Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

Stacy sniffed loudly, wiped her cheeks, and gave her a grateful look. “You will?”

“Yes, but this is the absolute last time we resort to an identity swap to get out of a jam. Things have to change. We need to take responsibility for our own lives.”

“Last time. I swear. I’ll do anything you want, Ky. Just name it.”

“You have to help me if I’m going to pull this off. I need to be a much more convincing Stacy, for starters.”

“I’ll help.” Stacy smiled through her tears. “By the time I’m done, even you won’t believe you’re not me.”

Chapter Four

Halfway through her second featured dance, Kylie completed a slow twirl around the pole and her gaze slammed into Trevor’s. She tightened her grip and slowed the turn so she didn’t stumble. His controlled expression gave nothing away, but the sight of him watching her like a hawk from the back of the audience stretched her already-tight nerves until they quivered like overwound violin strings. Deep breathing didn’t do much to ease the painful tension.

Why wouldn’t she be tense? She’d spent the whole evening hyperalert, wired from drinking too much caffeine and stressed because she imagined a killer monitoring her every move. Call her uptight, but constantly scanning her coworkers and customers for signs of homicidal tendencies made her edgy.

Yet despite her vigilance, she hadn’t seen Trevor arrive.

Now that he had, a different sort of edginess took hold. Her focus contracted. Everything around him faded to an indistinct blur while the dark, velvety weight of his stare stroked her like a touch, igniting little fires everywhere it lingered—her lips, her breasts…lower. Somehow, she managed to complete the dance, but her wobbly legs and shortness of breath couldn’t be blamed on exertion.

Backstage, while waiting on her clothes, she worked on bringing her heart rate back to normal and accepting some uncomfortable truths. Trevor held power over her, and not simply because he was investigating a murder and she was walking a razor-thin line between witness and suspect. No, it came down to something much more personal—and worrisome. When he looked at her, feelings she’d buried and left for dead a long time ago pulsed to life. Sexuality and sensuality heated and mixed. The molten concoction flowed to all her erogenous zones—zones she would have sworn never existed before now.

Being the “good twin,” the “let’s not give ’em something to talk about” girl, demanded self-control. Their mom had chucked her independence, rearranged her priorities, and clung like a burr to any man in a nicely packed pair of Levi’s who gave her a second glance. Determined never to measure her worth by her relationship status, avoid any whisper of scandal, and prove to everyone a Roberts woman could make something of herself, Kylie had resolved to be the boss of her hormones.

The testament to her success? She’d left home a virgin. And although liberated from the prying eyes of Two Trout’s gossips, five years in LA hadn’t broadened her experience in any noteworthy ways. While Stacy seemed bound and determined to prove she could pick men up and toss them aside without breaking stride, Kylie was too busy pursuing her goals to date. Her yoga classes took up practically all of her bandwidth.

She pulled on the outfit and glanced down at herself. Thanks to this latest fiasco, Kylie’s lean, flexible body had been transformed into something ripe and seductive. A lacy black push-up bra boosted her breasts to heretofore unimaginable heights. A matching G-string and thigh-high stockings created a lace-embroidered invitation to stare at her crotch.

Someday in the future, when she owned her own studio and Stacy had a legitimate entertainment job, maybe she’d be able to rearrange her priorities. Stop spending all her time working and rescuing Stacy, and find a nice guy to…um…show her some of life’s sweet mysteries. But so far, nobody had much tempted her.

Until now, whispered a brutally honest voice as she shrugged into a thigh-grazing man’s white button-down shirt and draped a blue and silver striped tie around her neck. Trevor definitely tempted her. Those hormones she thought had dried up and blown away like an untended garden were dropping roots and sprouting like crazy.

“Crazy” being the operative word. Now was the wrong time, and Trevor, the wrong man. Appalled with herself, she shoved her black fedora on her head, turned, and nearly screamed as she ran smack into Vern.

“Jesus, you scared me!”

Vern rolled his eyes and smoothed his shirt. “What’sa matter? Last night’s excitement got you jumpy?”

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“I’m always jumpy when cops come around asking me questions.” He paused and gave her a serious look. “The detective who came to see me this morning told me they’d be speaking to you. Handle them on your own time. I’m telling you now, if I see more cops around here, things will get ugly.”

Kylie swallowed the urge to tell him tonight’s audience included at least one homicide detective. “I intend to cooperate.”

“I’m not saying don’t cooperate. Hell, I’m cooperating. They asked me for a list of all your regulars for the last year, based on private dance receipts, and I’m going to get them their damn list. Soon as I do, they’re going to ask you about those guys. If you don’t want the LAPD scaring away your best clients, I suggest you convince them they don’t need to talk to every single one of them.”

Lord, how was she supposed to prepare for this? She was going to have to memorize all Stacy’s regulars—what they looked like, their personalities, what type of…entertainment…they preferred. Impossible. To Vern she said, “No problem.”

“Good. Then maybe we can focus on work for a second. You’ve got a thirty-minute private dance in VIP room two. He’s not a regular. Go make him one. Benny is already in there reviewing the rules, so unload your tips and hustle over. If you can’t get another thirty minutes out of him, you’ve got just enough time to give gran

dpa at table seven a lap dance. If the private extends, you’re done for the night. I’ll have Lee Ann do the old guy.”

Before Kylie could reply, the honey-haired Southern belle stepped out of the dressing room at the end of the hall. “Lee Ann!” Vern barked and lumbered toward his next target.

Dread knotted her stomach as she hurried toward the dressing room. She’d been hoping against hope to avoid private dances. Public ones were bad enough. Pushing through the door, she smiled absently at Ariana, nodded to Ginger, crossed to Stacy’s vanity, and stopped short. Stacy’s overpriced boots sat on the vanity, safe and sound.

Surprised, she scanned the room. Ariana noticed her look and responded with a haughty smile. “Yes, Stacy, last night before I leave, I find your boots over there by the lockers. I figure you forget them…not like you to forget your things. I think, ‘Ari, these boots will not be here tomorrow unless you lock them up.’ So I do.” She raised a shoulder and let it drop. “Now I take them down and give them back to you.”

Kylie stared at the Russian. “Thank you. These boots were new and expensive and, to be honest, I never thought I’d lay eyes on them again. If you hadn’t put them in a safe place, I’m sure I never would have.”