Stolen in Love

by G. G. Andrew

  The twinkle in his eye hadn’t been greed either. It was malice. He didn’t need the money, but he’d enjoyed taking that pound of flesh all the same.

  Hutch didn’t know what was on the flash drive they’d asked him to collect from Kim Xavier, but he had a feeling it wasn’t exactly nice either. He wasn’t anyone’s fucking errand boy, but when he’d been approached by Jason to nudge Kim into returning it, he’d accepted. He didn’t know what business Jason said his “friend” needed it for, but he had a feeling it wasn’t something Kim should be mixed up in. She may have been his ex, but she was trying to recover from her problem and Hutch had a feeling these Yalies could introduce her to a whole new rock bottom.

  Hutch started laughing and leaned back in the plush seat, stretching out his legs in his dark jeans. Maybe he was going soft. Maybe he should smoke the joint in his pocket and consider whether the Yalies hadn’t changed, but that he himself was changing.

  He was shaking his head, still chuckling to himself, when he saw her across the room.

  With a curvy body, brown skin, and dark curls cascading over her shoulder, she was hot, but that wasn’t what held his gaze. She was dressed like she was looking for a good time with a pair of tight black pants and a strapless blue shirt that flowed over her hips. The top was the exact shade of twilight right before the sun slipped under the horizon. That was his favorite time of day; the blue was almost electric, the possibilities still undecided. Yet she was aware of her surroundings in a way the other girls weren’t, and that’s why he couldn’t look away. The other girls’ focus was often inward—tugging down their shirts or smoothing hair, worried how they’d appeared to the Yale boy or girl they wanted. This woman—she was a woman alright, older than the rest, but it was the way she held herself, too—was attuned to the rest of the room without batting an eyelash.

  She played pool, and as she straightened up after sinking a ball, she met his gaze. He had a feeling she’d known earlier he was watching, had picked that exact moment to look up.

  His lips slid into a lazy grin and he tipped his head. He would go to her, but he’d make her wait for it.

  He watched her play, beating the Yalie boy who seemed too smitten to line up his shots. He wasn’t one of the wealthy students who hosted these parties, which was good because it meant Hutch outranked him in the informal pecking order of the parties. When he walked over, the kid would scram.

  And he did. As the woman sank the final ball, Hutch slowly stood and strolled to her. “At Last” came on overhead, the record crackling. The temperature inside had climbed throughout the night, and his black tee stuck to his muscles as he walked.

  She would be expecting a witty one-liner to amuse her, or some unbridled compliment, so Hutch did something she didn’t expect.

  “Dance with me,” he said.

  He held out his hand, and she took it, but she waited until he circled his arms around her waist before she spoke.

  “You don’t strike me as the dancing type.”

  She had a southern accent, and a slow, honey-drenched way of speaking, like she was in no hurry and could she also offer him a cup of sweet tea? So not from around here. Maybe she was somebody’s cousin. She looked Hispanic and sounded like a Georgia debutante, and as he rifled through his memory banks thinking of a Yalie that could be a possible relative, he admitted, “I’m not.”

  “Why’d you ask me to dance, then?”

  “I wanted to put my hands on you.”

  She gave him a slight smile, her face upturned to his. “You’re honest.”

  “Sometimes.” When he could afford it.

  She put her hands on his shoulders, though he noticed she didn’t clasp them together behind his neck, but kept them where she could shove him away if he got too handsy. Still, her fingers sliding over his shoulders sent a thrill through his body he rarely felt anymore. Her eyes up close were a deep brown and the sparks in them twinkled in the lamplight.

  “You’re not from around here,” he finally said when his memory drew a blank.

  “No.”

  “Where?”

  “Here and there.” Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, then to his side. That vigilance again. Maybe she didn’t trust men. Or maybe she just had stranger danger for men who looked like him.

  It was that contrast that caught him. The available clothes and the wary body language. The eagerness and control. Being a person who’d never fit into any box himself, he found others’ inconsistencies endlessly fascinating. Plus, girls who came to these parties didn’t have such a keen awareness of the space they occupied.

  His stomach dropped, and a low shudder passed from his belly to his brain as the knowledge registered.

  Cops had that awareness.

  She was a cop.

  She was still glancing over his shoulder, so he buried his face in her neck in response to the slow sultriness of Etta James’ voice. Even though his body wanted to flee, he pulled her closer, the flimsy fabric of her blue top tickling his palms. In situations like these, what made logical sense wasn’t what got you out of the corner you were backed into. In self-defense, they taught that when someone grabbed you, you’d get out of the hold quicker if you let yourself relax and draw nearer to them, causing their grip to loosen and you to maneuver out. Gators and angry dogs always bit harder when you resisted.

  A cop.

  Why was she here? What was she after? Who?

  Adrenaline shot through his veins, but he forced his body to relax.

  Though holding her tight was having some unintended consequences. Of the pants-tightening sort. Cop or not—and he guessed undercover detective—her curves pressed up against him, and her scent invaded him. It was flowery and clean, like white tulips covered in dew, and even with street smarts on top of book smarts, he was still a fucking man. He ran the tip of his nose against her throat and drew a measured breath, his body warring between fear and excitement.

  They were so close he felt her heart speed up and her body tense for a fraction of a second. Then she relaxed against him. They were playing a game, but she didn’t know he’d changed the rules.

  “How long you been here?” he said into her neck, his voice husky with control.

  “How do you know I’m not just visiting?”

  Because you work for the police department. “Lucky guess.”

  She pivoted the conversation, her fingers still splayed on his shoulders. “Does this party happen every Wednesday?”

  It did. He shrugged. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He tilted his head up and looked her in the eye. The doorman had let her in, and that was a problem. Horny university boys were useless at security. He’d taken one look at her outfit and bare shoulders and his tongue had rolled out like a red carpet.

  Staring into his eyes, she cupped his face, her thumb rubbing against his five o’clock shadow. She ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. Oh, she was good.

  “What, you don’t trust me?” she said in that slow, deep-fried way.

  “I don’t trust you one lick,” he said, adding, “Detective.”

  Her eyes flared and her body stiffened under his hands.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Then, inexplicably, she pressed against him and moved her lips to his ear. He felt her warm breath and the hard metal of a pistol on his hip. Of course she was packing. The top she wore was loose for a reason.

  “Do you feel that?” Her accent remained, but her voice was firm. “That’s my gun. I can whip it out and shove it between your legs in two seconds if you try anything. Do you understand?”

  He did.

  “So don’t try anything.”

  She lifted her face and looked him in the eye, her demeanor now anything but flirtatious. It should’ve made his balls shrivel up, but something about this woman and this whole situation was making him rock-hard.

  To cover up his arousal, he moved his body a few inches away and said, “I thought south
ern women were supposed to be polite.”

  “Spoken like a man who’s never been to the South.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The sound of a wineglass breaking exploded over her shoulder, and a group of students cheered like it was the fourth of July. A second glass joined the first.

  “I’m looking for something,” she said. “A flash drive.”

  “Hmm.” Jason’s friend’s flash drive, whatever was on it. The one Kim had taken. He’d bet his stash that her officer boyfriend had a hand in this. He’d been amused to discover Kim was now dating a cop, but it was getting a lot less cute. He raised his eyebrows. “Lots of people have flash drives. I’ve got a few back at my place. Want to go see?”

  “No.” Her lips sat in a firm line, her gaze now openly roaming. “But you’re going to tell me what I want to know right now, or I’ll take you down to the station for possession of that joint in your pocket, resisting an officer, and whatever other charges I can make stick.”

  He exhaled. “What’s on this flash drive, anyway?”

  “A list of women.” Her eyes flicked to him.

  He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of list?”

  “A list of women who’ve been harassed online,” she enunciated. “Names, emails, workplaces, private information. You know anything about that?” To drive her point home, she pressed the gun against his hip again.

  He barely noticed. Shit. He’d assumed Jason and his pals had exam answers on that drive, or some gambling spreadsheet. A list of women they were harassing? His stomach clenched like a fist. He was an asshole, but he wasn’t that kind of asshole.

  She widened her eyes. “You didn’t know.”

  “Not my scene.” He really needed to get rid of this crowd.

  “I need names.” Her tone was a bit warmer. A hair.

  He chuckled harshly. “Not here.”

  As if demonstrating why, Jason strode into the room, two guys following him. He glanced at Hutch, and noticing his dance partner, gave him a thumbs up. Before turning around, Jason studied the detective. He couldn’t tell if Jason’s gaze was curious or hungry, but he didn’t care for either.

  “Roll with this,” he said quickly to the detective before spinning so her back was against a nearby wall. He put his mouth to her neck again and moved his hands down her body, matching the embrace of other couples locked together in the hazy room.

  Startled, she whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m preserving your cover.”

  “You’re touching my ass.” But her breath hitched in a way that told him she wasn’t as startled or irritated as she seemed.

  “Six and one half dozen,” he said.

  “Hmph.”

  “You’re not safe here,” he mumbled, his hands travelling up and down her smooth pants. “You should leave. Now.”

  Her jaw opened to protest, but at something in his face, she closed it. “This isn’t over,” she finally said. “I’ll come back until I get the information I need.”

  “I expect you will.” He rested a hand against the wall, their noses almost touching. “But right now you’ve got to pretend like you’re coming home with me.”

  Slinging his arm around her, he dragged her to the exit, giving Jason and his crew a wide berth. Right before he reached the door, he backed her up against the wall in case curious eyes watched.

  “Kiss me like you mean it, Detective,” he said, and put his mouth to hers.

  Her lips were resistant at first, but sooner than he expected, she opened for him, and their tongues tangled as her hand found the back of his shaved head.

  It was for her protection, Hutch told himself, though his body was telling a different story. His limbs had been humming since he’d seen her, readying for something, and as their lips met it felt like the glass shattering earlier, but everywhere. A rushing in his ears, a feeling like the walls were crashing down, or that the floor was going to be different when he opened his eyes.

  He was the first to pull away, and the ground was still the ground but not. He shifted, and the world teetered like it was twilight.

  Her eyes were still closed, her lips a little puckered from their kiss. She opened her eyes. They were sparkling.

  “There’s a guy here named Jason,” he said breathlessly into her dazed face. “He’s got a friend, and that friend owns the flash drive. If you want last names or anything else, you’ll have to find them yourself.”

  He pushed open the door to her left and she stumbled out—they both did, him following her to keep up the ruse. They didn’t say anything, and at the corner they parted. She didn’t look back.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Kim

  “You’re going to a tea party at Taylor Stiles’ house?” Laurel said over the phone. “Taylor Stiles. Who hates you.”

  “Yeah,” Kim said. “Crazy, right?”

  Laurel snorted. “You might need to ask Dr. Park to up your medication.”

  “I know.” Kim sighed. “Lily wanted me to go.”

  “Hmm…” Laurel said. “You really like him, don’t you?”

  Kim almost retorted that it was all for Lily, but who was she kidding? She wanted to make the girl happy, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she loved the look of gratitude Scott had given her when she said she’d take her, even if it meant an unpleasant reunion with her old classmate.

  Though they’d been arguing more the past couple days. Since they’d discovered Viktor wasn’t the sole culprit, he’d tried to put the kibosh on her warning those women.

  “Kimberly, you need to stop.”

  “I told you I’d let you know who I met, when, and where.”

  “That’s not good enough.” He ran his hands through his dark blond hair. “We still don’t know who we’re up against. Not entirely. If something happened to you, I’d—” He broke off, his face hardening.

  “Hey…” She walked over to him, a lump of guilt in her throat, and put her hand against his scratchy jaw. “I’m sorry. I just feel like I’ve got to help these women.”

  He exhaled. “I know.”

  “How about a compromise?” she said. “I still contact these women, but I do it all over the phone.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Can you do it without giving your name, whereabouts, or schedule—or agreeing to meet them at a later date?”

  “Sure.” She nodded. “I just need one exception.”

  Destani told her that that woman Autumn, who’d cheated on a Ry or Ryan, had been the one those Yale guys first half-joked about harassing. If that was true, she was victim zero, and they needed to get as much information out of her as possible.

  That morning, before Taylor’s tea party, Scott hovered in the parking lot while she and Destani intercepted Autumn outside of the clothing boutique where she now worked. Tall and striking, the woman wore dangly earrings which shook beside her stylishly short black hair.

  Destani stepped in her path first, with Kim beside her. “Hi, Autumn.”

  Autumn froze, wary. “Hello.”

  “Do you remember me?” Destani said. “We both used to go out—”

  “I remember you,” Autumn said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk,” Destani. “This is my friend Kim. She found a list of women who’ve been harassed online. I was on there, and so were you. You had somebody do something to you, didn’t you?”

  Autumn crossed her arms. “I did. What does it matter?”

  Kim spoke up. “I have a friend who’s a cop. You can file a police report.”

  “I don’t want to file a report. I made the first mistake. I cheated on Ryan.” She looked at Destani. “They told you that, right? Well, it was true.” She huffed. “So if he gets a bunch of his buddies to tell me I’m a whore on social media and joke about raping me, I guess I got what I deserved, didn’t I?” She brushed past them, headed for her car.

  “Wait!” Kim said. “What he did was wrong.”

  Autumn shook her h
ead, but she turned around for one moment. “No, what they did to her was wrong”—she nodded at Destani—“but me? I’m just a whore.”

  She opened her car door, slammed it, and drove off.

  ~

  On the way to Taylor’s with Lily, Kim replayed that conversation in her head over and over—and once at the tea party, the echo of it seemed all the louder.

  At least attending a party at Taylor Stiles’ house came with pretty perks, even if it was an activity reserved for a ring of hell.

  From the moment she and Lily entered the tea party walking hand in hand, they’d been assaulted by pink. Gauzy pink streamers hung high on the walls. Pale pink tablecloths lined the tea party tables, with tulle at the end made to look like tutu material. Tiny white teacups and a round pink teapot sat on the table, cupcakes were artfully arranged on dishes, and bouquets of pink roses made the house smell like flowers and frosting. Pictures of elegant dancers graced the walls, doing pirouettes and curtsies. Sophie and Sierra ran around Lily in leotards and tutus, giggling. The whole scene managed to be both classy and gaudy, just like Taylor Stiles.

  It was a ballerina-themed tea party. Did ballerinas even eat cupcakes?

  This was one of the questions Kim was asking herself, along with Why am I here?

  “Hi, Kim,” Taylor simpered as they entered. “It’s nice to have Lily here.”

  “Thanks for having us, Taylor.”

  “Come on in and have some cupcakes and tea. Everyone else is already here.”

  Kim followed Lily back to where the other girls were gathered, while Taylor held court in the front room where some of the moms and grandmas sat, nibbling on sweet treats and drinking tea. The cupcakes, like the rest of the decorations, were ballerina-themed, and each pink confection was stuck with a glittery gold dancer in a fluffy pink tutu. The moms oohed and aahed over them, but Kim just mostly wanted to stuff about six in her face. She was starving.