Tempted: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance

by Willow Winters

  Again I feel like I’m in high school. The teachers looked at me with sympathy because they thought I just couldn't help that I was always getting into trouble. It was bullshit then, and it’s bullshit now. I swear to God some days I feel like I’ve taken crazy pills.

  “He’s in holding now, and you’ll interview him together. Is that clear?” Jerry asks, looking between both of us.

  “Yes, sir.” I answer clearly while Harrison practically mumbles. I didn’t bust my ass to get here so that I’d have to stand by men like him. He earned this position, and I should respect him for it. I try so hard to respect him for it. If he’d stop being an asshole, it’d be easier. I know the Valettis are big fish, but this is my case. And he needs to stop trying to shut me out of it.

  I would cave and drop it if it weren’t for Petrov. He’s the only reason I’m here, and if Harrison knew why, he’d stop trying to push me off the case, because he’d know there’s no way I’m ever backing down. But none of them know; I don’t want them to. I can’t let them know this is personal.

  Jerry gives me a tight smile, and I can see a faint glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m standing next to this asshole and I don’t have a choice, or if it’s because he thinks I won’t make it.

  I’m petite, I like the color pink, especially hot pink, and I’d rather smile and joke around than brood over something stupid. Or I used to, anyway. Now it seems like all I do is get pissed off. But that’s an exception. It’s because I’m forced to deal with an ass all day.

  All of those girly touches I love so much make me seem young and naive. Everyone looks at me like I don’t belong, and maybe they’re right. Maybe I learned to like all of that girly stuff because it softened me up some. Maybe I just wanted to copy my sweet-as-sugar sister. I don’t know. I’m a tough girl, but I’m still a girl. I don’t understand why people don’t think I can be both, like they're mutually exclusive or something. Instead I’m judged and shunned, no matter how many times I prove I have what it takes.

  I stopped wearing anything remotely fashionable to the social gatherings. Even though I have palettes upon palettes of eyeshadow, I keep my makeup simple, or I just don’t wear makeup at all. I don’t wear any jewelry or get my nails done anymore. I have to wear my hair up in a ponytail or a bun. When it’s down I look way too feminine. I do everything I can to look like I fit in, because apparently that’s a requirement here. It doesn’t matter that I graduated at the top of my class back at the academy. A girly girl can’t survive here. Or so they say behind my back.

  The problem is that they don’t see my confidence and passion for what it is. My personality's misconstrued because of how I look. I’m a bad ass bitch when I need to be, but I don’t want to come off that way all the time. I haven’t proven myself to be strong in their eyes.

  I’m pushing the bad bitch to the surface and repressing every other part of me. All that’s left after getting rid of the frilly shit I love is just a tough girl trying to fit in, so I can do what I came here to do. But I’m failing, and that fucking sucks, because I don’t fail at anything, and this is the only thing that matters anymore. I have to work twice as hard, to be considered half as good.

  When I hear the guys talking shit about being tough, all I can think is that they're talking about tough actions, not appearances or words. Maybe they're just trying to convince themselves that a petite woman with a penchant for pink couldn’t kick their asses. I’m happy to prove them wrong though.

  A part of me wants to prove them wrong. I want to show them I’m a bad ass bitch when I need to be. But another part of me is tired of fighting their prejudice. I didn’t come here to win their approval. They can talk shit about me. They can assume I’m going to fail. I don’t give a fuck. All I need is to be on this case. It’s the only reason I put up with this shit.

  It hurts though. I’m woman enough to admit it. I want companionship. I want to feel like I belong. But right now, I have no one. I try to call my mom every once in awhile, but that’s just depressing as hell. I’m most concerned with the fact that I don’t know what happiness is anymore. I don’t know what I expected. But this isn’t it. I was so shortsighted with wanting to get here that I didn’t think things through all the way.

  The reality is a swift kick in the ass.

  Harrison pushes past me just as I get to the door to the interrogation room. Fucker holds it open for me though, like he’s a gentleman. I give him a tight smile and walk in first.

  I almost stop when I see the hulking man in the metal chair. An air of power surrounds him. His hands are clasped in front of him and they're resting on the table. He doesn’t bother to look up at us. His dark, thick hair is longer on top than it is on the sides, just long enough to grip onto. It tempts me; it excites the wilder side of me that I usually keep suppressed.

  He’s in a simple white t-shirt that stretches tight over his shoulders, and faded blue jeans. I’ve never seen a man who could make those casual clothes look so fucking hot. His arms are all thick, corded muscle, and they flex as Harrison walks in front of me and stands across from him. Dark tattoos scroll down his left arm. I find myself itching to touch them, and wonder how much of his body they cover.

  The younger me would have drooled over this man, but I know better now. Men like him cause more trouble than they’re worth. And he’s a member of the strongest familia on this side of the country. He’s a Valetti. He’s trouble.

  “Valetti.” Harrison’s nose scrunches as he sits in the seat across from the sexy-as-fuck suspect. I stand with my back against the wall. I don’t want to go near those two knowing what Harrison is up to. I’m not afraid to get into it if I have to. I can hold my own, regardless of how big and how scary my opponent is. But I’m not fucking stupid. I avoid physical altercations if I can. And Harrison has a smart mouth and likes to push people.

  He likes to take advantage of these situations and get them to act out so he can put them in the cells and threaten a heavier sentence. It’s not a move I’d make. But I try not to judge other officers' tactics. I try. Never said I was perfect though.

  The man, Thomas Valetti, raises his head slowly. His full lips tip into a slight smirk and his blue eyes hold a hint of humor. “Detective. Nice to see you again.”

  His voice sends a throbbing need to my clit, and for the first time since I’ve taken this job, I question if I really am cut out for it. I’ve never once been attracted to the fucked-up criminals that come and go in here. But right now, right here? Fuck. He’s hot. My body can’t deny that. I have to work really hard to keep the embarrassment off my face. I’m a professional. I’m a cop now. I need to put my hormones in check.

  I try to ignore the pulsing need between my thighs and I clear my throat to help settle myself.

  The action causes both men to look at me. Thomas’ eyes roam my body, but not in a way I find rude or offensive. He’s just sizing me up. I half-expect him to make some sexist comment, like most thugs do. I can feel my defenses go up.

  His eyes reach mine and I wait for it. I wait for the dismissal. The demeaning comments I’m constantly used to getting.

  Instead Harrison interrupts, “I won’t stop until you go away for life.”

  The corners of Thomas’ lips kick up slightly as he turns to face Harrison, leaving me with nothing. “Sorry, Detective. I’m just waiting for my lawyer.”

  Harrison looks at me from the corner of his eyes like it’s my fault that Thomas isn’t talking. I grab the folder from the desk and move to sit in the seat next to Harrison and square my shoulders.

  I know in the pit of my gut Thomas Valetti is one of the people who saved those women. But he also has information I want. Now’s my chance to make everything I’ve worked for up to this moment worth it.

  He’s my only lead.

  Tommy

  “Mr. Valetti,” begins the gorgeous woman who’s all curves and sweetness. She’s looking back at me like we’re on good terms. Like she can talk to me as t
hough I’m an old pal of hers. She’s either fresh blood, or she’s damn good at what she does. This good cop/bad cop routine would be easy enough with detective Harrison being the jackass he is. It’s not the first time I’ve run into him, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

  Judging by her body language when she walked in here, and the pissed-off looks Harrison keeps throwing her, I’m guessing she’s new. I wouldn’t mind having her try to cuff me. Wish it was her who'd brought me in, not that fuckface from earlier.

  “We know you were at the scene of the crime after it occurred based on the fact that your prints were found covering the prints of Lucas Mikhailov, a man found dead on sight.” She reaches into the manila folder and slides a photograph of a doorknob across the table. Her small hand holds it in place. She doesn’t move it, and I find myself eyeing her chipped nail polish. It’s a soft cream color and it makes her appear even more dainty that she already looks. What the hell is this little thing doing trying to play cop? She interrupts my thought as she takes her hand away and asks, “Would you like to explain how that could’ve happened?”

  I meet her gaze and love that she’s not intimidated by me. Her eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I’ve ever seen. And they’re staring back at me waiting for an answer. I’m real fucking sorry to disappoint her. But even a sweetheart like her can't get me to talk. I’m not saying shit.

  I almost apologize--almost call her love, or sweetie. But I keep my mouth shut and remind myself that this is an act. These cops like to set the scene. It’s all lies in here. I give her a simple shake of my head and answer, “I’m just waiting for my lawyer.”

  If I’m being honest with myself, this is the most nervous I’ve ever been, but I don’t show it. I don’t give them anything.

  They have my prints, even though they’re smudged, and so are the ones beneath mine. They have the tire tracks to the Escalade, which is in my name. They have a witness who says she saw me, although she was drugged up. At least that's the evidence the judge was willing to hand off to Vince. Three pieces of shit evidence. One piece of evidence by itself could be a coincidence. But put three pieces together, and it starts sounding real fucking bad.

  “Mr. Valetti. Are you aware that a Miss Georgia Stevens was found dead in the back of the rental car left at the scene of the crime?” the sweet little thing in front of me says, and it takes me a moment to register what she said.

  My heart skips a beat, and my blood goes cold. A dead woman. No. We saved those women. But we didn’t check any cars. Fuck! I wanna ask whose car. I wanna know how she died. More importantly, was she alive when we left?

  My eyes search hers. She could be lying. She could be fucking with me just to get me to talk. But I see her expression soften with compassion. She can tell I didn’t know. I lean back in my seat and do my best to wipe every emotion off my face. It’s quiet for a moment. It’s been about an hour, so my lawyer should be here soon. I just need to hold on till then, and then I can look up the woman they found dead. Vince never said shit about her. At least not to me, but I've been out of the loop.

  “The car was rented to a man we believe to be Abram Petrov. His prints were found in the car, although his body was never found.”

  None of this is throwing up red flags to me. His body was sent back to the buyers as a sign from us that we weren’t willing to partake in that aspect of the business. Our hands won’t be forced. If they didn’t know it then, well they sure as fuck know it now.

  “Do you have any information regarding Petrov's whereabouts?” She leans forward, and I have to resist looking straight down her blouse. Her body is lean and toned with a touch of color from the sun, but her tits are bigger than you’d think they’d be for a woman as athletic as her.

  I give her a weak smile and shake my head no again. I’m grateful for the bit of information she’s given me, if it’s true, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna talk. I need to know if the woman she mentioned was alive when we left. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before the cops got there. But a lot can happen in twenty minutes.

  As if reading my mind, she answers my unspoken question. “Drug overdose,” she says simply. My lips press into a tight line and my heart sinks. Maybe if my brother had seen her, like the other women, maybe he could’ve saved her. I drop my gaze to the edge of the table as I try to keep calm and not give her anything.

  “She’d been dead for almost a day, judging by the autopsy.” My eyes fly to hers. Thank fuck. That makes me feel better. I feel like an asshole for feeling any kind of relief. That poor woman didn’t deserve to die, but at least she didn’t die on our watch. We never had the opportunity to save her.

  I run a hand through my hair and look at the closed door.

  “Do you have any details that could help us uncover who was responsible?” I hear her sweet voice and I almost turn to her to answer, but I can’t. We don’t say shit except for what I’ve already given them. I’m waiting on my lawyer. That’s the familia way.

  “You don’t have any fucking sympathy, do you?” Harrison starts up again with his shit from across the table. “The jury’s gonna eat you alive.” I resist rolling my eyes and sigh instead. This is fucking draining. Usually I don’t give a fuck, but I am a bit worried. I don’t like the sick feeling in my gut that keeps rising up on me.

  “Are you charging me? If not, I’m gonna go ahead and leave,” I say, looking at the door. I’m tired of waiting. I just want to get the hell out of here.

  Harrison shoots up from his seat. I know he’s coming over to get in my face. I stand up as he walks around the table. They can keep me here longer for questioning. I know that. But he’s fucking lost it if he thinks he’s gonna yell standing over me while I’m sitting down. That shit’s not gonna fly.

  I stand up and stare back at his narrowed eyes. I vaguely sense that the cute ass broad got up from her seat and is backing away. That puts me at ease. She doesn’t need to get into this. She can keep playing the good cop part and stay the fuck out of the bad cop shit.

  Harrison's body bumps into mine slightly, but I allow it. I know he’s pushing me. He’s done it before. Sometimes I get a little hotheaded. More than I should. But when you’re here, in this position, you keep your cool. Otherwise you’re just giving them a reason to keep you locked up. And that's the last thing I want.

  “I’ll charge you with everything possible, to the full extent of the law. Your ass isn’t leaving here tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.” I focus my eyes on his crooked smile and imagine my fist slamming into it over and over. “Your big shot lawyer isn’t getting you out of this one, Valetti.”

  His hands knock into my chest, palms first and push me backward ever so slightly. I’m a big fucker, and that’s a bold fucking move for this little prick. I make a white-knuckled fist with my hand and clench my teeth.

  Before I can even think about swinging, I feel the softest touch on my forearm. Gentle, but firm. And then it’s gone. I don’t turn to face her; I don’t make any move that I even registered her touch. Harrison’s yelling in my face, but my anger is gone and instead I find myself angling my body to guard her from this prick.

  Why? No fucking clue. She’s one of them. But I know she’s just to my right. I can sense her there, and I don’t like it.

  She’s a cop, and as far as I know she could hold her own. But I don’t want her to. I track her to my right, hoping she doesn’t try to get in between us. It might be sexist, but that’s no place for a woman to be.

  Harrison still hasn’t caught on to the fact that him screaming in my face and subtly pushing his body against me isn’t affecting me.

  The sound of the door opening has Harrison taking a step back and trying to maintain eye contact with me, but I break it to watch her leave. He’s no threat to me, so I couldn’t give two shits about keeping an eye on him. But it wasn’t her opening the door. Instead, my lawyer’s standing in the doorway.

  “Is there a problem here, Mr. Valetti?” Scott Kemmer is th
e familia attorney, and he’s good at what he does.

  I give him a tight smile and shove my hands into my pockets. “Not at all. I was just asking if it was time to go.” I look over my shoulder and see the pretty little thing who didn’t even bother to give me her name. Her eyes are shooting daggers at Harrison. I don’t waste my energy to see what he’s doing behind me. I bet she thought she could get me to talk if he wasn’t being a prick and doing the shit he does.

  She has no idea what she’s up against, though. She’d never get an ounce of information from me. She must be really fucking new to think she’d get anything from a Valetti.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Valetti?” I barely hear the words from my lawyer and that’s when I belatedly realize I’m good to go. I didn’t hear all the bullshit coming from Harrison about how I can’t leave, and my lawyer’s response. It’s the same shit every time.

  “All set.” I give him a nod and make my way through the doors, not giving either one of them another look. But I have to admit, I wanna turn back and see her. I at least wanna know her name.

  I let myself breathe freely for the first time all day as I leave the station, and see my brother in his car waiting for me, just like he said he would.

  “Told you,” Anthony says, lowering his window and giving our lawyer a salute.

  “Hey, you wanna do something today?” I ask him.

  Wicked curiosity flashes in his eyes.

  “I wanna look someone up.” He tilts his head and keeps his eyes on me as I round the car and get into the passenger seat.

  “Look someone up?” he asks as I shut the door and lean back, making myself comfortable.

  “Yeah, a cop,” I tell him. The humor’s completely wiped from his face until I add, “I think she’s new.”