He’d seen through her act right from the start. Looked at her, looked for her, and seemed genuinely intrigued by what he found, instead of projecting an identity or expectation onto her. A thrilling and unnerving experience, that. Especially for someone who so often faded into the shadows cast by her wilder, more outrageous twin.
Of course, Trevor thought she was Stacy. In a bizarre way, her sister still held the spotlight, even with a guy she’d never technically met. Kylie wondered how much of Trevor’s interest really stemmed from the “Stacy” role she was playing rather than herself.
Her shoulders slumped. No way to know. Maybe this was why all the experts warned about founding a relationship on a lie?
He sensed the lie. That much she knew. She might intrigue him, even attract him, but he didn’t trust her. And while everything inside her yearned to come clean—to trust him with their secret—she couldn’t confess without breaking her word to Stacy.
Her phone rang. She dug in her bag until she found it, and checked the caller ID. Speak of the devil.
“Hi, Stacy.”
“God, you sound like you just learned there’s no such thing as Santa. What’s wrong? Slow night?”
“No, actually it was busy. I’m just tired, I guess.”
“Yeah, but even so, Ky, it’s not like you to sound so depressed. It’s freaking me out. You’re normally Miss Zen and Centered, even lately, with the cops and all. What’s put you in such a dark place?”
“I don’t know,” she said evasively, then felt bad. Stacy was usually too busy with her own dramas to notice anyone else’s. She must really be worried in order to ask twice. Maybe the time had come to confide in her twin for a change? Kylie sighed. “I’ve been feeling some things, and, um, wanting some things I really shouldn’t—”
“Hot damn, it’s finally happened. Saint Kylie’s thinking about having sex, aren’t you?”
She blinked. Leave it to Stacy to home in on the hormones and ignore the emotions. “It’s more than just sex.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re getting hung up on someone at Deuces.” Her sister’s words conveyed genuine dismay.
“He’s not really part of the Deuces scene. Not normally, anyway.”
“Oh, Kylie.” Stacy’s voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “Not the cop. Have you lost your mind?”
Kylie shut her eyes. “Maybe.” More to herself than Stacy, she groaned, “What am I going to do?”
“Ugh! You need to do the deed and get him out of your system,” Stacy stated firmly.
“You think so?” It sounded risky. What if “doing the deed” had the opposite effect, and instead of getting Trevor out of her system, she grew even more attached?
“I know so. Chemistry screws up your brain sometimes, and makes you think you’ve found a soul mate instead of a playmate. As soon as you give this cop a tumble, satisfy the itch, you’ll start to lose interest. Once, twice—sometimes the third time’s the charm—but trust me, you’ll work him completely out of your head. I’m kind of an expert in this area.”
She couldn’t argue.
“Come home and let’s talk,” Stacy urged. “I’ll help you solve a problem for a change.”
…
“There goes your girl,” Ian observed from across the table. Trevor stared out the window of the all-night diner across the street from Deuces, and watched the yellow Bug zip down Sunset. He tracked her until the taillights disappeared into the kaleidoscope of lights on the strip. What was she thinking right now?
Turning back to Ian, he said, “Yep.”
“Any impressions from tonight?”
“My impression is…we’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah, like two dead guys, and no suspects. I’ve never seen such clean backgrounds in my life. None of her regular customers or any of the long-term employees has significant priors. Hernandez and I interviewed them, but nobody pops. Either the alibis hold or there’s just nothing in their demeanor or responses that raises any suspicions. Kinda hard to know where to focus.”
“I know. Ramon might be our guy. His alibi doesn’t clear him. He could have made it to Deuces in time to off Long if every single thing went exactly his way, but—”
“But if he had that kind of mastery over the space-time continuum, he wouldn’t be working as a bouncer.”
Trevor couldn’t help but smile, despite the depressing lack of leads. “I’m still leaning toward an employee rather than a client, because of the timing of the attacks. Our guy knows when to strike so nobody will see him. To me, that says employee.”
“Me, too. I like the bartender.”
“Gary Swinton?”
“Yeah. He comes across as pretty laid-back, but the dancers say he hits on them constantly, despite being told to cut it out. Size-wise, he’s up to the job. Plus, you know, the killer seemed to know both men were good and drunk, and a bartender would be aware of exactly how much they’d ordered. Finally, forensics says the initial head blow looks to be from a liquor bottle…”
“So, you’re guessing the bartender, in the parking lot, with the vodka bottle?”
Ian grinned. “Yep. And you?”
Trevor shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be Benny. Could be Vern.”
“Vern?” Ian’s voice rang with skepticism. “He’s kind of a geezer for this type of crime, don’t you think?”
“Statistically speaking, yeah. But he’s in good shape for a guy in his midfifties. His build, his knowledge of the clients and their disruptive incidents, all support the theory.”
“Maybe, but I don’t get the sense he’s inappropriately interested in any of the dancers, including Stacy. He’s interested in them making money for the club, and that’s about it. Now Benny, he’s definitely got the size and strength. But his biggest muscle is not the one between his ears.”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to lie in wait, club someone on the head, and then beat them to a pulp.”
“True. Whenever you’ve pushed his buttons during any of the private dances though, he’s never really lost his cool. Do you think he’s got the unbridled temper and…I don’t know…inherent violence this type of crime requires?”
“Not sure.” Trevor ran a hand through his hair, trying to stimulate his sluggish brain. “I do know what we’ve done so far isn’t working, in terms of forcing our guy out of the shadows.”
“You don’t think continuing to pose as a difficult customer will inspire the killer to make a move?”
“It hasn’t so far. That’s our second problem. I need to be more than just a difficult customer. Long pulled Stacy offstage and sprained her ankle. Montenegro slapped her—”
“On her superior posterior.”
“Right.” He shook his head. “I can’t do anything physical like that.” Kiss her, touch her, let her drive him right out of his mind? No problem. There were rules, and then there were rules.
“Not for real. But can’t you and Stacy put on a show? Down a few shots, and then get in her face and start yelling. She shoves you, you shove her back.”
He spread his hands out on the table, palms down, and shook his head again. “Stacy’s another problem. She won’t cooperate.”
Ian’s brows knitted. “Why not? Is she worried about her safety?”
“More worried about mine, I’d say.”
“What? She’s met you. More importantly, she’s met me. How can she possibly worry knowing I’m watching your back? Did you tell her what an amazing partner I am?”
He hid his smile behind a sip of coffee. “I’ll have to work on her.” Thinking a moment, he added, “Maybe create an opportunity, too. Tomorrow night I’ll hang out after closing and drive her home.”
“What if she says no?”
“She won’t. I’ll tell her I need to speak with her about the investigation, which is true.”
“So, you think her self-appointed protector will watch you two leave together and the sight will push him over the edge?”
“Maybe he wil
l, maybe he won’t. But somebody always walks the girls to their cars, so at least one person from Deuces will see us leave together. According to Vern, Stacy doesn’t hook up with customers, so word of her breaking tradition should spread pretty quickly. If the killer doesn’t see us tomorrow night, possibly he’ll hear something through the grapevine. That alone might be enough to compel this guy to make a move on me. Especially if I can convince Stacy to come in to work on Saturday and tell everyone I turned out to be a prick. Then, if I show up Saturday night and cause even a hint of trouble, our killer’s not going to have a choice. He’ll have to take me out.”
“Could work,” Ian agreed. Then his lips curled into a lazy grin. “You know, for someone getting a private dance every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, you’re in an awfully big hurry to close this case.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a problem, too.”
Ian’s easy laugh rolled out. “She is one very sexy girl. Anytime you want to trade places, let me know.”
“Dream on.”
“Oh, I do. Believe me, I do.”
Chapter Eight
Trevor sat in a VIP room at Deuces, sipping vodka, waiting for Stacy and fixating on a whole bunch of stuff that had nothing to do with the job. What would she be wearing? How would she dance for him? How was she holding up?
Ramon occupied a dark corner in the back of the room, but for some crazy reason, the possibility of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound homicidal nut-job lurking nearby didn’t distract his thoughts from Stacy. A half hour of private time with her had quickly become the high point of his day. Among his fellow detectives, he had a reputation as a focused investigator, even a bit of a workaholic. But Stacy scrambled his priorities so badly he had a hard time remembering the real purpose for his visit—a minor matter of solving two murders.
The door opened and Stacy walked in. No, that wasn’t right. She glided through the door in a cloud of vanilla and coconut, looking sleek and sexy. The black cap and large silver-rimmed aviator sunglasses of her stylized chauffeur’s outfit concealed her hair and eyes, adding an air of mystery. She wore a black jacket that fit like a second skin. Beneath, it looked as if she wore nothing except a narrow black necktie. Leather driving gloves covered her hands and a tiny black G-string covered the essentials. The tall, shiny boots he remembered so fondly from a week ago encased her endless legs. When she turned around to shut the door, he enjoyed the way the tails of her coat shifted to offer glimpses of her delectable ass.
Then she turned to face him and sagged against the door. Something in his chest contracted, quick and sharp. Tough little Stacy held up, but it cost her. Thanks to the sunglasses, he couldn’t really gauge just how much, and that frustrated him. He wanted to see her eyes.
“Hello, Trevor.” Her husky voice held a note of resignation. “What would you like tonight?”
“I’d like you to take off the hat and shades.”
She shook her head, dislodging the hat so it tumbled to the floor, and pushed away from the door. “The glasses stay. What kind of dance do you—”
“Fifty bucks to lose them.”
Her lips pursed into the stern pout that always got him right by the balls. “This isn’t an auction. I’m not taking the glasses off.”
He gave her the cop stare, and he prided himself on having a good one, but he got nothing back except his own reflection in the damn mirrored glasses. “Why do you work here, Stacy? For the satisfaction of a job well done?”
“I work here to make money,” she clipped out.
“Strange how you’re turning mine down with some regularity then.”
Her lips parted, ready to fling a response, then slowly closed. She shrugged. “You’re not a real client. I don’t want your money.”
“I’m way beyond a client and you know it. You also know what’s going on here is undeniably real.”
Her face actually paled at the observation. She couldn’t look more skittish if he’d pulled his gun and aimed at her. Fair enough. Rules applied, even in their unusual game. He ought to stick to them, for both their sakes. Physical intimacies everyone expected. There were recognized plays in this particular sport. Emotional intimacies were out of bounds. Lowering his chin, he inhaled deeply. “Come here.”
“I don’t want to.” Her protest barely qualified as a whisper.
“I want you to,” he insisted, and patted his leg like an owner signaling a recalcitrant pet. Apparently he was trapped in the role of asshole tonight.
Reluctantly she obeyed. When she neared, he parted his legs. She stepped between his knees and perched lightly on his thigh, clearly prepared to bolt at the least provocation.
“Relax,” he breathed, nuzzling her ear, slightly light-headed from her nearness, her scent.
“I can’t,” she choked out. Then she burst into tears.
Shit. Completely freaked, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, until her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder and she more or less collapsed against him. “Don’t,” he begged. “Baby, I’m the oldest of three boys. I can handle a fist to the face, an elbow to the ribs, even a flying tackle. But a woman’s tears? They scare me, straight to the bone.” His confession provoked a quick little hug from her, but the waterworks continued unabated. The way she shook in his arms, the misery in her quiet sobs, simply ripped him apart.
He pulled her glasses off, folded them one-handed, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his black button-down. Bringing his hand back to her cheek, he lifted her face and carefully wiped the tears with his fingertips. One look and he understood her insistence on the glasses. Even in the low lights, he could see shadows under her eyes.
“Stacy, baby, don’t cry. Please.”
If anything, she cried harder. Pressing her face to his chest, she gripped his forearm. “Don’t say my name. Don’t say anything. Just…give me a minute.”
Helpless, he alternated stroking her hair and running a hand over her back while the storm of tears battered her. He wasn’t a good judge, but it seemed to go on a long time. When he couldn’t take any more, he cupped his hand at the base of her head, eased her face away from his chest, and leaned close. “Shhh.” He let his lips brush under one swollen eye, tasted salt and soft skin. She shuddered and a small sound escaped her throat. Eyes closed, arm tight around his neck, she tipped her head back into his hand and offered her lips.
An offer he couldn’t refuse. Trailing his mouth over her damp cheek, he traced the tracks of her tears to the corner of her mouth, swept his tongue along the delicate crevice. Her lips parted. He delved—but gently, cautiously. Her tongue crept closer, slid over his almost tentatively, and then retreated. He held his breath as she approached again. This time her tongue tangled around his, and she sighed. He answered with a tortured groan, and his control slipped away.
Time spiraled while he lost himself in her. Her strawberry-sweet lips, the luscious depths of her mouth, that hot, hungry tongue eagerly tasting everything it could reach. Other subtle inputs registered further back in his mind: the weight of her breasts against his chest, taut nipples jutting through the jacket and his shirt. The curve of her hip wedged tight in his lap. When she closed her lips around his tongue and sucked long and slow, his dick sprang to attention and thrust hopefully against her thigh, as if to say, “Me, too!”
Without breaking the kiss, she shifted slightly and, next thing he knew, fondled him through his pants. On a strangled groan, he drew back and, against her mouth, said, “We need to talk.”
“Don’t talk,” she pleaded, lips brushing his while, down below, he throbbed to life in her hand. Even as his imagination replaced her hand with her soft, moist mouth, his mind tried to apply the brakes. Yes, undercover work allowed physical intimacy within certain boundaries, but a hand job exceeded the limits. Too bad his dick didn’t care.
Clinging to reason, he tried again. “Stacy, stop. I need to talk to you.” His voice held a thread of desperation—a plea—but she wasn’t in a merciful mood. She grip
ped him hard, and drew her clenched fist slowly up his shaft, wringing an agonized curse from him.
“Let me,” she whispered, more a demand than a request. “Tell me what you want.”
He wanted to tell her to stop; needed to tell her to stop. Instead, he grabbed her waist, buried his face in the warm, fragrant curve of her neck, and begged. “Christ, do that again. A little faster.”
She did, again and again. Not so much expertly as attentively, like every shudder and twitch of his body fascinated her. He barely registered her reactions, too distracted by the pressure building between his legs. He must have made some sound of protest—or warning—because she squeezed his balls and repeated, “Let me.”
“Jesus. I—okay.” In less than a minute, he was an inarticulate mess, begging in one-word bursts of “faster…harder,” and fighting a nearly overpowering instinct to push her down onto her hands and knees, tear off the scrap of lace between her legs, and thrust so deep inside her she’d think they were conjoined.
She leaned in, closed her lips around his earlobe, and bit down. Bright light flashed behind his clenched eyelids, the few brain cells he had left imploded, and he came with a strangled groan.
A flat voice behind him called out, “Time’s up. Fifteen minutes to close.”
She kissed his slack mouth. He tried to move his lips and capture hers, but wasn’t quick enough. She was already sliding away. “I need to talk to you.” Christ, his voice sounded like tires on gravel, and achieved about the same traction. Stacy slipped out the door.
…
“Thanks for the escort, Gary.” Kylie dug the keys out of her bag as they started across the parking lot.
“No problem, Stace. Nice job tonight. I notice you picked up a new regular.”
Trevor. Her stupid heart skipped a beat. “Yeah.”
“Ramon says he likes to bend the rules.”
Lover Undercover Page 9
