Wicked Games (McCade Brothers 1.50)

Raw, sincere emotions frightened her, and, when scared, Stacy fell back on detachment as her preferred defense mechanism. He’d figured that out early on—pretty much from the first moment he’d seen her, framed by the door of the run-down Hollywood apartment she’d shared with Kylie, wearing a plaster cast on her leg, a criminally short robe that barely covered her obscenely gorgeous body, and a smile that extended him all kinds of invitations. One look and he’d been hooked.

Her “dare me” grin had disappeared as soon as he’d shown his badge and requested that she join her twin down at the station to answer some questions about why Kylie had been posing as Stacy and obstructing their investigation into a couple of murders at Deuces. She’d made the trip in cool, unflinching silence, but he’d sensed the fear beneath her ice-queen facade. Still, he’d had to admire her control. She’d held herself together through grueling hours of questioning designed to make hardened criminals cry for their mommas. Stacy had never so much as sniffled.

No surprise, considering she’d spent years polishing her crack-resistant protective shell. She’d needed one to endure a crappy childhood in a small town where everyone liked to think the worst of her and most of the men under eighty wanted to sleep with her. His beautiful, tough-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside survivor had concluded that if she never invested her heart in anything or anybody, then nothing and nobody could hurt or disappoint her.

He rinsed her soap off his hands, picked up the right bottle, and worked his soap to lather. While he scrubbed his chest, he relived that lazy Saturday morning not so long ago, when she’d sneaked into his shower, pressed her soft, wet breasts against his back, and ordered him to “spread ’em.” Only a miracle explained how he’d managed not to slip and knock himself unconscious in his rush to comply. She’d proceeded to run her hands all over him, under the pretense of patting him down. When he’d helpfully pointed out he had nowhere to conceal a weapon, given his state of bare-assed nakedness, she’d begged to differ. She’d bent his upper body to the wall and proved him wrong. The move had surprised a groan out of him, and, for a moment, he honestly hadn’t been sure whether he’d wanted her to stop or do it harder, but soon enough, he’d found himself incredibly appreciative of her out-and-out dedication to the job. His lonely, despondent dick perked up at the memory.

Stand down, Officer. If he gave in now and went crawling back to her without the promises and commitments he’d asked for, he’d never have her on the terms he needed. And if he accepted less, he’d lose all self-respect. He knew himself, and her, too well. Allowing Stacy to define their relationship meant she’d sell them both short.

Not physically, of course. He washed his stomach and ignored the semi, jutting out like a fifth limb, casting a clear vote for the crawling-back option. He couldn’t blame his lower half for hoping. Stacy gave 100 percent in bed and took the same from him, but contrary to the current evidence, he couldn’t be content with 2:00 a.m. get-your-ass-over-here-and-fuck-me-’til-my-eyes-cross calls, and pretending their feelings for each other only went skin deep.

He loved her, and what’s more, he knew she loved him—even if she didn’t want to. Even if she wasn’t ready to admit her feelings. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that’s why she’d pulled away when he’d asked her to move in with him. But he had the degree and wasn’t afraid to use it. Basic human psychology dictated he stand firm. He reached around and soaped his lats, where the phantom weight of her breasts still rested. Stay strong. Don’t reward behavior you don’t want to reinforce.

Easier said than done. Basic human psychology didn’t greet him in a see-through nightie at the end of a long day, or send him a text that read, “Got your request for a twelve-minute blow job,” when he sent it a dozen roses out of the blue. Basic human psychology didn’t snuggle up close in the blurry light of dawn and trace his features with a whisper-soft touch when it thought he was asleep.

He missed her, dammit. Her smart-ass comments, her smell, her touch, her taste…everything. Surrendering, he reached down and took his now-throbbing cock in a soapy grip. He closed his eyes and remembered how she’d tortured him that Saturday morning…one busy hand working him from behind with a thoroughness that had him choking back a prayer, the other moving up and down his shaft in slow, measured strokes. He’d alternated between threats and curses while he’d watched the head of his dick appear and retreat from the snug, soap-lubed tunnel of her fist. Eventually she’d quickened the pace and reduced him to begging, which he’d done willingly, hell, enthusiastically, until his voice had gone hoarse, his muscles rigid, and he’d come with the debilitating force of a fire hose at full blast. If she hadn’t been there to brace him he would have collapsed and drowned in his own shower.

This time he slapped a hand against the wall in front of him for balance and uttered a long, ragged stream of curses as weeks of pent-up frustration poured out of him in a long, slightly agonizing rush.

Somehow, over the pounding blood in his ears, he heard his phone ring. Fucking perfect. Couldn’t a guy get ten lousy minutes of peace to jack off in the shower? He would have let the call go to voice mail but he knew by the ringtone it was Trevor. They were off the clock, but they had a couple investigations going and sometimes leads came in without regard for their work schedule. He flipped the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stalked into his bedroom for h

is phone.

“This better be important.”

“Happy Halloween to you too, asshole.”

“I’m standing here in a friggin’ towel, dripping water all over my hardwood floors. ’Scuse me for skipping the ‘Hi, how are yous.’”

“That’s a visual I didn’t need.”

Ian took a deep breath and struggled for the calm he usually exuded with no effort at all. “I didn’t need a phone call in the middle of my shower, so we’re even.” He tossed the towel onto his dresser, balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder, and pulled on a pair of black jeans. “What’s going on?”

“I’m on my way to pick you up. Be there in, like, two minutes. Put on a costume.”

He figured Trevor was calling about a case, but the last part piqued his interest. “To the best of my recollection, we don’t have a date to go trick-or-treating.”

“Kylie called. Stacy got a threatening letter from some anonymous wacko who had a lot of personal information about her. Told her to quit the series and leave the business altogether or she’d be sorry.”

Anyone in the public eye occasionally drew unwanted attention. Most of the time the loser in question got his jollies writing a few letters and that was that, but nonetheless Ian battled a compulsion to track the freak down and pound him into the pavement. “Who’d they report this to? Who’s working it?”

“No one. That’s why I’m calling. You know as well as I do the first person Stacy would share something like this with…uh…now…would be Kylie. But apparently Stacy never showed her the letter. Kylie happened across it tonight at while they were getting ready for the party at Deuces.”

Yeah, Ian thought, reading the “now” comment easily enough. Now that she’s dumped you. “Hold on.” He put the phone on the dresser and pulled a long-sleeved black T-shirt over his head. “We should talk to her right away. Get the letter…and any others she’s received. She’s got personal security for the party tonight, right?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck. That’s a huge mistake.”

“I agree. I’ve called Vern and gotten us on the guest list, but he warned me the costume policy is strictly enforced at the door, guest list or no, so unless you want to show our badges and make a scene—”

“No, I want to blend in. I’ve got a costume.” He dug into his ski bag at the bottom of his closet and pulled out a black knit ski mask. The bedside clock caught his eye as he left the bedroom. “Jesus, you drive like my grandma,” he complained as he strode down the hall. “Where the hell are you?” He swung his front door open.

Trevor stood there holding his phone to his ear, wearing a dark suit and tie, same as he wore on any workday, and a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses Ian had thankfully never seen before.

“I’m at your front door.”

Ian disconnected and stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s not a costume.”