His low voice fills the room when he says, “I’m turning on the light to check the dilation of your eyes.” He speaks in clipped, precise English. No heavy accent, but there’s something not quite American English about his voice. I grab his hand to stop him as he reaches for the lamp beside the bed. It feels like lightning meeting a body of water. The sizzling current skims across my flesh. When I glance up, I see he’s focused on our hands too. Even without the light, my white skin is offset by his darkness. I wonder if he felt the same jolt I did. The thought is silly; I must have imagined it. I relax my fingers and pull my hand away. He looks up and our eyes meet. His expression is impossible to identify. He gives nothing away. It’s as if the air is heavy and it’s pressing against my chest making it difficult to breathe.
This man is deadly and dangerous. Every part of me knows it.
I’m startled when his rough fingers slide across my neck and over my jaw. Talk about electrical currents. I’m frozen by his touch and yet I want to jump up and run from the room screaming. His fingers stop at the source of my pain and I flinch.
An “Awwwe” escapes me. He lifts his hand away and gently lets me rest back against the pillows.
“Do you know what day it is?” he asks.
A bit of my apprehension recedes. You don’t make a cement pillar out of someone after asking them questions that determine the extent of brain trauma.
“Wednesday?” It comes out as a question.
“The date?”
I need to think about it for a moment. Fourth of July was last Saturday. “July eighth.” This time it’s not a question. I’m gaining my bearings. My eyes are also adjusting to the shadows and I can make out more of Moon’s features.
No pictures do him justice. He looks like a dark version of an Italian mob boss. I can’t help but remember the bits and pieces that came through about him while I was an officer. He’s of mixed heritage—African American and Mexican National. Seeing him up close and personal makes me wonder more about his heritage because he’s fucking gorgeous.
I took notice of him while I was a cop due to the way he leads his life. His criminal empire encompasses all of Arizona and extends to the border towns within Mexico. His list of criminal activities is extensive. He’s also accepted within the echelon of the rich and famous. From athletes to movie stars to musicians, he’s part of their world. It’s his money and good looks. Of that, I have no doubt.
He intrigued me from the first time I heard the rumored stories about him. His private life is very private so I’ve never been sure what to believe and what to throw in the trash. The story told is that Moon’s American father was a plastic surgeon who died in South America while providing facial reconstruction to children in need. It’s also rumored that Moon’s criminal career began after he sought revenge against the rebels who killed his father. Somehow Moon manages to stay ten steps in front of the feds. Mix in his philanthropy with the poor and you have a modern day Robin Hood who kills, sells female flesh, keeps the illegal drug and gun supply-train running, and also takes excellent care of the people who support his criminal activity. Law enforcement hates him, and I’ve never been exactly fond of the legend he’s created.
So why is my body responding to his touch, his voice, and his damn scent? My headache should keep these thoughts at bay, but the rush of heat that has flooded my veins, the flutter low in my belly, and the sudden awareness between my legs are not a good sign.
“Why am I here?” I ask while trying to control my rapid breathing. It’s most likely not the best question. With my throbbing head and over-active libido, intelligence is a luxury.
His fingers twine in my hair without the slightest pull on my scalp. We both stare at his fingers as my hair slides across his skin. “My men weren’t sure what to do with you. They went for Dandridge and apparently you stepped in the way.” He speaks offhandedly like he’s unaccustomed to being questioned.
Shit, Dandridge. “Is he alive?”
“Dandridge?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t answer that so once I’m able to walk, you’ll be more amiable to allowing me to leave.” My words are rushed. My nervousness skyrockets. I hope he thinks I’m joking.
His gaze moves back to mine and he doesn’t ease my mind with so much as a grin.
“Gomez will drive you home as soon as I’m assured your concussion doesn’t require a physician.” He continues holding my hair, which I find very odd. “Dandridge is in a bit of pain, but he’ll survive.”
I’m not sure what to make of this. “Will he be leaving with me?”
Moon’s intensity increases and his fingers tug a bit on my hair. I don’t breathe. “He’s been dropped at his car, and if he can’t drive himself home, he’ll call a cab.”
“You hurt him?” I need tape over my mouth. I’m asking too many questions.
Moon’s voice turns hard. “Dandridge hurt one of the girls. He got off lucky.”
Dandridge’s wife, Penny, told me to be careful because her husband gets a little heavy-handed when mad. If Harry’s still breathing, I can live with him getting his ass beat. I think.
“My camera?”
He takes his time answering each question. He’s so focused on me that it makes me very uncomfortable. “On the dresser,” he says as he nods across the room. “Your pictures of Dandridge are worth a small fortune.” Without giving me time to stop him, he releases my hair, leans over, and turns on the light.
It blinds me. I bury my head into the pillows. “Why did you do that?” I whine, my fear entirely forgotten.
He doesn’t speak. His fingers thread into my hair again after he moves the pillow away from my face. His thumb slides over my temple in a slow circle that feels heavenly. The soothing touch makes me want to purr. My sexual awareness increases tenfold. It’s a moment or two before I’m willing to risk opening my eyes. When I do, Moon’s sinful gaze is locked on mine.
Holy fuck.
He has deep, intense blue eyes with shards of silver that are accented by his mocha skin. He’s literally Dwayne Johnson gorgeous with a tumbler of blue eyes thrown in to make a woman’s panties combust. I don’t know how to explain what happens as I fall into his eyes. Not fall—dive. My insides turn to slush. It’s like I’ve inhaled a narcotic that causes psychosis. I can’t seem to stop staring or get my bearings. With a solid blink, I jerk myself from the blue sea and absorb the rest of him.
He’s wearing a white, button-down shirt with the cuffs hanging loose. The top three buttons at his neck are undone displaying a bit of his chest and flawless skin. The material of the shirt stretches over his heavily muscled biceps and forearms and across his equally defined torso. He untangles his fingers from my hair and rests his hand beside my hip. His other hand is on his knee. His fingers are long and powerful. A heavy gold ring with a large black stone is on the ring finger of his right hand. A simple gold band circles his thumb. His left hand is bare. I’ve never been fond of men wearing jewelry, but on Moon, it makes a statement. I’m just not sure what that statement actually is.
He allows my appraisal and I still don’t get a smile or even a leer that says, I know you like what you see. My gaze moves to his lips. They’re full and lush—totally kissable lips, and there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t want those lips on her. A small scar about a half-inch long is at the corner of his lower lip. It does nothing to diminish his attractiveness. It actually does the opposite and adds a dangerous, bad boy, all-man quality.
“Have dinner with me,” he murmurs. The question startles me.
The Moon-induced fog clears slightly from my brain. “I’m a cop,” I say, and immediately I know I should have said retired or former. “Retired,” I add on stupidly.
His lips press a little more firmly together, subtly changing his expression. “I know exactly who you are, Miss Kinlock.” My name on his lips sounds incredible which is stupid and somehow I must gain control of myself.
How does he know my name? My identification was in my back pocket.
I slide my hand beneath the sheet to see if it’s still there. My heart rate jacks up ten notches. Not only is my wallet missing, so are my pants.
“Where are my clothes?” I demand in rising panic. He’s too damn close for me to be lying here with no pants.
He moves in closer and he’s way in my personal space. “Settle down. They’re on the dresser.” His warm breath fans my face and it’s all about his lips again. What the hell is happening to me? All I want to do is slide my tongue across his mouth and taste him. Instead, I glance up and meet his gaze. Death, my brain says. Irresistible, my heart snaps back. I would swear all the blood in my body has settled between my thighs. He raises his hand and trails his fingers down my cheek and farther. His thumb and forefinger close around my chin and his head dips lower.
He’s going to kiss me.
“Stay as long as you need. Press zero on the house phone and Gomez will drive you home.” His lips briefly touch my forehead. “Hasta que nos encontramos de nuevo,” he whispers.
Chapter Three
THE DOOR CLOSES AND I begin trembling. I’m not sure if it’s caused by Moon, the overload of adrenaline, or the hit to my head. I remind myself who he is—all the horrible things I know about him. He’s the embodiment of every criminal who has crossed my path. He has multiple deaths credited to his organization. There’s never been enough evidence to pin them on Moon, but law enforcement knows he’s responsible. And even with all these thoughts, my damn body doesn’t care.
I inhale slowly and try to gain my composure. This isn’t me, it’s a momentary lapse. I’m not controlled by raging sex hormones switched on by a hot, magnetic body. “I’m not,” I mutter aloud. Thank God he took my stupid remark about being a cop for a “no” to his dinner invitation. I can’t imagine being seen anywhere with him. Or going anywhere with him.
My gaze moves to my BDUs and camera on the dresser. I do a quick sweep of the room, wondering if Moon has hidden cameras. I wouldn’t put it past him. I’m assuming that I’m in his Phoenix compound. I’ve driven past the high walls multiple times wondering what crimes were taking place inside. I didn’t work this area—his home is on the way to my parents’ house in Scottsdale by a slight detour. Which I took on multiple occasions. That stopped more than a year ago when my parents moved to Florida.
I gingerly rise from the bed. My head spins, and it takes a minute before I’m able to walk to the dresser and grab my pants. My belt is curled on top of my pants, and I slip it through the loops as soon as my lower half is clothed. I check my tri-fold black wallet for my identification before sliding it into my back pocket. Police training took away my desire to carry a purse. The thought of being strangled by the strap does that to you. In my current occupation, the lesson hits home too. I put on my socks and cheap running shoes next. The only way I can manage without sitting down is by placing one hand on the dresser for balance. I pick up my camera and glide my fingers over it. Even though my parents didn’t agree with my new career choice, they bought me this expensive camera for my last birthday so I could use it on the job. I pull the strap over my head. I ordered a custom strap that breaks in two places if pulled too tightly. It would be hell to damage the camera in a fight, but, again, strangulation isn’t my thing.
I glance down at the shiny wood dresser and notice the palm smudge I left behind. I get close to the side and rub the spot with my T-shirt. All of which is stupid. I’m imagining my fingerprints being discovered when and not if Moon’s compound is raided. This is stupid because my DNA is on the dresser and in the bed. I’m fucked if I’m ever linked to Moon.
Most of my friendships on the police force dissolved after I announced my intention to get my private investigator’s license. I understood. Cops hate PIs. I felt the same way before my accident. PIs take side jobs with scum of the earth defense attorneys and work against the cops. I admit it was very hard to sink that low. It came down to eat or starve. What cred I’ve built with the few remaining cops willing to say hello to me would completely dissolve if I’m linked to Moon. The sad truth is that emotionally, I still need those hellos from my brothers and sisters in blue. I’m pretty sure, as pathetic as it sounds, that I always will.
I had my entire career with the police force planned out. Until it all went to shit. I’ll take part of that blame. Not because of the accident, but because I should have stayed on task when I first got my badge instead of taking off-duty security jobs to earn extra money. They pay extremely well for law enforcement. My original plan was to attend college after graduating the academy so I could earn my criminal justice degree. As one of their perks, the Phoenix Police Department pays for college tuition. Getting a degree would have put me in line for faster promotions. Like a fool, I put schooling in the background and blew the extra money.
My parents always struggled and couldn’t help me with college. My father, years before he retired as a payroll clerk for the City of Phoenix, made just enough money to buy a house in a middle class district of Scottsdale. My mom worked as a dental assistant in the same dental office for twenty years.
I took a job as a waitress right out of high school and bided my time until the golden day that I turned twenty-one and was accepted into the police academy. In the interim, I worked out daily to stay in shape along with taking the criminal justice classes here and there. I kept my partying to a minimum and stayed out of trouble. Marks, even petty ones, on your record are a huge problem when applying for a job in law enforcement. Basically, I lived a very boring life because I wanted that blue uniform so bad it hurt.
I peer down my body and huff out a sigh. Some uniform. BDUs and a loose gray tee that conceals my handgun.
Which… is missing.
My panic rises all over again. Damn, they can use it in a crime. Arizona has few guidelines for guns, but I went the extra step and registered mine. I take a slow steady breath and think about the situation.
These people are gunrunners. Why would they need my gun?
I calm a bit and peer around the room until I see a phone on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. I walk over, lift the receiver, and press zero.
“Yes, Miss Kinlock?”
I think it’s Thug One, but I’m not sure. I’m suddenly more nervous than I was a minute ago. “Umm, well, ah Moon said someone would drive me home when I’m ready.”
“That would be me, Miss Kinlock. I’ll be up to collect you momentarily.”
I’m sure of the voice now. Gomez is Thug One. I place the receiver down and, unable to sit still, walk around the room. I open a few drawers and find them empty along with a huge, empty walk-in closet. The room is masterfully decorated with dark overtones by way of artwork. Two connecting walls are beige and the other two white. The artwork is strangely disturbing. I examine each piece. A painting of a woman, obviously committing suicide by jumping from a tall building, holds my attention; I’m admiring it when Gomez knocks once and then opens the door. I glance over my shoulder and look at him.
His deep voice fills the room when he says, “The artist, Frida Kahlo, has an interesting story. Her German father immigrated to Mexico and married a native woman. Frida, though her given name was Magdalena, contracted polio as a child and recovered due to her father encouraging her to play sports, such as soccer, swimming, and wrestling. This raised many eyebrows in the early 1900s. As an adult, she was in a serious accident and was impaled on a steel handrail. Her life was filled with physical pain and also heartache for the man she loved and married twice.”
Intrigued, I can’t help but turn back to the picture as he continues speaking.
“She was a communist throughout her life and quite politically active. In the 1970s her work was heralded again, more than twenty years after her death, as being a motivation for women in the feminist movement. The painting you’re admiring was a gift for the mother of the actress, Dorothy Hale, who committed suicide exactly as depicted in the painting. As you can imagine, it was not well-accepted.”
My immediate thought: Doro
thy’s poor mother. As I continue examining the details, I recognize the pain. Even more disturbed now, I turn away and face Gomez, the thug art critic.
“I’m concerned about my gun,” I say without acknowledging his art lesson.
His lips quirk much like they did in the garage when I first saw him. He’s wearing the same dark suit, which is pulled tight across his powerful body. He’s handsome and has been gifted with an incredible physique, much like Moon. And like Moon, I’m sure he works hard to stay in shape. I know that you don’t become his size without good genes or anabolic steroids. He’s jacked, but doesn’t have the typical look of a steroid user, thick neck aside. He isn’t cut to a bulging point that keeps him from moving gracefully or quickly. His dark eyes take in everything, much like a cop’s. Even in a room with only the two of us, he’s vigilant.
He reaches behind his back and the suit jacket pulls as he removes my gun from his waistband. He walks forward and hands it to me. “The magazine is in my pocket and will be returned when we arrive at your apartment. Are you ready to leave, Miss Kinlock?”
I pull back the slide and check the chamber—habit. I can feel by the weight that the magazine is missing, I just don’t trust anyone to empty the chambered round but me. “My holster?”
Gomez reaches into his slightly bulging left pocket and pulls out my small paddle holster that’s made specifically for a Glock 17. I holster the gun and slip the paddle over my belt and under my tee. I feel naked without the magazine, but I’ll survive.
I think.
“I’m ready.” I truly am. I hope to never think about this day again. No blue eyes offset by dark skin, no intense scrutiny that makes my inner thighs clench. And no thoughts of a whiskey voice that sends shivers across my skin. Done. Over. Finished.
Gomez steps back and gestures for me to precede him. It’s stupid to not want him at my back. If they wanted to hurt me, it would have happened by now. I walk out with my head held high. We’re on the second floor at the end of a long walkway that has black metal decorative railing on one side and overlooks the room below. The floors are polished red Spanish tile, the walls painted different earth tones with alcoves accented by recessed lights to display the art. Not just paintings, but statues and pottery too. Way out of my blue-collar league.
Heat: An Alpha Male Criminal Romance (A Hotter Than Hell Novel Book 1) Page 2
