Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

“Gary…” She crossed her arms and banked her frustration. “It’s not what you think. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

“I used to think so, but lately, Stace, I’m not so sure.” With that, he stalked off.

Yeah, well, join the club, she thought miserably as she opened the driver’s side door and climbed in. She slammed the door, started the car, and drove to the exit. Finally, because she couldn’t ignore him any longer, she turned and faced Trevor. “Which way?”

…

Straight to hell, Trevor thought, where he’d been since last Friday night, when he’d arrived at the scene of a homicide and found himself drowning in the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

Those same eyes faced him now, holding a fascinating mixture of anger, desire, and fear. Anger and desire he could handle, give back in spades, but the fear clutched at him. Was she afraid of a killer at large? Afraid someone might discover whatever secret she guarded? Or was she afraid of him?

Instead of asking, he gave her directions to his place, and then sat back and let the silence balloon while she drove. Sure, it was a psych 101 tactic, but often effective. People—women particularly—grew uncomfortable with prolonged silence. Discomfort compelled them to fill the void with conversation, and once the words started flowing, revealing monologues often followed.

Not Stacy. He stared at her profile as the minutes ticked away. Apparently it would take more than silence to crack her tough little shell. Uninvited, images of how he’d like to crack it filled his mind. He wanted her under him, wanted to bury himself inside her, wanted to hear her scream his name as she came.

Maybe his breathing changed, or maybe she read his mind, but she glanced over at him with big, wary eyes. “Stop looking at me like that.” Her voice sounded a little breathless. “I’m not on the job.”

“What, you think just because you’re not airbrushed with makeup and wearing some skimpy costume you don’t turn heads? You’re a beautiful woman. Truth is, you’re even more beautiful now, in a T-shirt and”—he eyed her tight black pants—“whatever the hell those things are. You don’t need to dance around in heels and a G-string to make me want you.” He gave her a moment to let that sink in. “Turn right up here. I’m the third house on the right.”

She drew in a shaky breath and looked at him again. “Do you? Want me, I mean?”

“You know damn well I do,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. The deliberately naive question reminded him this was some kind of act on her part.

Stopping in front of the flagstone driveway of his Laurel Canyon bungalow, she turned to him. Her eyes homed in on his fly. He felt the weight of her stare as palpably as a touch, and his body responded accordingly. Her sharply indrawn breath assured him she noticed, even in the darkened interior of the car.

“You have the same effect on me,” she confessed. Without seeming to realize it, she leaned closer. Her lips parted. “I’ve never wanted—”

Him either. They lunged at each other, mouths ravenous. He cupped her jaw in one hand, splayed the other along the back of her head. Her fingers dove into his hair and held on. When her hot mouth started roaming his chin, taking hungry nips from his jaw, he pulled her over the seat, sprang the door, and half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the car. “Inside,” he ground out between kisses. “Now.”

Somehow they made it across the front yard and in the door. As soon as he got the damn thing closed, he backed her up against it. Hands planted on either side of her head, he leaned in and captured her lips again. Sweet as berries, soft as cream against his tongue.

He feasted like a starving man until they were both breathless. Slightly dizzy, he pulled back, hit the lights, and looked at her. Heavy-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, and damp lips greeted him. A pulse beat erratically at the base of her throat. Then those slumberous eyes blinked open and wide, dilated pupils fixed on him.

Her hand curved along the back of his neck. She tipped her head back and whispered, “Please,” with such a mixture of longing and despair, something tightened in his chest. Something in the vicinity of his heart. Lowering his forehead to hers, he tried one last time.

“Tell me what you’re hiding. You can trust me.”

She closed her eyes. Her fingers curled into his shirt. “I wish I could tell you,” she breathed. “I can’t. I promised someone—”

“If this person cares about you, they don’t want you to put yourself in danger.” He drew back slightly to gauge the effect of his argument.

She simply shook her head, and then leveled a conflicted gaze on him. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not holding back information that would solve this case.”

“But it’s related. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so nervous. Tell me.”

“I can’t.” She winced as she said it. “I have to, um, take the fifth.”

His hands tightened on her arms. “Are you involved in something illegal?”

The wince turned into a look of pure misery. “I don’t know. Maybe. But talking about it won’t help you find a killer. It would just look”—troubled eyes fled from his and took refuge somewhere over his shoulder—“bad.”

He took her chin and pulled her attention back to him. “Bad for whom?”

“For everyone.” Tilting away from his grasp, she shook her head and gave him a weak smile, filled with regret. “I should go. This is a terrible idea. I’m no good for you. Getting involved with me is going to land us both in trouble.”

She was right. Getting tangled up with her bent all kind of rules, but when she turned and opened the door, all he thought was, Hell, no. Following instinct rather than reason, he reached over her head and slammed it closed. She jumped, but stubbornly faced the door.

He leaned in, trapping her with his body. Inhaling her familiar scent, he said, “You’ve taught me something about myself.”