Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

“I do. Deuces still connects Long and Montenegro, and just a bit more tightly, their preference for you. Still more tightly, their bad behavior, related to you, almost immediately before they were murdered. And now, thanks to you, we know there’s even one more link.”

“Another link? I don’t understand.”

“You told us Carlton was drunk the night he pulled you offstage. Out of character for him, but his credit card receipt confirms he bought a bottle of vodka that night. Alex always paid cash, which is why the original investigators never linked him to the club in the first place, but Vern says he got a buzz going pretty much every time he visited. He started and stuck with vodka most nights, including his final one. We’re looking very hard at all the regular customers, all the employees, over a twelve-month time frame. But that kind of digging takes time, so, meanwhile”—he gestured to the vodka and smiled up at her—“I’m going to order a lot of vodka, buy a lot of private dances, and you’re going to treat me like you treat your best clients.”

“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.