Lover Undercover

by Samanthe Beck

  “No.” She shook her head and attempted to retreat. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  He simply leaned in, eliminating the space she’d tried to create. If the muscle in the corner happened to glance over, they looked cozy and rule-abiding. He waited until she stilled and focused on him again.

  It took a few seconds. Finally, she raised her eyes to his and said, “What you’re doing is not an investigation. It’s not even a plan. It’s suicide.” Her adorable chin trembled and sent a funny contraction straight through his heart. “You’re crazy if you think I’m just going to stand by and let put yourself squarely in a killer’s sights.”

  She was worried for him. A wave of tenderness washed over him, startling him almost as much as her concern. “That’s exactly where you are, Stacy. I thought you could use some company.”

  “Think again,” she shot back and struggled against him. “I’m telling Vern I won’t dance for you anymore.”

  “No, you’re not.” He flexed his quads and scooted her forward in his lap. Her thighs draped over his, her plush breasts welled against his chest. The coconut-vanilla scent of her made his senses swim. Following a wayward impulse, he leaned close and found her ear with his lips, enjoyed a flare of satisfaction when she inhaled swiftly. “I’m not some clueless client unknowingly painting a target on his skull. I know how to handle myself. I’ve got training, and backup. Can you say the same about the next guy who comes along?”

  “What if there is no ‘next guy’?” Her words puffed over his cheek. “What if I quit?”

  “Then, most likely, we never find the person who killed Carlton and Alex. No justice for those dead men. I could live with that, Stacy, but I suspect someone this interested in you won’t be shaken off so easily. If you take Deuces out of the mix, you’re the only one left in his sights. Who knows what he does then? I’m not sure I can live with that.”

  She jerked back and stared at him accusingly. “You’re trying to scare me.”

  “I’m trying to educate you. You’re in a precarious position, and while you may not like it, you’re staring at your best option for getting out unscathed.”

  Blinking rapidly, she said, “There’s got to be some other way.”

  “There’s not.” His voice was firmer than he intended, but he wanted to wipe the denial off her face. “Now, if we’re done discussing all the unavailable options, hop on up and give me the Alex Montenegro special.”

  She eyed him another long moment, then slipped off his lap. “Alex’s routine,” she said briskly. “That’s what you want?”

  Her apparent calm didn’t fool him. Temper sparked in her eyes, telling him as clearly as words she didn’t appreciate the trap he had her in. “It seems like the next logical move.” Picking up the vodka, he poured a shot. “Like a drink first?”

  “No. I don’t drink while I’m working.” Her voice held more ice than the chilled bottle.

  “Right.” Not giving an inch, not tough little Stacy. He downed the shot. “So you said the night we met. Nice to know some things never change.”

  “Things have changed. Buckle up, Trevor.”

  …

  Thanks to her recent stint at Stacy University, Kylie knew exactly what the Alex Montenegro special involved.

  Alex was an ass man. Shake mine in front of him, and I practically hypnotized the guy. All I had to do was sway around a bit and, bam! I earned a big tip—no pun intended.

  The whole routine sounded ridiculous to Kylie, but Stacy swore it wasn’t just Alex who got off on the number. This particular dance brought grown men to their knees. At the moment, the idea of bringing Mr. I-Know-How-to-Handle-Myself down a notch or two offered perverse pleasure.

  After queuing the music to what Stacy called the soft-porn playlist, with its funky, percussion-heavy tracks and breathy, mostly unintelligible lyrics, she walked over and stood in front of Trevor’s chair, facing away from him. She planted her three-inch-high white satin slides hip-distance apart. Their eyes met in the mirror for a few seconds of eternity while she waited for the music to start. When the first beat pumped out, she did a long, slow bend, all the way down, and wrapped her hands around her ankles. To her surprise, Trevor snapped upright in his chair. She heard his sharp inhale, followed by a low, unguarded, “Oh, Christ.”

  A frisson of something new and highly thrilling shimmered through her. Power. An odd thing to find while bent over, grabbing her ankles, but there it was. One look at his face confirmed it—he was her slave.

  The choreography ensured he stayed enslaved. While she danced and stripped down to her thong, Kylie watched him in the mirror. His hot gaze seared up her calves, her thighs. She felt it lick her breasts, simmer over her shoulders, and sizzle along the curve of her spine. But always, always the burning intensity returned to her hips.

  She became acutely aware of the thong—the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it triangle of white fabric riding the very base of her spine, the thin tongue extending from the point and disappearing between her buttocks. Although she didn’t have his view, she knew certain moves gave him glimpses of the lace’s elusive path. A few offered him peeks at the whole trail, to the untouched hideaway shielded behind another triangle of satin—a very wet triangle. She fervently hoped he couldn’t see any telltale signs of her body’s reaction to him.

  She should have been embarrassed by the way being so exposed to him affected her. But one look at his glazed, rapt expression and confidence surged, pushing aside humiliation. Still facing front, she twisted at the waist, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and stared back at him. “I’ve been a bad girl,” she cooed in a decent imitation of Stacy’s deliberately provocative purr.

  “What?” When those dark, captivating eyes lifted helplessly to hers, she brought her palm down on her left buttock with a quick, loud slap.

  “Oh God,” he said, and his eyes dropped to the cheek where a pink handprint formed.

  “You like bad girls?”

  “Huh?” he grunted, his eyes still glued to her ass.

  Following Stacy’s itinerary, she inched backward until she straddled him, rested her hands on his knees, and slowly lowered her hips so her backside brushed along his abs—very tight abs. Something thick and hard rose up to greet her. She bit her lip to stifle the shock and, yes, arousal, and…started to improvise. Bracing her weight on her hands, she carefully adjusted until the heavy ridge rode the shallow valley between her cheeks. Then she arched her back and clenched her butt, trapping him in a little hug.

  His hands flew to her waist and gripped like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. She couldn’t see his face in the mirror, but felt his forehead rest between her shoulder blades and heard a low, tortured sound rumble from his chest.

  “Stacy. We should stop now,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  An urge to dominate burned through her, along with a strong tug of pure, unadulterated desire. She leaned forward slightly, until his grip relaxed, then quickly repeated the move.

  His muffled exclamation was halfway between a curse and a prayer. Their eyes met in the mirror. His swirled with tension. Beneath her, his entire body vibrated with barely controlled energy. She rotated her hips, grinding against him.

  “Stacy,” he gasped her name. “Hold still. I mean it. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

  She didn’t. Not precisely, anyway. But she knew one thing. They weren’t stopping until she’d done it. In the mirror, her lips curved into a familiar, yet startling expression—Stacy’s wicked grin. She’d never seen it on her own face.

  She turned her head, flipping her hair in the process, and looked at him. “The dance isn’t over yet, Trevor.” She took one of his big hands and placed it on her butt, precisely where the barest hint of pink lingered on her pale skin. “Mmm,” she hummed, and rolled her hips, so her flesh slid under his palm. “You feel so good.”

  Glancing at the mirror, she watched his eyelids drop like white flags, heard the surrender in his agonized groan, and felt a rush of
triumph. A few breathless seconds later, however, he buried his face against the nape of her neck, his hand slid around to her waist, and he jerked her hips down hard—so hard she felt the huge head of his erection straining to get past her tight, fragile threshold. Triumph quickly faded as awareness kicked in.

  One little flex of his hand proved beyond a shadow of a doubt which one of them held the power. Not her. She’d toyed with him, forgetting the formidable strength coiled in his rock-hard body. If he chose to unleash it, he could take what she’d teasingly dangled before him—without breaking a sweat.

  His fingers tensed on her hip and sent the pressure between her legs to a critical point. Pleasure, low and deep, twisted painfully tight. Something had to give. She feared that something was her. Biting her lip to hold back an anxious, needy sound, she tried to shift away from his restrained intrusion, but his grip held her fast.

  “Christ, don’t move,” he growled. Leaning in, he pressed his chest against her back, pushing her forward. Grappling for balance, she gripped his knees, twined her legs around his firmly planted calves, and scooted her hips back hard and fast until the only thing she could feel—the only thing she could think about—was the blunt, unforgiving thrust of his erection against her quivering sex. Just when she feared she’d cry out from a combination of agony and need, Trevor choked out a strangled curse, shuddered, and exhaled a long, rough groan.

  Involuntary tremors shivered through her as the pressure between her legs slowly subsided, leaving her overstrained body weak with relief, yet aching with a sharp, unfulfilled need. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and told herself to relax. She’d done her job. Yes, doing so meant walking a tightrope between fantasy and reality, and for a moment there, she’d nearly lost her balance. But she’d made it to the end in one piece.

  “Are you okay?” Trevor’s lips brushed her neck, lingered long enough to bestow an openmouthed kiss along the tender curve where neck met shoulder. She fought back another shiver, this time because tingling heat radiated along her sensitive nerve endings. There was something seriously wrong with her.

  His eyes found hers in the mirror and held.

  “I’m fine.” Losing control. Losing Kylie and becoming…I don’t know who. She wanted to stand, get some distance, but the weight of his fathomless gaze paralyzed her.

  “You don’t look fine. You look like a lost little girl.” The cynical smile was long gone, replaced by worry and something alarmingly close to compassion. “If I don’t watch it, you’re going to break my heart.”

  Even though she knew no real stripper would, she couldn’t keep from bringing her arms up to cover herself. She tore her eyes away from his. He shook his head and sighed. “Come on, what are you hiding? Whatever it is, I promise, telling me is the right thing to do.” He sounded concerned and endlessly patient, then ruined it by saying, “Stacy, talk,” in his firm, no-bullshit cop voice. The command reminded her about the distribution of power again. The imbalance went beyond physical, it encompassed their entire dynamic.

  “I have”—she stopped and swallowed the lump in her throat—“I have to go. Right now.”

  “Goddammit, Stacy.”

  She shook her head and stood, intending to walk the short distance to where her top lay on the floor, put it on, and get the hell out of there, but her legs wobbled and she lost her balance.

  Lightning fast, he bolted to his feet and grabbed her arm, steadying her.

  The sudden movement caught Benny’s attention. “Back off,” he ordered from the corner. Kylie realized from Benny’s perspective, it looked as if Trevor had stood up and grabbed her.

  “I’ll back off when the lady tells me to back off,” Trevor said. “Until then, you back off.”

  Before she could find her tongue, Benny got up, walked over, and stood beside Trevor. Apprehension coiled her gut. Trevor towered over her by more than half a foot, and outweighed her by a good hundred pounds of solid, hard-packed muscle, but Benny had him by at least three inches and fifty pounds.

  “Now you’re confused about the rules,” the big man went on. “She don’t need to say a word. You back off when I say so. I’m saying so right now.”

  Trevor’s eyes never left hers. “What do you say, Stacy? Want me to back off?” He didn’t let go of her arm.

  Fear froze her heart in her chest. She knew what he was trying to do—provoke a confrontation with Benny and get kicked out—and she desperately wanted to stop him. Forcing a laugh, she shook her head. “Don’t be stupid.”

  She smiled at Benny, and said, “Thanks. I’ve got this handled.”

  Benny didn’t return her smile, but he took a step back and looked at his watch. “This dance is over, and we close in fifteen minutes. Finish your business.”

  Much to her relief, Trevor released her, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded bill, and held it out to her. A tip. Bile rose in her throat.

  She closed her eyes and looked away. “I don’t want it.”

  “Add it to the Stacy Roberts career change fund,” he said softly and she felt his fingers slide the bill along her hip and tuck it into her thong.

  “Come on,” said Benny, impatiently, from the door.

  A few seconds later the door closed and she stood alone in the room. With unsteady hands she retrieved her bra, and then opened the door. Somehow, she forced her shaking legs to support her while she crossed the nearly empty club and walked down the hall to the dressing room.

  Inside, Ariana, Lee Ann and Ginger were removing makeup, combing out hair, and changing into street clothes. She slipped through the chaos to her vanity and stared at her reflection. Pale face, bruised-looking eyes, fever-red lips. Her gaze traveled down, dispassionately, and took in the sight of her breasts overflowing the gauzy white camisole, nipples visible beneath the sheer fabric. Her attention moved lower still, and snagged on the bill tucked into the hip of her thong. Her stomach revolted. Dropping to her knees, she grabbed the little trash can tucked next to her vanity, stuck her head in, and lost her lunch.

  Chapter Seven

  “Snowflake, you’re not pregnant, are you?” Ginger crouched close and draped a cool, damp towel across the back of Kylie’s neck. Arm braced on the rim of the waste can, Kylie raised her head and looked at the women gathered around. Ariana handed her a bottle of water. Lee Ann took her hand and tipped some breath mints into her palm. Her gaze swung to Ginger. She sipped the water, tossed the mints in her mouth, and said, “No. I’m not pregnant.”

  “Something you ate?” Lee Ann drawled sympathetically.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately.”

  “I know, sugar, stumbling on poor old Carlton, dead in the parking lot. We’re all queasy about that.”

  “You all need to be careful.” Kylie gave each woman a serious look. “The police don’t know who killed Carlton, but they think it might have been another customer or even someone who works here. Please keep your eyes open. Look after yourselves and don’t take any risks.”

  “Always,” Ginger said. “But that’s not what’s got your head in the trash, is it? I’m guessing the cause is about six feet two inches of suited-up sexy. Your private dance?”

  She sucked in a breath, coughed, and swallowed the mint lodged in her throat. “No.”

  “Oh, Snowflake.” Ginger laughed. “You’re falling for a client.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. You’re all tied in knots over him. It’s so not like you,” Ginger insisted.

  “Yes,” Ariana seconded. “You have been different, ever since the first night he came in. He likes you so much he comes every night you dance. You get nervous.” She smiled and nodded. “You like him, too.”

  Lee Ann sighed. “So ro-mayn-tic!”

  “It’s not like that,” she protested. Feeling trapped under the weight of three sets of eyes, she sprang to her feet and grabbed her lockbox and started counting bills and calculating her tip-out. “He’s totally buttoned-
down and…traditional. For him, I’m a temporary diversion. Stripper and client?” She shook her head and forced a hollow laugh. “That kind of thing never works.”

  “You do not know,” Ariana disagreed, and patted her shoulder as she passed by on her way out of the dressing room.

  “That’s right, sugar. Never say never. A friend of mine at a different club knows a dancer who landed one of her VIP clients. Now she’s a housewife in Palo Alto,” Lee Ann finished dreamily, and followed Ariana out the door.

  Kylie rolled her eyes, whisked the fifty-dollar bill from her thong, and tossed it in her pile. A manicured hand reached over and pulled the bill out. Irritated, she looked up at Ginger.

  “Don’t include this in your tip-out,” the redhead said. Nodding her head to the pile of bills, she added, “That’s business. This”—she flicked the fifty—“was personal—a gift.”

  Kylie arched an eyebrow. “You, too?”

  Ginger shrugged and dropped the fifty on Stacy’s vanity. “What? I like ro-may-ance as much as the next girl.”

  Me, too, she thought sadly as she watched Ginger leave. Unfortunately, “romantic” didn’t really describe the current situation. Dirty dancing for a hot cop who would probably toss her in jail and throw away the key if he knew she’d lied about her identity and impeded his investigation? Not romantic. Try scary, dangerous, reckless.

  You’re falling for him.

  Okay, yes, the girls were right. The feeling went beyond attraction and into something deeper and far more elemental. But finding it now, with Trevor, didn’t help her predicament. It made already-difficult circumstances darn near impossible.

  The dancing was hard, but not as hard as she’d first imagined. Self-consciousness faded after a while because the customers didn’t really see her, they saw a willing canvas upon which they projected their own fantasies. Dancing at Deuces equated to a strange Halloween party. She wore a costume and pretended to be something she wasn’t. And everyone more or less bought the pretense, except Trevor.