plans that didn’t include phones.
He might do some talking, but it wouldn’t be on the phone.
He locked one leg over Taylor and tightened his arm around her waist. Jesus. They’d slept like this? All wrapped up? When it came to getting a solid night’s rest, being a decent sized guy, he needed space. A lot of it. Particularly in crappy hotel beds.
Taylor’s arm shot out, her hand blindly searching for the still-ringing phone on the bedside table. The glare of the digital clock announced the time to be 6:43.
“Ignore it,” he croaked.
“Can’t. Boss’s ringtone.”
“Then I’d definitely ignore it.”
He bit the back of her shoulder, nudged closer, bringing that badass erection flush against the curve of her ass, leaving no doubt what he—and it—had on their minds.
“That’s a healthy beast you’re sporting there, Mad Dog. Now shut up while I talk to my boss.”
At that, he laughed. This woman. From the first day he’d met her, back when he’d supposedly stolen her case, he’d had a thing for her. An undefinable yearning that left him wanting to…possess. And that was also unusual. Women weren’t objects to own. He’d lectured his buddies on this fact for years, but at thirty-three, he’d suddenly found a woman who challenged, cajoled, and rattled him enough that he’d fantasized about pinning her to a mattress and bringing a smile to her face.
Which he’d done three times last night. Here’s hoping for a fourth.
She cleared her throat and poked at the phone. “Good morning, Mer.”
Matt busied himself by pulling her closer and nibbling on the back of her shoulder blade. Was he being an idiot? Sure. But Taylor getting a call before seven a.m. meant something was cooking and being the dedicated civil servant she was, she’d look to hightail it from this bed before he had the chance to put that fourth smile on her face.
The nibbling? Hopefully she’d see it as the prelude to what could be a fantastic morning.
“Yes,” she said. “I understand. I’ll be there.”
Matt stopped nibbling. Dammit.
She tossed the phone on the nightstand. “I have to go.”
“Okay.”
But he didn’t loosen his hold. He did abandon his nibbling campaign, opting for a full attack of licking.
She let out a soft moan and his hard-on became painful. How many times had she moaned like that last night? When he was so deep inside her and still wanted more.
“Matt, I can’t. I have to—”
“Shh,” he said, sliding his hand up and cupping her breast. “We should start the day off right.”
She arched her back, pressing her nipple into his palm. “You are so evil.”
“I know. If you want, we can make this a quick one. Or,” he swirled his tongue over her shoulder again. “We can go slow. Really slow. Your call, Sinclair.”
All he knew was he wanted her. Again. Wanted her under him, with the morning sun cracking through that curtain so he could see her hair fanning across the pillow, see her eyes go wild when he made her moan.
“I…can’t,” she said. “I caught a case.”
A case. A shot of envy whipped him. The woman was a machine when it came to solving cold cases, especially those involving missing children, and lately her team had been racking up some serious close rates. What drove her, he couldn’t be completely sure, but suspected. Make no mistake, you didn’t get that good at y
our job without some serious motivation. He understood that on an emotional level most couldn’t.
And he wanted to know what this case was. He’d find out. After last night, he intended on seeing a whole lot more of Taylor.
All he had to do was get her to agree.
Starting right now. He nudged even closer, this time licking that spot on her neck he’d accidentally discovered during round two.
“I want you,” he said.
She reached back, wrapped her hand around his dick and squeezed, making his eyes nearly explode from his head. “I know,” she said.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his head back and his body started to hum. The motion of her hand made his limbs go slack and oh, boy, she was gonna get it.
The mattress shifted. Hopefully she was getting onto her back where he’d do incredible things to her. His mind roared and just as he opened his eyes, ready to pounce, she let go, ripped the sheet off and jumped from the bed.
What the fuck?
She bit her lip, hiding a smug smile and—damn—he should have seen that coming. The scheming witch. She’d duped him. Made him think they’d have some nice, hot, goodbye-sex so he’d loosen his hold on her. And then she slipped away.
She stood beside the bed, staring down at his chest—she liked it. She’d told him so a hundred times last night.
“Taylor,” he said, “that wasn’t nice.” He held one hand out. “Come back to bed. Let me make you scream.”
Her eyes flashed, but she shook her head. “No, but I’ll take a raincheck.”
Freaking career girls. A raincheck. He wanted more than one, no doubt about it. “Seriously? You’re going to leave me like this? I’m hard as a brick.”
She laughed as she tied her hair into a messy knot on top of her head. The movement made her tits bounce and his eyes followed the motion of those perfect breasts he’d damn near devoured all night. She leaned over him, kissed him quick and leapt back before he could pull her on top of him.
“This is an important case, Mad Dog. Otherwise I’d happily fuck you all morning and maybe into the afternoon.”
Damn, that mouth. She’d been talking filth all night. He didn’t care one way or the other. Some women used it as a tool to amp up the sex. He never minded, but he also didn’t need it. Her? All that hot nastiness coming from a pulled-together woman who wore traditional suits and a pair of diamond earrings that probably cost more than his entire college career? Total turn-on.
“Now you’re just making it worse,” he said. “How about I hop in the shower with you?”
She gathered up a bra and what looked like a red thong—Jesus, help me—from her suitcase and set it on the bed.
“No,” she said. “You’re too much of a distraction.”
“That’s good.”
“Not when I have a case to work.” She went to the closet, pulled one of her FBI-wear pantsuits out. “I’d love to do this again with you, but we’ll have to set some boundaries. Mainly you not stealing my cases.”
And here we go. “Once again, I did not steal your case. I beat you to solving it. That’s all.”
Because that’s what good investigators did. They solved cases. No matter who it supposedly belonged to. And he didn’t allow himself to be lured from the PD homicide squad into the private sector to not solve them.
“Right,” she said. “Whatever. But if you want a replay of last night, we need to come to an agreement. No sharing information about cases. No crossing lines. No work talk, period.”
“Boy,” he said, “you sure know how to kill a mood.”
She met his gaze, then let it slide down his body. “You are a tempting man, Matt, but my job is my life. This?” She waggled a finger between them. “This could have serious complications.”
As if he wanted to screw up his own career? Plus, he didn’t like what she was implying about his work ethic. “Complications. Sure. Got it.”
He sat up, put his feet on the floor and snagged his boxers from the lampshade. The lampshade? Whatever.
She cocked her head as he jammed his legs into his shorts. “Oh, so now you’re mad?”
“Mad? No. I’m absorbing the rules you’ve set. Taking it all in.” He pulled on his pants, shrugged into his shirt, walked to her, and kissed her hard with plenty of tongue. “Thanks for clarifying, Special Agent Sinclair. Call me when you need to get fucked again.”
Was he being pissy? Damned straight. They’d had a great night and suddenly she was accusing him of…what? Some kind of investigator espionage? Like he’d deliberately try to steal her cases.
Well, fuck that.
“Matt, come on.”
He held up a hand. “It’s all good. You’ve outlined the parameters of what you feel our relationship should be. Got it. Maybe you could have consulted with me first, but hey, why should we have to talk, right? I’ll just come on by, toss you on the bed and bang away. Works for me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Her phone rang again. Same ringtone. Matt shook his head. “Get your phone, Taylor. It’s your boss again. If you want a replay, you know where to find me.”
Chapter Two
“Tell me you didn’t.”
Meredith Sardana unlocked her car doors with a blip of her key fob and motioned at Taylor to get in.
The Special Agent in Charge of the East Coast Missing Persons Unit was a legend in the FBI. A legend who’d done a lot for Taylor’s career and appeared to be priming her for even greater things.
“Didn’t what exactly?” Taylor dared ask, cringing at the multitude of things Mer might be referring to as she slipped into the passenger seat of the woman’s white Taurus.
Blowing off Leo? Check.
Sleeping with Matt? Check.
Missing that morning’s last panel of the conference on Human Remains Detection and DNA Laws? Check.
That last one could be lumped in with sleeping with Mad Dog Stephens. They’d stayed up most of the night exploring each other’s bodies and Taylor hadn’t gotten more than a few hours of sleep. She’d managed to call her mom during a brief intermission when Matt had fallen asleep, but she’d forgotten to set her alarm, which for her, never happened.
Never.
She never missed work, never came in late. She racked up sixty-hour workweeks on a regular basis, especially when she was deep in a case.
And she was always deep in a case. Mer loved her for it.
If you want a replay, Matt had said, you know where to find me.
Boy did she want a replay, but that might be a really bad idea.
Meredith started the car and didn’t wait for Taylor to click her seatbelt in before she took off. Sunlight bounced off the US flag pin on the lapel of her jacket and Taylor couldn’t help but notice her dark red lips were tight and unforgiving. “A little bird told me you reached out to Justice Greystone this morning.”
Ah, that. “He and his partner, Mitch Monroe, were lead on this case when it went down eight years ago. I thought it would be beneficial to have Grey’s input on whether or not he believed the senator might be guilty of killing his wife.
“Oh, please. You want Greystone involved because you know the Jarvis case was one of the few he never solved. You’re pandering to him.”
“I am not!” she lied. Time to change the subject. “Who is this little bird, by the way?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Taylor.” Mer waved her off and shot out of the parking lot and into traffic. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what Greystone believes, and do not even mention the name Mitch Monroe to me. He Who Shall Not Be Named is nothing but a smartass boat anchor and you know better than to tie him around your ankle. If they’d done their job and analyzed the kidnapper correctly when Felicity Jarvis disappeared, the team of agents working her case might have caught the guy and we wouldn’t be here, on our way to break the news to Senator Jarvis that his wife’s remains have been found in a scrapyard six miles outside of the city.”
“May have been found.�
�� Taylor knew better than to correct Meredith, but she couldn’t help it. “All we have are a few articles of evidence suggesting it’s her. Until we get DNA—”
“Do not school me on procedure and evidence, Agent Sinclair. They found her engagement and wedding rings with the bones. Rings that have Felicity and Senator Jarvis’s initials inscribed on them and the date of their wedding.”
“Those rings might have been stolen. If she ran away, she may have sold them herself. Grey thinks—”
Mer’s look stopped her cold. Yep, she was pushing it, but one thing Taylor had learned in her time working cold cases was that proof wasn’t proof until she had a definite match between remains and the victim. DNA, dental records, facial reconstruction…something more than a couple of rings.
Which her boss had drummed into her head a million times. So why was Meredith insisting the bones found at the Drummond scrapyard had to belong to Felicity Jarvis?
Meredith’s lips tweaked with a patient smile. “You’re right. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
Meredith had been with the FBI for twenty years and had mentored Taylor for the past five since being assigned as SAC of Missing Persons. Women and minorities within the Bureau weren’t rare anymore, but they weren’t common either. There was still a good-ol’-boy system in place. Meredith ticked off some important boxes—female and a minority. A third generation Hispanic American, her ethnicity had played a role in her getting a job with the Bureau in the first place, according to the man who’d hired her. Her boss at that time had made it clear to her he didn’t want her. Didn’t want women, period. But she’d had the ambition and tenacity to work for him anyway, and work her ass off besides, as evidenced by the fact Meredith was still at the FBI, while her original boss was long gone.
Mer’s knuckles were white from gripping the wheel as she took a turn. “There’s already a lot of heat on this, Taylor. Mrs. Jarvis, the baby, the media spin when it happened. Cunningham is all over my backside about it. It’s all going to come back around, and if we don’t solve it and put this case to bed for good, the Bureau is going to end up with another black eye over it.”
Missing Justice (The Justice Team Book 7) Page 2
