Wicked Games (McCade Brothers novella)

When a battle of wills becomes a game of lust, one wrong move could be fatal.

Actress Stacy Roberts is ready to ride her rising star straight to Hollywood’s A-list. All she needs is
the famous Hollywood Hedonism party (check), one very naughty angel costume (check), and a few
drinks to get her sexy swagger back (check, check). Tonight, she is not aching for her hot, hard-bodied
ex. Or worrying about the threatening letters signed by “Your Worst Nightmare.”

For Detective Ian Ford, “nightmare” doesn’t begin to cover it. Whatever demons prompted Stacy to

cut and run have him tied up in knots. Worse, his ex is dressed to kill any man with a pulse, and Ian is
seeing red. If Stacy wants trouble, she’ll find it. Only Ian’s going to make damned sure that the only
trouble she gets is with him.

There are no rules. They either both win, or they both lose. But this time, there’s an extra player—

one who’s determined to make sure this is the very last game Stacy plays…

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Samanthe Beck. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute,
or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact
the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at

www.entangledpublishing.com

Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit

www.brazenbooks.com

Edited by Heather Howland and Sue Winegardner
Cover design by Heather Howland

ISBN 978-1-62266-542-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition September 2013

Chapter One

Stacy Roberts tucked a condom into the cleavage-boosting bustier she wore beneath her wispy, white

angel costume, and eyed her reflection in her vanity mirror. Nice. The Lycra miracle pushed her

breasts together and created the kind of view that guaranteed no man would have the first clue what

color her eyes were tonight, and—bonus points—not a trace of the little foil square showed through.

She considered adding a wingman to the other side when a voice interrupted her musings.

“‘I’m out of patience, Stacy,’” Kylie read. “‘Resign from Vegas Vixens and leave Hollywood, or

yo u will be sorry. This is your last chance to exit gracefully. Do as you’re told, your show’s

producers, sponsors, and fans will learn you’re nothing but a delinquent from Two Trout, Tennessee?

A slutty ex-stripper who worked her way from pole dancing at Deuces to a starring role on America’s

favorite guilty pleasure? It’s going to get ugly. Sincerely, Your Worst Nightmare.’ What the hell,

Stace? Please tell me you’ve shown this to someone?”

Stacy winced inwardly and turned from the mirror. Her twin sister stood in the bedroom doorway

wearing a low-cut, skintight red catsuit, lace-up red leather boots, and an anxious expression. She

held a devil-horn headband in one hand and a nondescript piece of notebook paper in the other.

Angel or not, Stacy didn’t need divine omniscience to know how Kylie had found the latest letter

from her Worst Nightmare. Her assistant, Mandy, must have left it on the desk in the guest room/office

where Kylie had gotten dressed for tonight’s party. What Ky didn’t know, thank God, was that Stacy

had received a dozen others along the same theme, though progressively more threatening. All were

presumably from the same not-so-big fan who always signed off as “Your Worst Nightmare.”

“It’s nothing, Ky, just the price of starring in a hit TV show. Along with all the fan mail, I have to

expect a few nasty-grams.” She turned back to the mirror and forced an unconcerned shrug—she was

an actress, for Christ’s sake, and a decent one for a girl whose only prior Hollywood credits

consisted of stripping at Deuces. An eyeliner sat on the vanity top. She grabbed it and leaned toward

the mirror. Distract and divert. “The she-devil look totally works for you, by the way. Aren’t you

glad you let me pick our costumes?” She drew a smoky line across her upper eyelid. “No way would

Trevor be content to sit home tonight and skip Deuces’ Halloween Hedonism party if he could see

you now.”

There. That ought to do the trick. The mere mention of hot, handsome, and adorably whipped

Trevor McCade typically sent Kylie into an excited monologue about the latest development in Big-

White-Weddingville. Too bad the mere mention of Trevor made her think of Ian—

Kylie ignored her diversion tactics. “This isn’t a nasty-gram.”

Stacy silently thanked her sister for unknowingly forcing her thoughts off the dead-end path of

Trevor’s aggravatingly arrogant partner, and onto the comparatively safer path of her mail-stalker.

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t a love note. Are you going to wear your hair down?”

“It’s a threat.” Her twin frowned at the letter and came into the room.

Epic fail on switching topics, Stacy thought, and applied eyeliner to her lower lash line with an

expert hand.

Kylie stopped beside Stacy’s chair and pinned troubled blue eyes on her sister. “Whoever this is,

this so-called ‘Worst Nightmare,’ he’s collected information about you. He knows where you’re

from. He knows you used to dance at Deuces, and he knows how to get a letter to you. He could be

someone with access. He could be dangerous.”

Stacy focused on her reflection in the mirror and lined her other eye. “Lots of people know I used

to work at Deuces, including the producers and my agent. That fascinating fact isn’t exactly classified

information. And contrary to what this guy seems to think, breaking the news wouldn’t get me fired.

My publicist already has a plan in place. On top of that, thousands of people know where I’m from

and how to send me a letter. It’s right there on my website, and on the show’s fan site, for that

matter.” No need to mention that the letters had come to her house, and not to her agent. That little

detail would only worry her sister, and Kylie was a first-class worrier.

As the mature, responsible twin, Kylie tended to take everything a bit more seriously. As the wild,

carefree twin, Stacy prided herself on never letting worry stand in the way of a good time.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t felt particularly wild or carefree lately. More like tired, depressed, and—

God, how pathetic was she?—lonely. That’s where working fifteen-hour days and ending a long-term

relationship she never should have started in the first place landed a girl. She deliberately rolled her

shoulders, easing the tension that wanted to settle at the base of her neck, and silently vowed to

reconnect with the old Stacy tonight—the fun, unpredictable, live-for-the-moment Stacy.

“I’m worried.”

Shit. So much for my Academy Award. She mustered up her trademark don’t-eff-with-me smile.

“No need. I know exactly how I want to handle this, and my publicist cleared the plan with my agent

and the show’s producers. Several reporters will be in front of Deuces tonight. I’ll stop to chat with

them on the way into the party, and mention how I got my start in Hollywood dancing at Deuces.

Dropping the news myself will take the wind right out of this guy’s ratty little sails. Without the big

threat to lord over me, he’ll crawl back into whatever sick, sad cave he crawled out of…”

She trailed off and straightened when she noticed Mandy hovering at the bedroom door. How long

had she been there? Her quiet, unassuming assistant personified detail-oriented efficiency, but her

dull brown hair, drab clothes, and aversion to makeup made her easy to overlook. Pretty enough,

Stacy always found herself thinking, but in dire need of a makeover. One of these days… “Yes,

Mandy?”

“I just wanted to let you know the limo is waiting out front.”

Her usual shy smile was missing tonight. Then again, it was Friday—and Halloween. Mandy might

have some plans of her own she wanted to get to, but was too timid to speak up and say so. Stacy had

no problem cutting her loose a little early.

“Thanks. If you’re done for the day, go ahead and get your Halloween started. Just do me a favor

and let the driver know we’ll be down on your way out.”

“Okay, but first, I’ve got a few things that need your signature.” She held up a stack of paper.

Oh yeah, signatures. Her life was full of stuff to sign these days. Contracts, correspondence…

paychecks. “Want to come in the limo with us? I’ll sign everything on the way to Deuces, and then the

driver can drop you wherever you want to go afterward.”

Ah, there came the shy smile. And a blush. Mandy mumbled, “That’d be awesome. I’ll get my stuff

and meet you down there.” She hurried away like Cinderella late to the ball.

“Oh, my! Did you get a load of those beet-red cheeks? Bet she’s got a hot date tonight.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

Stacy rolled her eyes. Kylie could be like a dog after a bone sometimes. “We’ve exhausted the

subject. I told you, I’ve got this guy handled. After tonight, he’ll go away.”

“Or he’ll get really mad, and escalate from writing letters to…God only knows. You should show

this to Ian first, and see how he thinks you should proceed.”

Her idiotic heart stalled at the mention of his name. She put the eyeliner down, picked up her

powder brush, and started dusting her face with more energy and attention than the chore really

required. “We broke up six weeks ago. Why would I speak to him about anything?”

Kylie just looked at her for a long minute, and Stacy fought the urge to fidget in her four-inch,

crystal-studded Louboutins. Finally, Kylie tossed the letter onto the vanity and said softly, “How

about, because he’s a trained detective, and he cares about you as much as I do?”

Frustration got the better of her. She balled up the stupid letter and threw it in the wastebasket

under her vanity. “He’s a homicide detective, Ky, not a mail investigator. In case you haven’t noticed,

I’m not dead.” Yes, she sounded bitchy, but talking about the man she’d been trying unsuccessfully to

banish from her brain for weeks didn’t put her in a warm, fuzzy mood. Then another thought struck

and her mood sank to a subbasement of foul. She pointed at Kylie.

“And don’t you dare tell Trevor about the letter!” It didn’t take a genius to see where that particular

game of telephone ended.

“Too late.” Her sister shrugged, not the least bit repentant. “I called him as soon as I saw it.”

“Fabulous. Now call him back and tell him to forget about the damn letter. I’ve got the situation

handled. There’s no need for him to give it another thought.”

Her sister turned and strolled toward the door. “Tell him yourself. He’s meeting us at the party.”

Stacy grabbed her feather-covered white wings and followed hot on her heels. She cut Kylie off at

the head of the stairs. “But he’s not bringing Ian, right?”

Kylie shrugged. “No clue. Trevor didn’t say. For all I know, Ian has plans tonight.”

Plans like a date? A vision of him smiling across a candlelit table at some faceless bimbo sent a

nauseating blend of pain and jealously through her. Stop it. Shake that shit off, right now. You don’t

know what he’s doing tonight, and you don’t care.

She followed Kylie downstairs and out the door, locking it behind her. What she did know for

damn sure was that she didn’t want to see him. Perfect. Now she’d be all distracted until she knew

whether he was at the party. She muttered “Thanks” to the driver holding the of the limo door open

and ducked inside.

Mandy sat on one side, with her big canvas tote bag at her feet, diligently flagging signature lines.

“These are almost ready to go.”

“Awesome,” Stacy replied, and scooted over to give Kylie room to get in. The driver managed to

peel his eyes off Kylie’s spandex-covered backside long enough to nod and shut the door. Determined

to change the subject, Stacy put her wings down on the seat beside her, leaned back, and smiled at her

sister. “Did you see the way the driver looked at us? I think he actually drooled.”

“He drooled at you. He also totally checked out your butt when you got in the car.”

“You both look really pretty,” Mandy said.

“Thank you,” Kylie shot Mandy a smile and then returned her attention to Stacy. “Don’t bend over

too far in that outfit, or you’re liable to moon the entire party.”

She grinned and smoothed a hand over her costume. The flimsy thing looked like a strong breeze

would blow it right off. “Compared to some of the getups you’ll see tonight, I’m positively dowdy.”

“Oh, please. You’ve never been dowdy a day in your life. Not even when you were stuck in a big

old plaster cast from toes to knee.”

Thinking back to that period, almost a year ago now, made her remember the first time she’d met

Ian. He’d shown up at the dumpy apartment she’d shared with Kylie, and she’d experienced an

immediate flare of attraction as she’d stared into the deepest, greenest, most deceptively easygoing

eyes she’d seen in her life. She hadn’t made him as a cop until he’d flashed his badge and hustled her

down to the police station to answer questions about two murdered Deuces clients. That he’d fooled

her was odd because she’d had enough experience with Two Trout’s finest during her formative years

she could usually spot a cop as easily as she could spot a Hollywood boob job. But despite her

instincts, all she’d seen was thick, sun-streaked hair, a determined, slightly raspy jaw, and an array of

lean, hard muscles that gave her an instant urge to climb him like a rock wall, regardless of her

broken leg.

Answering their questions had taken forever and left her a sweaty, shaking mess, but miraculously,

they’d believed her when she’d insisted she didn’t know anything about the murders. Ian had driven

her home. Something about his self-assured smile and unshakable calm made her want to fuck with

him…or just fuck him, but instead he’d done both to her. Before she’d known quite what hit her, she’d

been flat on her back, with her broken leg draped over his shoulder, screaming like a porn star as

he’d driven her right out of her freaking mind with nothing but his mouth.

She’d tried to even the score as soon as she could see straight again, but he’d brushed her off and

told her “some other time.” Offended and, truth be told, a little humiliated at how completely she’d

lost control of herself in his arms, she’d given him her best Queen B look, told him there would be no

“other time,” and kicked him out. The cocky bastard had stood in her doorway, smiling his stone-sexy

smile, and assured her with complete and utter confidence there would be plenty more times, starting

as soon as she acknowledged they were going to share more than just body fluids. Then he’d walked

out, without a backward glance.

Naturally, he’d been right. He’d infected her mind like a virus, until he was all she could think

about. She’d lain in her bed night after night, all needy and aching, remembering the way he’d tongue-

whipped her into a frenzy. How careful he’d been with her broken leg. How thrillingly rough and

insatiable he’d been with the rest of her. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she’d broken her own

ironclad rule and called him, and they’d dated for almost a year. The best year of your life, a small,

unhappy voice at the back of her mind insisted.

“Thank God I’m out of it now,” she whispered, thinking Kylie would assume she meant the cast.

“You should call him,” her sister said, not fooled in the least. “You’re miserable—don’t deny it, I

know you too well. He’s miserable too, in case you wondered. I know you got spooked when he

asked you to move in, but there’s a lot of safe ground between living together and breaking up. I think

you should talk, now that you’ve both had some time to calm down and consider things.”

Safe ground? What a joke. Because of her, and choices she’d made before she ever met Ian, there

was no safe ground for them. So for once in her life she’d done the noble thing. The selfless thing.

The most painful thing imaginable. She’d set him free before she ruined his life by dragging him and

the family he loved through a humiliating public airing of her not-so-upstanding past. Miserable or

not, he must have realized he’d dodged a bullet when she’d broken things off, because he’d done

nothing to try to change her mind, and Ian could be relentless when he wanted something.

“I adore you, Ky. I really do, but you’ve developed one tiny, annoying habit since entering the

disgustingly sweet state of bliss reserved for brides-to-be.”

Kylie poked her in the leg with the plastic pitchfork she carried. “You don’t say?”

“Ow.” She shoved the fork away. “I do. You’re happy, and, naturally, you want everyone around

you to experience the same happiness. What you have to understand is that right now I’m not at a

place in my life where a long-term commitment works for me. My career is finally taking off. I need

to stay focused if I want to keep the momentum going. I can’t afford the distraction of a relationship.”

“That makes no sense. You two have been joined at the hip since you landed the series, and your

career has never been more on-track. Why do you suddenly think the relationship presents some

dangerous distraction?”

“Because…” Dang it, she’d thought the whole “can’t afford any distractions” excuse sounded

mature and logical. She huffed out a breath and scrambled for a better explanation. Something

besides, Because he deserves better than an ex-juvenile delinquent,and an ex-stripper with a bad

reputation. Because even if he thinks he can handle the fallout when all my shit goes public, how

will he feel when his mom can’t go to the market or church without people whispering about how

her son’s involved with the crazy actress whose disreputable past has been splashed all over the

tabloids?

Growing up as the bad seed of Two Trout, she knew what it felt like to be the object of whispers

and malicious looks. Her takeaway from the whole god-awful place had been a tough skin and a

general disregard for what other people thought of her, but she wouldn’t wish the experience on

anyone. She sure as hell wouldn’t wish to inflict that kind of treatment on people who had been

nothing but nice to her.

“Because?” Kylie prompted, and jabbed Stacy again with the plastic pitchfork.

“Ouch. Cut that out or you’re not going to like where the fork goes next. Look, we’ve been over

this, Ky. I don’t have time to invest in a relationship. I’m on the set, or doing publicity, or auditioning

for movie roles for when the series goes on hiatus.”

“Ian understands the demands on your time. He’s got a pretty demanding job too, you know.”

“Exactly.” Stacy latched onto the argument like a lifeline. “We’d never see each other, and we’d

grow apart. It’s doomed.”

“Or…you’d move in together, like Ian suggested, and appreciate the little, everyday moments all

the more because you don’t take them for granted. Why don’t you just admit you got cold feet?”

Yeah, that’s what everyone thought, including Ian. Or maybe he’d seen right through her act, but not

called her on it because he realized she’d done him a favor. Life with her was no picnic. She’d

managed to run her daddy off from in the womb, and most of the other people in her life, except Kylie,

disengaged as soon as they got whatever they were after.

Ian wasn’t after anything except the right woman to spend his life with. Call her crazy, but she’d

never seen the point of auditioning for a role she didn’t have a prayer of winning. She stared out the

tinted window at the parade of lights, cars, and costumed revelers along West Hollywood’s famed

Sunset Strip. “I did not get cold feet,” she said softly.

“You so did. A classic case. He asked you to move in with him and you bolted like a bunny rabbit.

If I look up ‘cold feet’ in the dictionary, I don’t see your picture, because you’ve already run for the

hills.”

Mandy snorted and tried to hide it by clearing her throat.

Stacy glared at her assistant. “Ha. Ha. Are those signature pages ready?”

“Here.”

She took the stack of flagged papers and the pen Mandy handed her. The weight of her sister’s hand

on her knee drew her gaze away from the pile. Kylie stared at her with sympathetic eyes. “I’m not

laughing. I just want you to be happy, and Ian made you happy. You two just”—she held her hands up

and laced her fingers together—“you fit each other.” She dropped her hands to her lap. “Think about

what I’ve said, okay?”

Stacy forced her lips into a noncommittal smile and got busy signing. She could think about her

reasons for the breakup until she fried every last one of the hundred billion brain cells in her head, but

nothing changed. Despite Kylie’s belief to the contrary, they actually didn’t fit. She’d spent almost a

year ignoring the little warnings her mind had tried to send her heart. Hello, he’s a cop, and you’re

an ex-stripper, not to mention your hometown’s poster child for authority issues. Anything wrong

with this picture?

She signed the last flagged page with a flourish, put the pen on the stack, and handed everything

back to Mandy.

“Did something else happen between you two?” Kylie asked. “Besides the whole moving in

together discussion?”

Damn. God might as well have given them one mind to share, because Kylie read hers so easily.

“No,” she said quickly, and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Not really.”

Hell yes, something had happened. One rare, wide-open Saturday after she’d surprised him in the

shower with a deliciously dirty morning scrub-down, Ian had told her to “put on something pretty”

and get ready for the best burgers and dogs she’d ever tasted. She’d thought he planned a drive to one

of the casual little restaurants along the Pacific Coast Highway, but no…he’d driven them to a sweet,

postcard-perfect Southern California neighborhood, parked in the driveway of a sweet, postcard-

perfect house, and introduced her to his sweet, postcard-perfect parents, and a good portion of the

neighbors who were gathered for a barbecue. She felt like a trespasser on the wrong set. Instead of

Vegas Vixens, she’d stumbled into a modern-day Leave It to Beaver.

“Which is it, ‘No’ or ‘Not really’?”

“I missed my single, carefree days, okay? I liked being able to do whatever I wanted, whenever I

wanted.” She flipped her hair again and shrugged. “Call me selfish, but I’m not the kind of girl who

likes to spend her Saturdays at a boring backyard barbecue just to please some man.”

“Me either,” piped Mandy. “Besides, a backyard barbecue is a cheap date. He should take you out

to nice restaurants.”

Kylie shook her head and stared out the window. “I know it’s not about a backyard barbecue.”

It was, in a way. She’d had the time of her life, sitting between Ian’s father and another neighbor,

listening to them reminisce about their boys’ obnoxious misadventures in suburbia. But somewhere

around the time his mom had glanced across the table and smiled at them, Stacy had realized she

belonged in this close-knit group of family and friends about as much as a hooker at High Mass. In

their minds, “wild behavior” meant TP-ing old Mrs. Cranston’s Continental, or swiping a bottle of

vodka from the liquor cabinet, drinking the whole thing, and puking in the next-door neighbor’s hot

tub.

Kylie turned back to her, eyes serious, lips unsmiling. “Ian loves you. Yes, relationships require

compromise, but—”

“Compromise isn’t my strong suit, Ky. You know that.”

She needed to end this conversation, immediately, because she couldn’t use the words “Ian” and

“love” in a sentence without bursting into tears. She’d never been able to, which was one of the

reasons she’d never told him how she felt.

“You’re running scared from the love of your life, and you’re going to regret it.”

Doubtful. She prided herself on being a no-regrets kind of girl. But that afternoon at Ian’s parents’

house, she’d suddenly realized some of her choices had the power to affect other people in ways she

hadn’t anticipated—and that they hadn’t signed up for. Would Ian find it hard to face his family and

friends when it came out that his girlfriend had her own signature pole-dance move? Maybe,

whispered a tiny, insidious voice at the back of her mind, which is why he asked you to move in with

him instead of marrying him. He wanted an escape hatch, because he still had doubts. Well, she’d

sprung the latch on his escape hatch, and damn him, he’d sprinted through without a single look back.

“Ian Ford is not the love of my life”—God, she hoped that was true—“and I sure as hell wasn’t

his. From what I can tell, he’s over me. He broke the bounce-back record. And you know what?” She

flipped her hair out of her face. “I’m over him, too.” A part of her still couldn’t believe he hadn’t

called, texted, shown up drunk on her doorstep…nothing.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Kylie poked her again with the

pitchfork, then jerked the damn thing out of reach when she grabbed for it. “Be glad I don’t smack you

over the head. The only reason I haven’t is because I know every word you’ve uttered since we got in

the car has been a big, fat lie.”

“Says Kylie, the amazing human lie detector?”

“You keep flipping your hair. I don’t know if you think the move distracts people from the bull

coming out of your mouth, or what, but you’ve done it since you were a kid. Mom and I always joked

that we knew you were lying when your hair started flying.”

The comment coaxed another snort from Mandy. This one Stacy ignored.

“You’re nuts, just like Mom. I can’t believe I never realized this before.” She crossed her arms

over her chest and sank back into her seat, not really caring if she looked like the pouty little brat

she’d once been. She preferred pouting to picking through the dangerously sharp remains of her

shattered heart.

Tonight she fully intended to party like a rock star, dance her ass off, and get Detective Ian-

freaking-Ford out of her head.

Chapter Two

Ian closed his eyes and let the hot spray of the shower rain down on the top of his head. Maybe it

would pound some resolve into him, because he was uncomfortably close to chucking his “wait Stacy

out” plan, tracking her down, screwing her brains out, and, somewhere in the process, telling her he

refused to allow her emotional baggage to sink their relationship. Unfortunately, if he did that, he

might as well hand his balls over in a pretty pink gift bag.

Irritated to find his thoughts traversing this same well-worn trail for the billionth time since their

breakup, he grabbed a bottle of liquid soap from the recessed tile shower shelf and squirted some into

his hand. The smell of Stacy’s fancy soap filled the small space. Nice going, stud. Wrong bottle. The

scent provoked memories, just to mess with his head. One fine Saturday morning she’d stood right

there in his shower and washed him from head to toe, with some un-fucking-forgettable detours in

between, because when it came to their bodies, Stacy was game for anything.

She’d always been more comfortable with the physical part of their relationship. The boundaries

she’d enforced applied almost exclusively to their emotions, which she liked to pretend didn’t exist.

Pretended to the extent he’d always had to say the words for her. They’d gotten into a game where,

each night before they drifted off to sleep, he’d say, “I love you.” She’d snuggle against him, maybe

fiddle with the silver chain of the St. Michael pendant his grandfather had given him when he’d

graduated from the police academy, or, if she was feeling especially feisty, cup his balls. But she’d

remained exasperatingly silent. After a beat or two, he’d pitch his voice up a couple octaves and say,

“I love you too, Ian, more than anything.” She’d always laugh and kiss him, but dammit, she’d never

say the words.

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 his 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.”

His partner pocketed his phone and stepped inside. “This is the most successful costume of all

time.”

“Seriously, man, what the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Clark Kent. I went classic and heroic.”

“You went lazy and uncreative. You’re a step down from ghost.” He dropped down on the living

room sofa and shoved his feet into black boots.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

Ian stood, rolled his ski mask down over his face and arranged the bottom until it covered the crew

neck of his long-sleeved black T-shirt. “Cat burglar.”

“Strange and creepy.”

He shoved the ski mask up and smirked. “Mysterious and dangerous.”

“Whatever. We’re not here to win an award for best costume”

“Which is good, because you don’t stand a chance,” Ian shot back and walked down the hall.

“I’m here to help you protect your imprudent girlfriend from some crazy stalker.”

He punched in the combination to the small steel gun safe at the bottom of the hall closet and

muttered, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“That’s on you to solve. I can’t mastermind everything.”

“Oh, I am solving it, don’t you worry.”

“Really? Because it looks more to me like you’re sitting on your ass, moping around, and tearing

my head off for breathing.”

“I’m employing psychology.” He ground his back teeth together and chose the small, efficient Smith

& Wesson M&P. “A little tactic called ‘waiting her out.’”

“Ah. Impressive. At this rate you ought to have her right where you want her in”—Trevor made a

show of glancing at his watch—“never.”

Ian closed the safe and somehow managed to stop himself from banging his forehead against the

doorframe. “The ‘waiting her out’ part of the plan weakened her resolve and gave her a chance to

realize how much she misses me. Now she’s ready for phase two.”

“Phase two?”

He didn’t miss the doubt in his partner’s voice. He took his ankle holster from on top of the safe

and stalked back to the sofa. “Where I tell her I’ve had enough of her ‘I’m not a relationship kind of

girl’ bullshit. I know she’s in love with me, I’m in love with her, and here’s how things are going to

be. End of story.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Keep your luck, hater. This is going to work.” He wrapped the holster around his ankle and closed

the Velcro strap. “I have the upper hand.”

“You and your upper hand are in for some more lonely nights. Why don’t you try apologizing?”

“Apologize! Are you fucking kidding me? What did I do wrong?”

“I don’t know. Obviously, you don’t know, and you know what? You may never know, even after

she explains it to you five hundred times. That, my friend, is part of the beautiful, complex mystery

known as woman. But I am trained to examine the evidence in front of me and draw logical

conclusions. Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? You guys dated almost a year, you asked her to

move in, and she dumped you like a stale keg. Logical conclusion? You did something wrong.”

“That’s not a logical conclusion. It’s a superficial, idiotic interpretation of some circumstantial

facts.”

“Maybe.” Trevor shrugged and stared out the window. “But the woman I love wears my ring and,

when she leaves the party tonight, she’ll be on my arm, so which one of us is the bigger idiot?”

Point taken, though he’d tear out his tongue before saying so. He tilted his head left, then right, to

work the kinks out of his neck. “Can we put aside my personal life for a minute and concentrate on the

reason we’re going to this party in the first place?”

“Fine by me. How do you want to play things?”

He wanted to stride in, toss Stacy over his shoulder, and walk out…and not put her down until she

told him she loved him and begged him to take her back. Then they’d turn the damn letter over to a

forensic team, pick her brain for a list of suspects, and talk her into adding personal security to her

entourage until the threat was resolved. But Stacy would dig in her heels and refuse to cooperate if he

tried the shoulder-toss tactic.

“You go in and find Kylie. Stick to her, because she and Stacy look so much alike, if some sicko

has his sights set on Stacy, there’s a chance he’ll mistake Kylie for her, which puts them both in

danger. I’ll find Stacy, stay close to her, and ensure nobody tries anything. At the first opportunity, I’ll

try to wrangle her outside so we can move to a more secure location and question her about the

letter.”

“Okay. I’ve got your six. How do you plan to get her to leave with you?”

“I have no clue, but I’m figuring the ski mask might come in handy.”

“You don’t think she’ll recognize you, just from…I don’t know…pheromones or what have you?”

“Under flashing lights, in the middle of a jam-packed costume party?” Ian shook his head. “I don’t

think so.”

“If you get her out of Deuces under false pretenses, she’s going to be pissed.”

“Better pissed at me than staving off the advances of some delusional lunatic.” He inspected the

pistol and loaded a magazine. “Besides, she’s already broken up with me. What else can she do?”

“Okay. Agreed. And if she’s with a…ah…new friend?”

“She’s not looking for a new friend, because she’s still in love with me.” He forced some

confidence into his voice, but in truth, his vision went red around the edges and his pulse spiked at the

idea of Stacy in the arms of some other guy. Technically, she was a free agent. She could hook up

tonight, tomorrow night—any night she chose.

“Maybe she loves you, but after a month of your famous ‘wait her out’ treatment, she’s probably

given up on the notion of receiving the heartfelt apology you owe her.”

“I told you before. I do not owe her an apology—”

Trevor simply kept talking. “She’s probably decided you’re a lost cause, hence…new friend.”

Ian leaned down and holstered the Smith & Wesson in his ankle holster. “She can un-fucking-friend

him.”

Chapter Three

Lights blinded Stacy the minute the chauffeur opened the limo door.

Cameras whirred. She lifted her chin, plastered a sly smile on her face, and let the driver help her

out of the car. An audible gasp came from the small crowd of media and onlookers gathered around

when Kylie got out and stood beside her. She expected the reaction. They’d elicited it their entire

lives. They looked that much alike.

She had a moment to tell the driver to take Mandy wherever she wanted to go, before a petite,

auburn-haired entertainment reporter from the local news thrust a microphone in their faces. “Okay,

ladies, who’s who?”

“I’m Stacy, and this little devil right here”—she gestured to Kylie—“is my sister, Kylie.”

“Twin sister, obviously,” the reporter observed, working her way between them, smiling for her

cameraman. “The resemblance is…amazing.”

“I’m the pretty one,” Stacy said, and everyone laughed.

“Kylie, are you an actress too?”

“No, no. Stacy got all the performing genes. I’m a yoga instructor.”

“Nirvana on Ninth,” Stacy added, figuring Kylie ought to get a little plug out of the interview.

The reporter aimed the mic toward Kylie. “You must be very proud of your sister…breaking out so

big in the hottest new show of the season.”

“I am.” Kylie smiled at Stacy. “For a lot of reasons, including the show.”

“We’re proud of each other,” Stacy said.

“There you have it, folks. A mutual admiration society here with the Roberts twins. Are you ladies

ready for Deuces’ infamous Halloween Hedonism party?”

“I think we are.” Stacy angled to the side and struck a pose for the cameras, arching her back to

maximize the profile of her figure, which she knew the little white angel gown showed off to

perfection. “What do you think?”

Hoots and catcalls came from the crowd of onlookers.

“Sounds like the costumes are a hit, girls.” The reporter winked at the camera. “Is this your first

time at Deuces?”

Stacy forced her smile a little wider. Show no fear. “God, no! Coming to the club is like visiting

family. Deuces gave me my start in Hollywood. I danced here for two years.” She let that statement

hang for a beat and then waved, turned, and strutted to the main entrance, where a big bouncer held

court over a long line of costumed hopefuls waiting to get into the party. He held the velvet rope aside

to allow her and Kylie to enter. Behind them on the sidewalk, all hell broke loose. Questions flew

from the cadre of reporters, cameras clicked and flashed. Stacy tossed her hair, aimed one last smile

at the media, and walked into Deuces.

Inside the darkened club, thumping dance music and throngs of young, scantily clad bodies greeted

them. Spinning black lights over the packed dance floor washed the entire scene with the eerie purple

tint of an erotic dream. The overall chaos made it hard to see, hard to hear, and, best of all as far as

Stacy was concerned, hard to think. Yes, tonight was exactly what she needed.

“That went well,” Kylie said over the deafening beat of the music, “I just hope you know what

you’re doing.”

“Always.” The bar was calling her name. Time to heed that call, because she felt good for the first

time in weeks—relaxed, confident, and completely in her element—and aimed to stay that way. She

needed to stay that way, if only for one night.

The muscular, slick-haired bartender did a double-take as soon as he saw them, and then stretched

his lips into the smarmy grin he’d once told Stacy made him a dead ringer for Ryan Reynolds. In

reality, it made him a dead ringer for Ted Bundy. Gary Swinton could be counted on for a lewd

comment, and an indecent proposal, but he also poured a stiff one, so she returned his grin.

“Hey, Stacy. Kylie. I didn’t expect to see you ladies here tonight. Just had to come back for a

chance to get it on with The Swinton, huh? Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty for both of you.”

In your dreams, she thought, but sadly, the retort was probably entirely too accurate. “With smooth

lines like that, how can we say no? We just need a couple thousand martinis first and then we’ll be

good to go. Let’s start with two.”

Gary winked at her chest. “Two martinis, coming up.”

Kylie gave her a conspiratorial shoulder bump. “It must be good to know some people will never

treat you differently, no matter how big a star you become.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s really comforting.” But, strangely, it was. The team at Deuces, strippers and staff

alike, knew her. She didn’t have to put on an act for them, or be on her best behavior. She could be

her uncensored, snarky self.

An arm looped around her neck from behind. She jumped, and, for one terrifying moment,

wondered if Worst Nightmare had tracked her down and intended to choke the life out of her right

then and there. But then a reassuringly familiar voice said, “You, Snowflake, as an angel? I think

you’re a shoo-in for most ironic costume.”

Stacy laughed at her ridiculous moment of panic, and then turned to face Ginger, the tall,

improbably endowed, flame-haired dancer who headlined at Deuces. Tonight she wore a skintight

black bustier that barely kept the girls under wraps, along with a short, transparent black mesh skirt

that showed off her black satin thong. Garters, fishnets, and a tall black witch’s hat completed the

ensemble.

“Hi Ginger. Decided not to wear a costume tonight?”

“Watch it.” She brandished a sparkling black wand. “Or I’ll put a spell on you.” The redhead

pulled Stacy into a hug, and then said, “Oh, good, you brought the nice one too,” and gave Kylie a

squeeze as well.

Stacy took the drinks Gary put on the bar, handed one to Kylie, and clinked glasses with her.

“Happy Hallow—”

“Woo-hoo! Looky who’s here!” Sunny-haired Southerner Lee Ann closed in on them, dressed like a

Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Ariana, the haughty brunette Russian followed, looking like a Parisian

hooker in a black-and-white striped tube top, a tiny, front-slit leather skirt, and fishnets. She led Vern,

the club’s manager, by the shiny tie of his 1920s mob boss costume.

While Lee Ann gave Kylie an exuberant hug, Vern stopped in front of Stacy and shook his head. His

droopy brown eyes and sagging jowls provided the perfect canvas for his feigned disappointment.

“You back again, kid? Didn’t I tell you that whole acting thing wouldn’t work out?”

She laughed. “That is exactly what you said, you miserable grouch.” He was the world’s biggest

cynic, but deep down in his cold, black heart, she knew he was happy for her.

“There are no shows tonight because of the party, but since we go way back, I’ll clear the stage if

you want to hop up there and make some money. Take Kylie with you, and I guarantee you girls will

clean up.”

She took a big swallow of her martini and gave him a raised eyebrow over the rim of her glass.

“You can’t afford me now, Vern.”

He turned to Ariana and shrugged. “Look at that. Pretending like she’s too good for us. She

probably doesn’t even remember how to shake the moneymaker anymore.”

Ari smiled. “She is big star now. Her muscles are soft.”

Stacy finished off her drink in another large swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol in her throat

and chest—Jesus, that felt good—and put the glass on the bar. “I haven’t forgotten a damn thing.” She

pointed to the stage, where groups of partygoers, mostly female, danced and swayed seductively to

the music, hoping to attract attention from the guys congregating on the dance floor directly below. “I

play a showgirl on TV. I still dance every day, and I can put any of those girls up there now to

shame.”

“Talk is cheap,” Vern said.

“You need me to prove this? Seriously?”

“I dare you. Come,” Ari took her hand, and Lee Ann’s, and tugged them toward the stage. “See if

you remember Triple Threat.”

Triple Threat was the name Vern had given an intricate, over-the-top sexy dance Stacy had

choreographed for three dancers—typically Lee Ann and Ari, and featuring her as the main dancer,

naturally. She mentally reviewed the steps as they wound their way through the packed dance floor.

The crowd parted easily enough, and a couple of cute, hard-bodied “construction workers” lifted

them up to the stage. And then, there she stood, front and center, with all eyes on her. Just how she

liked it. The distinctive opening notes of Flo Rida’s “Whistle” seeped from the sound system—a

perfect song for the dance, with its playful, steady rhythm. She gave her body over to that beat, letting

muscle memory kick in. Within seconds, the three of them were performing the routine as if they still

did two shows a night, three nights a week, with the notable exception that they kept their clothes on.

She felt amazing, alluring, almost like her old self again. The strobes kept everything dreamlike and

anonymous. She sensed, rather than saw, the other girls on the stage back off, so as not to suffer by

comparison. Then the guys moved in. Guys with the confidence to vie for the attention of the hottest

girls on the stage. She flirted with a gorgeous African-American model type who wore a white towel

wrapped around his waist like the Old Spice guy. He smiled and worked his way closer, impressing

her with dance moves as tight as his abs.

G.I. Joe arrived next, complete with biceps-revealing cammies that couldn’t possibly be military

issue, and worked his way between her and Lee Ann. “I’m not just a job, ladies…I’m an adventure.”

She laughed and spun away. Ginger danced over and handed her a drink. The lemon drop, heavy on

the vodka, went down smooth as ice. She gave the empty glass to G.I. Joe. “Here’s your next mission,

soldier.” He saluted dutifully and danced away.

The vacant spot he left behind offered her a view of the club. She spotted Kylie and Trevor

cuddled up together by the bar. The sight of Trevor brought unwanted thoughts of Ian flooding back.

Was he here too? She scanned the room for one ridiculously painful heartbeat. No sign of him. A

heavy sensation sank through her chest to settle in her stomach. She labeled it relief and turned back

to the stage.

The second drink kicked in, giving her a nice buzz. She raised her arms over her head and looked

up to watch the shadows they cast in the purple lights shining down from the ceiling rig. Someone

behind her chose that moment to give her a hip bump, and toppled her off balance. She stumbled

forward and might have fallen, but two strong arms caught her and pulled her up against a hard, male

chest.

Her breath clogged her lungs for a moment, then burst out in a rush. “Thanks,” she managed and

looked up at her rescuer. A black ski mask obscured his face. A soft, black, long-sleeved shirt

covered what felt like a carved-from-granite upper body. Dark jeans hugged his lean hips and molded

his thighs.

A low, almost gravelly voice reached her ears. “You okay, Angel?”

…

Ian didn’t miss Stacy’s quick inhale, or the way her eyes took a leisurely tour of his body. Then she

smiled up at him. A slow, sexy smile that grabbed him by the balls even as he fought the impulse to

give her hell for unleashing it on someone who, for all she knew, was an ax murderer.

“I’m way better than okay,” she replied, still working the naughty-girl smile.

He didn’t trust himself to reply. His temper already hovered at the top of the red zone from

watching her flirt, flaunt her traffic-stopping body in the scrap of a costume, and command the

attention of every guy in the club. When they’d first met, she’d been a stripper, yet strangely, the fact

that she’d earned her living dancing next to naked had never bothered him. Why? He’d known she

wanted him, and only him. But now, irrationally, he felt jealous of himself, because she stood there

sending him an open invitation while assuming he was a stranger.

Apparently she wasn’t looking for the strong, silent type tonight. She took a step back, and

reluctantly, he dropped his arms.

“Thanks for the save, Mystery Man.”

“My pleasure, Angel.”

She tipped her head to the side and stared at him. “It could be. We’ll see.” Then she frowned a

little. “What the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”

He closed the distance between them and brought his mouth down next to her ear. Her familiar

scent immediately teased his nose. Even the ski mask couldn’t protect him. “Cat burglar.”

“Mmm. A bad boy.” Her lips moved provocatively to form the words. He imagined lifting his

mask, pressing his lips to hers, and sucking her breath right into his lungs. “Guess I’d better keep an

eye on you, so you don’t run off with anything I don’t want you to have.”

“You can try, but I’ve got very”—he ran his fingers up her bare arm, over her shoulder and along

her collarbone to the sensitive spot where it dipped into the hollow of her throat—“quick hands.”

His touch provoked a small, involuntary shiver. Maybe her reaction unsettled her, because she

danced a few steps away. “Sometimes I prefer slow hands,” she said, and shot him another lethal

smile.

Some jerkoff in a caveman costume danced up behind her. She turned. As she did, her skirt flared

out and offered anybody with sharp eyes a glimpse of the most luscious ass he’d ever had the pleasure

of sinking his teeth into. He looked around and discovered that practically every man in the vicinity

had sharp eyes. Then she did a fascinating swishing move with her hips. His attention zoomed in on

that mesmerizing ass again. He narrowed his eyes. Could he…? Was that her thong he could see

through the gauzy skirt of her outfit?

Caveman ran his meaty paws over her hips and around to rest at the small of her back, his fingers

riding the swell of her backside. Fuck it. He was going to arrest this guy…

Before he could stalk over and break up the grope-fest, Stacy went low, ducked out of Caveman’s

hold, and swiveled up to dance with Old Spice. Old Spice actually had some real dance moves—

moves that didn’t involve running his hands all over his partner. Ian experienced another flare of

jealously as he watched them fit their bodies together and execute a fluid groin-to-groin dirty dance,

even as he recognized they connected on an artistic level—one dancer to another. He wasn’t exactly

hip-locked, but he couldn’t compete with Old Spice’s talent.

Suddenly, he deeply regretted the “wait her out” plan he’d subscribed to for the last six weeks.

He’d wanted to take their relationship to the next level. What if she’d been testing his commitment by

breaking up with him? A very possible scenario, considering her upbringing had taught her to

question everyone’s motives. Instead of going after her balls-out, he’d responded by diving headfirst

down the exit chute she’d opened…at least as far as she could see. And what, exactly, had she been

up to in the meantime? Had she found other playmates to keep her occupied? The thought twisted his

guts like an invisible fist.

G.I. Joe reappeared with another drink. She trailed her fingers along the edge of Old Spice’s towel,

and then turned and smiled at G.I. Joe. He handed her the drink. Everyone watched as she tipped her

head back and indulged in a long sip. Her cammie-clad lackey wrapped an arm around her waist and

tried to pull her close. Stacy kissed his cheek and slithered out of his grasp. She hooked her arm

around Ian’s neck and swayed into him.

“Hello again, Mystery Man.”

“Hello, Angel.” He brought his arm up and splayed his hand across the base of her spine, just

below her wings. His touch remained light, but he knew damn well the gesture looked proprietary to

their audience of hopefuls dancing nearby. He felt proprietary, and protective, and possessive as all

get-out. But she was enjoying the dance and all the attention. If he got too territorial she’d shake him

off and move on to the next guy.

Keeping her arm around his neck, she turned so her wings pressed against his torso and his hand

spanned her waist. Her head brushed his chest as she finished her drink. G.I. Joe hustled over, hips

leading, and attempted to draw her away under the guise of taking her empty glass. Stacy relinquished

her glass but stayed where she was. He couldn’t help smiling beneath his increasingly hot, itchy ski

mask. Take a hike, Joe.

“What do you think, MM? Spotted anything you’d like to get your quick hands on?”

Was she all talk, or was she seriously looking to hook up with a complete stranger tonight? He

fought the urge to rip off his mask and ask what the hell she thought she was doing. Instead, he

flattened his hand against her stomach, spreading his fingers so his thumb brushed the swell of her

breast and his little finger rested south of the subtle indentation of her belly button. “Something might

have caught my eye.” He swept his thumb over her breast, as far as he could reach, coming

dangerously close to her nipple.

She sucked in a fast, shallow breath as her nipples tightened to stiff little points beneath the flimsy

fabric of her costume. The swift, involuntary sign of arousal pleased him to no end, even as he

wondered how she could allow a random guy on a dance floor to put his hands all over her.

Then she returned the favor. She rocked her hips back into the cradle of his, humming with

satisfaction when the hard ridge of his deliriously happy cock nestled against her ass. She tipped her

head back and looked up at him. “Might? You don’t sound too sure.”

“Could be I need a closer look.” His dick throbbed, and he battled the pure, animal instinct to lay

claim to the snug valley between her cheeks. Instead he contented himself running his thumb over the

soft, yielding curve of her breast. He held his breath, hoping she’d take the bait and offer to go

somewhere more private. Then he’d read her the riot act, about…everything.

“Tell you what, MM. You look to your heart’s content. Let me know if you reach any conclusions.”

With that, she slipped out of his hold and sashayed over to Ariana. Lee Ann backed in from the other

side, and the three of them proceeded to seduce every man in the vicinity with a hot, girl-on-girl-on-

girl bump-and-grind. His aching privates gave the act a standing ovation.

He couldn’t take much more. Six weeks without so much as a handshake from Stacy had drained his

strength and weakened his willpower to the breaking point. Add in the skimpy outfit, the pulsing

music and the sensuous dance moves…hell…every man had his limits. When Old Spice gyrated over

to get in on the action, Ian decided he’d had enough. He caught Stacy’s arm and tugged, bringing her

around to face him.

She bumped into his chest and put her hands on his biceps to steady herself. “See something you

like?”

“Yeah. I like the way you dance.”

A satisfied grin curved her lips. “I dance even better in private.”

His reply popped out of his mouth before he thought things through, and it had nothing to do with

keeping her safe. “Show me.”

Chapter Four

Oh, she’d show him, all right. Stacy led Ian off the stage and through the throngs of guests partying it

up on the dance floor. Who did he think he was fooling? Did he honestly believe she hadn’t realized

who he was the minute he’d caught her and held her against him? The scent of his soap, the way their

bodies fit together, the timbre of his voice—even if he was trying to pitch it lower to fool her—all

gave him away. For one moment her moronic heart had leaped at the possibility he was here to fight

for her and convince her to give them another chance.

Then reality crashed over her like a bucket of cold water. He wasn’t here because he’d finally

surrendered to an overpowering desire to see her. The damn letter accounted for his presence,

because neither he nor Trevor thought she was capable of handling one crackpot pen pal on her own.

She intended to show him exactly what he could do with his overbearing, cocky, Neanderthal

mentality. She’d handled her stalker, and now she would handle Ian, too. He’d get no glimpse of her

still-aching heart. Instead, he’d see a carefree woman looking for a no-strings-attached good time

with a handy stranger. By the time she finished, he’d be wondering if she even remembered his name.

She’d take him on the ride of his life. Show him what he’d been missing.

Immature? Probably, but wounded pride spurred her on. Just don’t get sentimental. Don’t say or

do anything to clue him in. And don’t flip your damn hair, she coached herself as she pushed

through the mobs of people loitering in the hallway leading to the private VIP rooms.

She glanced back at the tall, dark figure behind her. Maybe being with him one last time would

bring her some closure and enable her to move on. Something had to, because three drinks hadn’t

helped. Prancing around and partying like she’d done in her wild-child days hadn’t helped. For the

last six weeks, she’d waged an internal war to stop herself from running to him, telling him she’d

made a terrible mistake, and asking him to forgive her. Every single day. She had to make it stop.

She reached the first VIP room and realized the door might be locked. A weak part of her

whispered that might be for the best, but luck was on her side. The knob twisted under her hand and

the door popped open. She smiled and led Ian into the private room. He closed the door behind them

and the sounds of the party immediately receded to a muted chaos punctuated by the relentless,

pumping bass lines. Perfect. Not so quiet as to facilitate, God forbid, conversation, but not so loud it

felt as if they still stood in the middle of the dance floor.

Her hands wanted to shake, so she propped them on her hips and took a moment to look around the

once-familiar space. Not much had changed. The small, softly lit VIP room served one main purpose

—to give clients a place to sit back and enjoy a private dance with the entertainer of their choice. A

costly indulgence, at an upscale gentlemen’s club like Deuces, and the decor, while restrained,

acknowledged the price of the luxury. A comfortable dark leather chair sat in the middle of the room,

centered on a splashy black-and-red Oriental-style rug. Large, gilt-framed bordello mirrors graced

the walls, to provide the client with multiple angles of viewing pleasure. Sturdy, architecturally

styled bookshelves lined the wall behind the client chair, and held a sound system and a private bar.

Way back in a shadowy corner stood a stool where the bouncer would sit during an actual private

dance, to ensure the client remained a gentleman at all times.

Tonight the corner stool sat blessedly empty, and Stacy knew Ian would not be a gentleman. She’d

make sure. Down and dirty—that’s how they both liked it.

She guided him to the chair and gestured for him to sit. “Ever had a private dance before?”

“Never.”

“Sit back, sweetheart. You’re in for a treat.” She reached behind him for the sound system’s

remote, and programmed what she’d liked to call the “soft-core playlist” back in her Deuces days.

Unobtrusive, sexy music streamed from hidden speakers, further muffling the noise from the party.

“Any rules I should know about?”

“Normally yes, but not tonight.” She stepped up until she stood over his lap, with her hands on his

broad shoulders and her breasts close to his masked face. “Tonight there are no holds barred. Nothing

off-limits. Think you can handle it?”

Trap set. Ian never backed down.

“Don’t you worry, Angel. I can handle whatever you throw my way.” He reached around, under her

skirt, and palmed her bare cheeks, left vulnerable by her thong. “Quick hands, remember?”

She remembered, and forced herself to hold back a shiver. His voice held a note of something she

couldn’t readily identify—challenge, maybe. Like he wanted to push her and see how far she’d go.

Best to keep that analytical, intuitive mind of his occupied. Leave him no time to go all psychological

on her. She rotated her hips slowly, giving his hands a nice, thorough tour of the hills and gully they’d

laid claim to. Rough palms slid all over her smooth, sensitive skin. Her nerve endings sat up and

whimpered for more.

She lowered her arms and shrugged out of her wings.

“A fallen angel,” he murmured and traced his fingers along the front of her dress.

Her nipples contracted again, almost painfully tight this time. She imagined the feel of the knit ski

mask rubbing against her breast as his tongue teased the hard, hypersensitive point. She bit back a

moan. “I’m no angel.”

Maybe she arched her back, or maybe he simply read her mind, but he reached up, yanked her dress

down her shoulders, and popped her breasts free of the thin, sheer bustier she wore beneath.

The condom fell into his lap.

“You come prepared,” he rasped, sounding urgent—almost angry—and pocketed the foil square.

Perversely, her nipples tightened even more, which activated some part of her nervous system with

a direct connection to all parts south of her navel. A deeper, more intense tightness coiled between

her legs. Her thighs quivered. She dropped her hips closer to his lap and connected with the rock-

hard bulge testing the limits of his button fly. Heat shot straight to the point of contact. She had to get

herself under control if she expected to keep the upper hand. “I’m not sure you meant that as a

compliment.”

“It’s a fact,” he growled, but the words trailed off in a groan when she ground her crotch against

his. “Christ almighty.” He clapped one big hand over her butt and brought the other up to lift his ski

mask.

Oh shit. Not yet. “Don’t!” she said quickly. “Leave the mask on.”

“I plan to. I just need…” In lieu of an explanation, he shoved the mask up above his mouth and

grazed his lips over an extremely grateful nipple. She cupped her breast and held it for him, fighting

back a moan. He spread his hand across the center of her back and brought her even closer, but

instead of teasing her with his tongue, as she’d expected, he covered her with his entire mouth and

used bone-dissolving suction to draw her in deep.

This time there was no muffling the moan. The needy sound poured from her throat and filled the

small room. Then his teeth and tongue joined the fray. She arched closer, letting him devour her,

while her hips rocked back and forth, back and forth, in a steady rhythm she couldn’t have stopped if

her life depended on it.

Apparently satisfied she wasn’t going anywhere, he moved the hand at her back around to the front,

switched his mouth to the other breast, and cupped the one he’d just set free. Not gently, but not too

rough, because he knew exactly where she drew the line and he hit it, perfectly. Sweet Jesus did he

hit it.

“Oh, God, that’s good,” she babbled, running her hands over his shoulders, his chest, everywhere

within her reach. The straps of her dress and lingerie hindered her, so she shrugged her arms free and

pushed the clothes down around her waist. He kept busy alternately squeezing and soothing her damp,

swollen breast while working the other to the same agonizing state. Every kiss, every tweak, every

carefully controlled bite sent a bolt of heat straight to her core. The pressure built to a critical mass. If

she didn’t stop him soon, she’d go off like a cherry bomb, right there on his lap, which was not her

plan. She mustered up her willpower and pulled away.

He lowered his mask back into place and then looked up at her. She wished she could see his

expression, but the room wasn’t exactly lit for gazing intimately into the client’s eyes. The ski mask

didn’t help either.

“Done already, Angel?”

There it was—the note of challenge again. Her thighs clenched and she held back a thrilled little

shiver. “I’m just getting started.” She knelt between his parted legs and undid the first button of his

jeans.

His hand covered hers and for a minute, she thought he intended to stop her. Time to issue a

challenge of her own. “No rules, remember? No holds barred? You handle whatever I throw at you.”

She popped the next button. The smooth, wide head of his dick surged out the top of his black boxer

briefs. Her fingers shook a little as she hurriedly undid the last three buttons and shoved his shorts out

of the way. Then she held on to his thighs for balance and sat back on her heels to drink in the sight of

him.

“I can handle it,” he said quietly. “Question is, can you?”

Was he playing with her mind, using reverse psychology, or did he honestly believe he still had her

in the dark? The answer didn’t matter. She’d make him plead, either way.

She licked her lips, suddenly hungry for the taste of him, anxious to feel the hard, hot length of him

filling her mouth, straining her jaw as she took him in as far as she possibly could. An answering

hunger echoed between her legs at the thought of him stretching her, filling her, plunging deep until

she couldn’t feel anything, think of anything, except his body moving inside her.

Her mind screamed hurry as she leaned in, but her languorous body preferred slow motion and

wouldn’t obey. His ragged curse reached her ears a few seconds after she swirled her tongue over the

tip of his glorious cock. She licked her way down, down, down his shaft, provoking a few more of the

uncensored sounds, and then slowly worked her way back up. His fingers dove into her hair, holding

her head down and her lips against him, as if he worried she might abandon the job before she’d even

really gotten started. She smiled and took him into her mouth.

“Christ, I’ve missed yo…a good blow job.”

She would have smiled if her lips weren’t otherwise occupied. Whoops, Ian, almost blew it,

didn’t you? The fingers in her hair tightened. He didn’t use the hold to take control of the depth or

pace of the proceedings, but she could tell he wanted to. So it surprised her when he suddenly let go.

What the…?

He leaned over her, more or less pinning her head between his lap and his torso, and lifted the hem

of her skirt. He tucked it up into the back of her dress. When he had her bare from the waist down,

save for the thong, he straightened and groaned, which she guessed might have been in combined

appreciation for the view he’d just arranged for himself in the mirror behind her and the feel of his

entire dick cradled securely in her mouth. She kept her lips tight, hollowing her cheeks to suck him as

hard as she could. Because she knew she had an audience, she flexed her glutes at the same time.

“You’re spectacular,” he muttered as she reversed course at a leisurely pace.

When she reached the top, she looked up at him, ready to try her hand at some other head games.

“Did you like that, nice and slow and steady? Or do you want it faster and deeper?” She knew exactly

how he wanted it.

“Jesus. Faster and deeper.”

“Please,” she prompted.

“Please,” he managed through a clenched jaw. “Faster. Deeper. Please.”

The “please” sent a burst of triumph through her. In reward, she gave him faster and deeper. He

cupped the back of her head and simply rested his hand there, unbelievably gentle, considering the

violence of the breaths exploding from his lungs.

She didn’t want gentle tonight. She wanted him thrusting and pumping and so desperate to come that

he lost all control. So she teased him, ruthlessly, sliding her mouth up his length to the very tip and

letting him hang there, just barely captured between her lips. Then she waited.

He cursed. She smiled, and he slipped another precious millimeter.

“I won’t do it,” he ground out. “I don’t…fuck—” He grabbed the seat with both hands, lifted his

hips, and chased after her retreating mouth. She repaid his efforts by taking him in again, all the way,

and giving him a good hard suck as she made her journey back up.

It took a few more round-trips, but finally she had him perched at edge of the chair. She reached

into his bunched-down shorts and found the boys. Continuing to torture his shaft with her mouth, she

jostled and squeezed his balls. Conflicting, almost inarticulate words reached her ears.

“That’s so good…so fucking amazing. I can’t take anymore…Christ, okay a little more.” But just

when she had him so close she could almost taste his orgasm, he groaned, “Enough,” and pulled her

up onto his lap. He fisted a hand in the back of her hair, held her still, and stared at her for a long

moment.

“You really want to do this?”

This time his question contained an unmistakable thread of anger, and it unleashed a whole host of

volatile emotions in her, including excitement. Feeling dangerous, she squirmed in his lap, lining up

her hot, wet center with his thick, pulsing shaft. “That’s why I brought you here.”

“You want me to fuck you.” His voice went flat. Resigned. Disappointed, even.

Now her temper spiked. He’d let her walk out of his life. Yes, she’d broken up with him, but

dammit, he’d always been able to read her like a large-print novel. He always understood her

motivations, and even if for once he didn’t, the bottom line was he hadn’t cared enough to fight for

her. Who was he to judge how she conducted herself now?

“I want you to fuck me blind.” There, Ian. Swallow that. “Do you think you can manage that one

little thing?”

He stayed still and silent for so long she figured he knew, and was going to call off the whole

charade. Screw it. She reached for his mask, but he caught her hands.

“No. That’s one thing you don’t get, Angel.”

Yes, she was a passably good actress, but how could he still not realize she knew it was him? Or

maybe that was just how he wanted to play it? Temper edged up another notch, and so did desire.

Game on. Good actress or not, she could portray a pissed-off, not-getting-what-she-wanted version of

herself in her sleep. She ground against him, fighting a moan as her inner muscles tightened in

anticipation of every steely, unyielding inch. “I’m sorry, but you seem to be operating under the

delusion that you’re in charge here.” She tried to free her wrists from his grip.

He held on, easily.

She dialed her temper up a degree. He’d expect her to take a “no” badly. “Take the damn mask

off.”

“I said no. Behave. Or do I have to show you how I handle girls who won’t behave?”

Behave? Oh, he had balls. “You did not just tell me to behave.” She struggled like a woman truly

determined to get the mask off, shift the balance of power back to her, to win. He evaded her hands.

Then he stood up, spun them, and, before she caught her breath, had her bent over the back of the

chair.

Chapter Five

“You son of a bitch,” Stacy panted. “I suppose you think this puts you in control?”

With you, never, he thought as he adjusted his loose, one-handed hold on her wrists, and

awkwardly tugged his jeans up. She flexed her wrists, testing his grip, and he knew she now realized

she could shake him off anytime she wanted…if she wanted. A part of him hoped she did. Another

part agonized at the thought. “You made the rules, remember? No holds barred. Nothing off-limits.

Sound familiar? But hey,” he patted her backside, “I understand. If I’m too much for you to handle,

that’s all you have to say and we’ll call it a night. Seven little words.” He leaned over until his mouth

brushed her ear. “Do you need to say it, Angel?”

He barely had time to step out of the path of the lethally sharp high heel she aimed at his shin. She

swore. He straightened and laughed, although there was nothing the least bit funny about how he felt

right now.

Furious more accurately described his state of mind—pissed beyond words that she would do

something so stupid, and dangerous and just plain reckless as have sex with a stranger, especially

now, with some unbalanced idiot out there sending her hate mail.

Hurt came in a close second. Here he was, missing her so much he could barely think of anything

except how to get her back, and she’d clearly moved on. Yes, she’d broken up with him. Yes, she was

free to do whatever or whomever she pleased. No, that logic didn’t diminish the hurt. Not in the least.

And how the hell could she not realize who he was by now? He didn’t want to be a hysterical

schoolgirl about things, but she’d treated his dick like her best friend for a whole fucking year.

Tonight she’d had him in her hand, and her mouth, and while he’d felt like he’d come home for the

first time in godforsaken weeks, she’d been none the wiser? Hell, yeah, that hurt.

Lastly, because somewhere along the line she’d transformed him into a sick, masochistic head case,

he was also ridiculously, excruciatingly turned on. The sight of her, face down, ass up, spitting mad

and spoiling for a fight, made him determined to turn her into a quivering mass of need—exactly what

she’d reduced him to with her antics this evening.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m perfectly capable of handling whatever you’ve got. The real question is,

am I too much for you to handle?” She stomped her foot and connected with his instep.

A white-hot pain shot up his leg. It hurt like a mother, but even the pain made his cock throb,

because it came from her. “I’m making a rule. No kicking,” he grunted and smacked her ass. Not hard,

but with enough palm to make a very satisfying slapping noise.

She let loose an equally satisfying cry—part shock, part passion—and then, bold as ever, kicked

him in the shin. This time, however, she used no force. The halfhearted effort told him what she really

wanted. He spanked her again. This time her cock-twisting cry edged over into a throaty moan, and he

wondered if it was possible to have a coronary if all the blood in his body surged straight between

his legs. Could he get so hard he might actually lose circulation to some vital parts? Fuck it. Some

things were worth the risk. “Follow the rules, or I’m not going to play. Your choice, Angel. You want

some more?”

A restless, edgy sound served as her reply, and she pushed up onto her toes. He took that as a yes,

and responded with another swat to her vulnerable backside. Her husky moan wound him painfully

tight. Probably pure theatrics on her part, but his dick didn’t know the difference, which made

continuing the game an exercise in self-torture. Still, he refused to crack first, so he bluffed. “I can

keep this up until one of us comes, but your sweet little ass is getting awfully pink, and you may need

to sit down sometime in the next couple days.”

She held her position a moment longer, out of defiance or hope, he wasn’t entirely sure, and then

sagged and rested her forehead against the seat of the chair. “You’re a bastard,” she said, breathing

heavy.

The sentiment sounded so heartfelt, he couldn’t help but grin. “Undoubtedly.” He smoothed his hand

over her rosy cheeks, gently, because he knew they had to be stinging just a little by now. She lifted

her hips and pressed herself into his touch, like a cat. Their eyes met in the mirror. He caressed her

again, lingered to tickle his fingertips along the crease. His grin deepened when she tensed and bit her

lip, but failed to stifle a sigh of pleasure. “You’re going to be begging this bastard to make you

scream before I’m done with you.”

“In your dreams.”

He traced the vee of her thong. “I’ll bet you’re so wet right now, you’ve soaked right through these

very sexy panties you’ve been showing off all night.”

“Bite me.” She struggled to stand up.

“Don’t you worry. We’ll get to that, but, in the meantime…” He leaned over her to keep her in

position and sent his fingers on a slow, unerring journey down her thong and into the juncture between

her thighs, where she was warm, and soft, and very wet. “Oh yeah, I win the bet.”

She called him another rude name, but stopped struggling. A few more gentle passes over the slick

silk had her widening her stance and arching her back to give him better access.

The urge to tear her panties off and bury himself inside her rushed through him. Somehow he

resisted. “If I let go of you, will you stay put?”

A muffled, affirmative sound served as her reply. She’d turned her head back to the chair and he

couldn’t see her face. He decided it wouldn’t do. “Say, ‘Yes, sir. I’ll stay put.’”

Her head popped up at that, and he caught the flash of hot blue eyes in the mirror. “You arrogant

son of a—”

“Now, now. You’ll hurt my feelings.” He stopped stroking between her legs, and then removed his

hand completely when she tried to grind against the base of his unmoving thumb.

Her frustrated groan had him choking back a laugh. “Yes, sir. I’ll stay put,” he prompted.

Stubborn Stacy held out another moment, but then finally surrendered. “Yes, sir. I’ll stay put,” she

gritted between clenched teeth.

“Good girl.” He let go of her wrists and waited to see if she’d keep her word. She lowered her

arms and held on to the seat of the chair. “Good girl,” he repeated. “Since tonight is Halloween, good

girls get a treat.” Then he knelt behind her, lifted the ski mask up over the lower half of his face, and

bestowed hot, openmouthed kisses over every inch of her punished backside. Her throaty moan

vibrated along his lips, his spine, his aching balls. He ran his tongue down the line of her thong,

deliberately leaving a wet trail. She gasped and bent farther forward, offering him more.

“Greedy,” he teased and retraced his path, enjoying the way she writhed and lifted in an effort to

increase the contact. With his tongue between her cheeks, he reached around and swept his hands up

her ribs until he cupped her breasts. He massaged the soft undersides, while he kissed his way along

the now-wet groove nature had so generously provided. He could happily spend hours right there, in

part because she had the world’s best ass, but also because he knew she loved having him tease her

like that. Some nights, Stacy was the one to roll onto her stomach, shove a pillow under her hips, and

let him amuse himself—kissing, licking, biting his way ever closer to her tasty little clit, and then

backing away, again and again, until she couldn’t take it anymore. Then he’d spread her legs wide, lift

her hips, and keep the pressure on while she pushed herself to the very brink…and beyond. But he

wasn’t sure she’d permit the intimacy tonight, under circumstances where, in her mind, she didn’t

know him from Adam. Only one way to find out. He pushed his tongue under the strip of her thong,

pinched her nipples and took the plunge.

She cried out.

His heart hammered in his chest. His pulse pounded between his legs. Whatever blood was left in

his head abandoned ship, making it hard to think, or decide if she’d uttered a cry for more or a plea to

stop. “No holds barred,” he reminded her.

“Oh, God, I know, but…”

“Whatever you want, Angel”—he brought his hands to her waist and licked her again—“just ask

nicely. Faster? Deeper? Lower?”

“Lower,” she panted and leaned so far over the chair he worried she might topple.

He draped one arm over her hips to secure her, slid his other hand up the back of her thigh, thumb

going deep at the top to spread her cheeks a little wider. “Lower, sir,” he corrected, and sank his

teeth into the lush curve where thigh turned to buttock.

“Lower, sir,” she managed. He angled his head between her thighs and went lower. The next sound

he heard was her soft, helpless whimper when he slid his tongue under her panties and into the sweet,

wet heat waiting so impatiently for his attention. He set to work, teasing, tormenting, laving in, and

out, and around his favorite playground, but never actually touching her tender, swollen clit.

Her whimpers turned sharper, more urgent. She started arching her back, jerking her hips higher,

trying to get him exactly where she needed him. Typical. There he had her, bare-assed and bent over a

chair, and still she fought for control. How could he not love her?

He jerked her panties down. “Beg me to make you come.”

This time there was no pride, no hesitation. “Oh, God, yes. Make me come. Please, sir, make me

come.”

He dove in and delivered a tongue-lashing she’d never forget. Her orgasm rolled through her like

an earthquake, in ever-intensifying stages, and he felt every one of them. Her knees went weak. The

thigh muscle under his hand fluttered uncontrollably. Then she bucked, and squirmed, and finally

reared up on her arms, threw back her head, and cried out to high heaven, so loud and long he

wondered if someone might hear her over the racket of the party and come pounding on the door. He

would have loved to keep right on kissing, sucking, and stroking her straight through the first orgasm

and headlong into the next, but the crisis in his pants couldn’t be ignored another second.

He stood and toed his shoes off. Then he grabbed the condom from his pocket and shoved his jeans

and shorts down. He pulled them off, careful to remove his leg holster and clutch piece in the process,

but kept those tucked in his jeans, out of sight. Stacy stayed put for once, leaning limp and breathless

across the back of the chair. He lifted her into his arms and dropped down onto the chair so she

straddled his lap.

“Was that what you were looking for, Angel?”

…

Stacy rode out the last trembling aftershocks from the mind-numbing orgasm—the kind of full-body

meltdown only Ian could deliver. Shaky, sweaty, and tingling like she’d been struck by lightning, she

barely registered when he lifted her and put her on his lap. She opened her eyes and immediately

tumbled into his. Dammit. He pinned her with an expression she couldn’t fully read, but made her

heart want to flip over in her chest and expose its soft underbelly. Which only proved she was, in

fact, her own worst nightmare. No faceless stranger could lay claim to the title. She held that honor

all on her own.

Was that what you were looking for, Angel? He’d spoken quietly, but she heard the test in his

voice, as if daring her to push him even one more inch.

Oh, she dared. Pushing him was about the only thing she did dare do at this point, because she knew

full well her resolve would collapse like a house of cards if she came clean about their charade. And

God only knew what confessions would come spilling out next. She could think of only one thing

more frightening than admitting to him that she’d secretly longed for more than he’d offered. Namely,

him offering it.

Staring down a no-win situation had always made her do reckless things. Why should tonight be

any different? She twisted her lips into a calculating smile, cocked her brow, and went on the attack.

“That was a nice start. I hope the rest of you is as talented as your tongue, because it’s been way

too long since I’ve had a good, hard, anonymous fuck. I’d forgotten how much I liked that kind of

thrill. And that, Mystery Man, is exactly what I’m looking for from you tonight, just so we’re clear.”

The minute the words left her lips she knew she’d pushed him too far. His eyes narrowed and

burned with a heat that practically singed her skin. The hands at her waist tightened, and for a minute

she thought he might push her off his lap and walk out the door.

Her lips trembled in spite of her best efforts to lock her smile in place. She held her breath.

…

Jesus effing Christ, nobody on earth could piss him off like this woman. His vision actually went red.

A part of him he barely recognized wanted to shake her until whatever goddamn block she’d put up in

her head against their relationship rattled loose. Another part—one he recognized as raging and hurt

and ravenous to pay some of that back—burned to give her the good, hard, anonymous fuck she

claimed to want. He’d give it to her until he had her crying for mercy again, and then, when he had her

ready to do anything…promise anything…to get some relief, he’d pull the damn mask off, look her

square in the face, and make her say his name like a prayer while she came.

“You got it, sweetheart.” With that, he slammed his mouth down on hers and kissed that infuriating

smile right off her lips.

She moaned. Her hands dived into his hair, and she held on and kissed him back with the same

fervor. He felt himself sinking under and fought to stop the descent. Hell no. This was not going to be

a duel for control. He was going to have her.

He wound her hair around his hand, jerked her head back, and proceeded to dominate her mouth.

When she wrestled against him, and helpless sounds came from the back of her throat, he lifted his

head a fraction.

One look into her big, stunned eyes and his anger warped into something painful and unstable. Six

weeks ago they’d been as close as two people could be, known each other inside and out—or so he’d

thought. Now all she wanted was a good, hard, anonymous fuck. She enjoyed the thrill of giving

herself to a nameless, faceless stranger. Didn’t she miss him? Didn’t she think about him at all?

Apparently not. He should get the hell out of here. Immediately. Before he did something they’d both

regret.

She must have sensed his mood shift, because she wrapped her arms around his head, pulled him in

close and said, “Help me forget. I’ve got this man stuck in my head…or my heart. I can’t take it

anymore. Just for tonight, help me forget.”

His heart sped up, and the rest of him froze. She knew it was him. She had to. Maybe she was

playing him—God knew she had a sadistic streak—but he let himself believe the words anyway, and

his anger eroded like sand under a wave of hope. Maybe now…finally…they were getting

somewhere?

“You love him?”

She pulled back, looked him straight in the eyes, and his earlier doubts disappeared. She wasn’t

playing him. Not here. Not now. “It doesn’t matter. He and I—we’ll never work.”

Two seconds ago he would have bet his gun arm she couldn’t inflict any more damage on his

battered heart, but he’d have lost the bet, because it broke a little more now. For whatever reason, she

honestly believed what she said. “Why won’t it work?”

She stared at him. He could feel the answer forming in her mouth and wished for the power to pull

it out of her. But she closed her eyes and shook her head, and her look of utter hopelessness tore his

trampled heart right out of his chest.

“Why doesn’t matter. Please. This—” She writhed against him. “This will work.”

He wanted to argue, but the hopeless look haunted him, and he wasn’t sure he could face it again.

Later. Ask her later, when her guard is down and her filters are off and she won’t hold anything

back. He handed her the condom. “I’m here. Take what you need.”

Somehow he managed to hold himself together while she rolled the latex on. He kissed her throat,

her breasts, skimmed a hand down her stomach and between her legs, just to make sure she was ready

for him.

“Oh, sweet heaven.” She reached down and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t touch my clit. Please

don’t…I’ll come.”

“I want you to come.”

“I want to come with you inside me.” She wriggled down onto him.

His eyes closed. She felt so good, so amazingly, incredibly right. The words “I love you”

threatened to pour out of him. To stop himself from opening his mouth and screwing everything up, he

leaned in and captured her lips.

Talk about coming home. He filled his hands with her gorgeous breasts. He plunged his tongue into

her mouth at the same time he buried his grateful cock to the hilt in her unbearably hot, tight body. Her

inner muscles clenched around him like a welcoming embrace.

This might be the last time he sat there, buried inside her. The unbidden thought floated through his

pleasure-warped mind. No matter how good this was, afterward, she’d try to shut him out again.

She’d walk.

The only connection he could count on was right here, right now. The only thing she’d willingly

share with him was her body, and he intended to exploit it to the utmost one last time. Own every part

of her. Claim her so completely that any time anyone else so much as brushed up against her, she

thought of him. He ran his hand down her spine. She moaned and worked herself on him with renewed

vigor while he gently circled the one part of her left to possess. “A good, hard fuck, I think you asked

for?”

She shivered, broke the kiss, and mumbled something against his neck that sounded like “Yes.”

“A good, hard, anonymous fuck.” His next move was going to shatter that ruse, but he really didn’t

care. He had to have her. All of her. In a way that was unquestionably theirs, back when they’d had

trust, and some measure of honesty, and she’d wanted him and not some anonymous fuck. Using his

index finger, he traced her lips, and then slipped past them and into the silky heat of her mouth. She

knew exactly what to do. She swirled her tongue over the tip of his finger, down the length, past the

knuckle and all the way to the base, and she sucked for all she was worth. Slowly, he withdrew, put

his hand under her skirt, ran his wet finger along the tight seam of her ass, and then circled her again.

She arched her back and murmured, “Don’t make me sore.”

“I want you sore,” he said, and bit her earlobe as he pressed his way into the tight opening, barely

penetrating her, “so every time you move, you remember this, and you remember me. I plan to be the

first person you think about in the morning, and the last goddamn man you dream about at night. You

are never, ever getting me out of your head. Understand?”

She shuddered against him and wrapped her arm around his neck. Before he could guess what she

intended to do, she pulled the ski mask off. He returned her gaze for a long, tense moment, trying like

hell to hold her in place with the sheer weight of his stare, because he didn’t want to think about what

he’d do if she tried to break away now. Then she closed her eyes and, with a low, wrenching sob,

surrendered. She cupped his face with both hands, and plunged into the kiss. His mind spun while she

owned him, claimed him. He felt her shudders. Tasted her tears.

Determined to drive everything from her mind except what they did to each other, what they meant

to each other, and how perfectly they fit together, he clasped his other hand under her, dug his fingers

into her soft flesh and forced her hips up and down at a fast, furious pace. When she started to rock

against him with the precise, rapid thrusts he knew meant she was about to come, he locked his arm

around her waist, realigned their mouths, and plunged deeper. She attempted to break the kiss, even as

the rest of her body clung to him. Textbook Stacy, trying to pull him in and push him away at the same

time. He recognized the move as an attempt to hold some part of herself back, but he refused to allow

her retreat. He cupped her jaw and kept her with him, sharing breath, sharing everything, until she

stiffened in his arms, threw back her head, and released a long, keening cry.

She spasmed around him, clutching, tugging, tightening until every single cell in his oxygen-starved

brain shut down and left his body in charge. He was off the chair and on his knees before fully

realizing he’d put himself in motion. Stacy landed on her back on the low pile of the ugly Oriental rug.

He flung her legs over his shoulders, braced himself on his arms, and drove into her, again and again,

while a crippling orgasm tore through him, from the soles of his feet, to his burning thighs, to his

drawn-up balls and viciously sensitive cock. His own agonized groan filled his ears as he emptied

himself in a series of frenzied thrusts. Walk away from that, Stacy , he silently challenged before his

Chapter Six

The two hundred pounds of hard-packed homicide cop sprawled over Stacy barely registered against

the weight of despair crushing her heart. Congratulations. You really showed him.

What possessed her to think seducing Ian one last time would bring her closure? The plan had

failed, miserably. How was she supposed to find the strength to walk away again? She raised a hand

and wiped impatiently at her wet cheeks, then rested her forearm on her forehead.

Their reflection in the mirrored ceiling taunted her with the illusion of two people wrapped up in

each other. Ian’s big frame mostly covered her smaller one. His tanned legs—damn man should have

been a dancer, with all those long, lean muscles—intertwined with hers in a way that looked

completely natural and shockingly intimate at the same time. The mirrors gave her a bird’s-eye view

of his sculpted ass. The skin there was lighter, smoother, and she stifled an impulse to run a

protective hand over it. She loved his strong back and broad shoulders, but they’d never gotten

around to taking off his shirt, so she couldn’t feast her eyes on them. Her fingers—which clearly had a

mind of their own—absently stroked his light, silky hair. She always liked it this way, a little on the

long side, overdue for a trim.

He had his face buried in the curve of her neck. She could tell by his breathing and the slight tickle

of his eyelashes on her skin that he hadn’t passed out from exhaustion. No, not Ian. As long as he had

enough condoms and Gatorade, he could go all night. Even as the thought formed in her mind, his cock

woke and stretched inside her. Her pelvic muscles apparently took directions from her heart rather

than her brain, because they flexed and caught him in a fast, tight hug.

The move elicited a low groan from Ian. The sound rumbled up from his chest and vibrated through

her entire body. Her erogenous zones responded instinctively. He groaned again, this time no doubt

because he felt a rush of heat flowing to the spot where his erection twitched to life. His breath gusted

against her neck, and she very nearly burst into tears.

This can’t happen again , her brain warned, but she couldn’t find the strength to tell him to get out.

Instead, she said, “You know, when I mentioned I wanted a good, hard, anonymous fuck, I wasn’t

looking for two out of three.”

“Bullshit,” he muttered. “You knew it was me as soon as you rubbed your ass over my lap on the

dance floor.”

The insult stung. Did he really think he’d fooled her up until they’d danced? Like she only

recognized him by the feel of his cock? “I knew it was you the minute I saw you. Letting you think

otherwise was just”—she lifted her shoulder in a casual shrug—“an entertaining little game. But the

game is over and, ultimately, doesn’t change what I want.”

Apparently she could sting him back, because his eyes narrowed. Then he ground his hips against

hers until she bit her lip and moaned.

“You’re sending mixed signals, Stace. You don’t know what you want.”

Sadly, she did—she wanted far too much, more than he’d offered—but her stupid, traitorous hips

lifted, seeking more from him.

“Careful. The condom…” He reached down between them and pinched the base of his erection,

holding the latex in place. But when he started to pull out, she panicked.

“Don’t.” Her hands flew down to his hips, and her fingers dug in to hold him still. Don’t leave me

empty. Not yet.

“Stacy…” He swore under his breath when she sank her fingernails into his skin and squirmed

beneath him. “It’s going to leak. Or break.”

“I don’t care.” She didn’t. Not one bit. All she cared about was keeping him inside her for a few

last, precious seconds.

Ian laughed, low and humorless. “You can’t handle a relationship with me, but you’re ready to have

my baby?”

Yes. I love you. I’d love to have your baby. Instead, she said lamely, “It’s the wrong time of the

month.”

“I could play that game when we were together, but not now.”

Knowing he wouldn’t change his mind, she forced herself to let go of him. She closed her eyes and

turned her head to the side so he wouldn’t see the tears threatening to spill down her cheek. “Aren’t

you the responsible one?”

“Yeah, and you’re the dangerous one.” Despite the temper in his voice, he moved slowly and

gently, but she couldn’t hold back shivers of reaction as he pulled out. Normally he’d press his big,

warm hand between her legs and massage her as he vacated, to make it nice for her, maybe get her off

one more time. But tonight he eased out and left her there, knees bent, legs spread, body aching like a

wound.

She sat up and glared a hole through the back of his head while he turned and disposed of the

condom. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Christ, I should paddle your ass for real. Dancing around tonight in that outfit, teasing every cock

in the place.” He faced forward again and raked her with his gaze, and the heat of it sent a wave of

longing to her overstimulated clit.

To cover the reaction, she tossed her hair back and laughed. “Are you jealous, Ian?” Hopefully

nothing in her expression gave away how deeply she wanted him to say Hell yes.

She must have fooled him because he grabbed her jaw and brought her face close to his. “I’m

wondering if you’ve lost your mind, coming out tonight without any security, dancing with total

strangers. Letting them put their hands on you. Especially now, with some freak sending you threats

and ultimatums, possibly stalking you. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Feeling miserable and mean, and more than a little humiliated by her own actions, she said the first

thing that sprang to mind. “The only stalker I see tonight is a jealous ex who can’t stand to let me have

some fun.”

He released her face as if she’d burned him. “Why do you always do this? Why do you have to take

genuine emotion—genuine concern—and twist it into something ugly?”

“It’s my special gift. Thank God you’re rid of me—”

He slammed his mouth down on hers. Whatever else she might have uttered flew right out of her

head. Good. She didn’t want to think anyway, and she definitely didn’t want to talk. She speared her

fingers into his hair and kissed him back, reveling in his rough, barely controlled response. Time spun

away, and she let it go without a backward glance, until the sweet, hot tension between them turned

urgent. Something had to give.

Unshed tears burned behind her eyelids because she knew that something couldn’t be her. She tore

her mouth free. “Admit it. The letter is the only reason you’re here.”

On a strangled oath, he abruptly rolled off her and rubbed his hand over his face. She recognized

the bone-deep fatigue and pent-up frustration in the gesture and tamped down on the impulse to gather

him into her arms and tell him it was okay. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her, even

though he’d ripped her heart to shreds without even trying. Instead, she stood and concentrated on

putting her costume back in order.

When the silence stretched to the point she thought her nerves would snap, she broke down like the

masochist she was, and pressed for a confirmation she really couldn’t bear to hear. “Nailed it on the

first guess, right? You’re here because Kylie told you about the letter. Well, you can take yourself off

bodyguard duty. I’ve got my shit handled.”

Ian sat with his head tipped back against the seat of the chair, staring at the ceiling. “I’m here

because I’m in love with you. I couldn’t stay away.”

She fumbled the wings. They slipped from her shaking hands and fell to the floor. This was starting

to sound like a grand gesture. But for all the wrong reasons, an unsentimental inner voice insisted.

Look at the timing. He did a fast, easy fade until the stalker cropped up. Now he’s worried about

you, and you just fucked his brains out. His protective instincts are driving this, not his head or

his heart.

“Ian—”

“And you love me.” He raised his head, his eyes full of challenge. “Don’t deny it. God forbid you

ever say the words out loud, to me or anybody else, but don’t look me in the face and deny it.”

Panic started in her stomach and rolled into her chest, creating a sudden tightness. “I-I don’t—”

He simply shook his head. “You’re a good actress, Stace, but not that good. Why are you doing this

to us?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, but there was nothing she could do about them. “It’s not you. It’s

me.” God, did she really just say that?

“Did you take off because I asked you to move in with me? Because that’s negotiable, in terms of

timing, and location, and—”

“No.” So much for grand gestures. “Ian, it’s nothing you did, or said.”

“Was it—” He stopped, drew in an unsteady breath, and she knew, she just knew, whatever he said

next was going to break her heart into a thousand pieces. “Was it…meeting my parents?”

Confessions, apologies, insecurities…the whole ugly mess…lodged in her throat like a cold, hard

ball. She had to get out of there now, before she dropped to her knees, spilled her guts, and made a

fool of herself.

“Your parents are wonderful,” she whispered. “They’re perfect. And I’m…I’m sorry.”

With that she ran out the door.

…

Ian took a step toward the door before he remembered he didn’t have any pants on. Shit… He had to

get out there, in case her letter writer had any plans for tonight. Thankfully, there were a couple

hundred eyewitnesses just outside the door. Only a magician would be able to make a move without a

few dozen people in the vicinity noticing a gorgeous blond angel pitching a fit and screaming her

lungs out. Plus Trevor was out there. And Kylie. Stacy wouldn’t get far.

He flopped down in the chair, took a deep breath, and coughed up a sound somewhere between a

laugh and a groan. His chest ached like he’d taken a bullet at close range. He sat there for a moment,

rubbing his sternum with the heel of his hand and sucking in air. Move, for Christ’s sake . Look at

him, sitting half-naked on some fugly chair where God knows what had taken place, while his heart

slowly bled out of his chest.

Shoving the pain aside, he got up and pulled on his clothes. It was his parents. He’d wondered, but

dismissed the notion because the day of the barbecue had gone so well. His mom and dad knew all

about Stacy. They’d been listening to him ramble on about her for months, and they’d been both

excited and nervous to meet her. They’d loved her, of course, just as he did. But not in an obligatory,

“If you love her, we love her” kind of way. No, he thought as he secured the Velcro strap of his ankle

holster and tucked his gun in. They’d genuinely appreciated her humor, her sense of fun, and,

according to his mom, “The way she smiles at you with her heart in her eyes when she thinks

nobody’s looking.”

She did love him. True, she’d never said so, but even tonight, she hadn’t denied it. She thought his

parents were “wonderful,” and they were…so what about them had her running for the door?

He honestly didn’t know.

But he couldn’t waste any more time sitting there, trying to figure it out. They would talk things out

later, he vowed, but for now, Stacy needed protection, even if she thought she had it handled—

whatever that meant. Thinking about how she might have “handled it” scared him enough to hurry. He

shoved his shoes on and headed to the door. Calm, he counseled himself as he grabbed the knob.

Uptight cops made piss-poor decisions.

As soon as he opened the door, however, his stomach knotted. The crowd inside the club had

grown since they’d taken their little time-out. People clogged the hallway outside the VIP rooms.

Beyond that, more people…crammed together at the bar, packed onto the dance floor, flowing into

every nook and cranny of the club. This many people created cover, and confusion, not safety. His

chances of finding anyone, particularly someone hoping to avoid him, looked to be somewhere

between shit and outta luck.

He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and sent Trevor a text. What’s your 20?

The incoming text came right back. Bar.

Down the hall, to the right. Simple, except for the wall of humanity in his way. He started the slow,

sweaty slog and texted back, Stacy?

Not with you?

He stifled a curse, and the urge to text back a pissy “Would I have asked if she was with me?”

Instead, he typed, No. See her?

It took a few moments, but Trevor came back with No.

The breath he didn’t realize he held drained out of him like a slow leak. Dammit. He had a bad

feeling.

His partner texted again, in his annoying thirteen-year-old-girl style. U let her shake u? Not smart.

No kidding. Don’t move, he typed. I’m coming to you.

Impatience built as he shouldered his way to the bar. Just walking from A to B constituted a full-

contact sport. He endured more than a few elbows to his ribs, high heels trampling his toes, a half-

dozen ass grabs, and one anonymous hand of undetermined gender groping his crotch.

Finally, he shoved through to where Trevor stood scanning the crowd.

“Spotted her?” Stupid question, Ian knew, because he couldn’t see her, and Trevor was only a

couple inches taller. His view wouldn’t be materially different.

“No. But don’t worry yet. Kylie went to the ladies’ room with Lee Ann and Ginger. They probably

ran into her there.”

His nerves jittered. “Text her and find out.”

Now Trevor turned and looked at him. “She doesn’t have her phone.”

“What?” True, Stacy hadn’t been carrying hers either, but Kylie was the responsible twin.

“You saw what she’s wearing. You think she’s got a BlackBerry built into her shoe?”

“I was hoping.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble. I don’t suppose Stacy told you what she did on her way in to the

party?”

The bad feeling came back. Stronger. “She said something about handling her pen pal.”

“She scooped him. He threatened to reveal that she used to strip for a living. Stacy decided to

break the news herself, so she rolled out of the limo this evening and held herself a press conference,

during which she mentioned she’d spent two years dancing at Deuces.”

He actually felt the color drain out of his face. “Holy shit. Exactly why am I not supposed to be

worried yet?”

Trevor shrugged, but returned to inspecting the crowd. “She could be right. Now that he’s got no

hammer to hold over her, he’ll lose interest.”

“Maybe. Or could be he’ll choose a more direct method of forcing her out of the picture?” He took

a deep breath and realized her smell lingered on him like a ghost. The thought sent sharp claws

skittering up his spine. “He could move in for the kill tonight—literally—and nobody would realize

anything had happened until…” The rest of the words hung there, unspoken…until it was too late.

Adrenaline surged through his bloodstream, making it impossible to stand still. “You stay here. I’m

going to circle over to the restrooms, see if I can catch them and find out if Stacy’s with them—”

“Hold up, Detective,” Trevor slapped a restraining hand to Ian’s chest. “They could be headed

back here as we speak.”

“If they’re on their way back to the bar, I’ll intercept them.”

“Doubtful. Intercepting anyone in this crowd would be like finding a needle in a haystack. You’ll

just end up passing them, and then having to make your way right back here. Stay put until they come

back. If Stacy’s with them, great. If she’s not, then we’ll break the club down into three zones, fan out,

and conduct a logical, methodical search.”

He knew Trevor’s approach made sense, and going off half-cocked on a solo search amounted to a

giant waste of time and energy, but standing there, waiting, taxed his patience.

After an eternity he saw the pointy top of Ginger’s witch hat cut through the crowd and come their

way. Kylie followed, then Lee Ann, and then…nobody. He wanted to put his fist through the bar.

Trevor aimed a warning glance at him and turned to Kylie. “Have you seen Stacy?”

Kylie’s big blue eyes shifted to Ian and widened. “I saw her with you. I watched you two leave the

stage together.”

He pretty much had to read her lips. Trevor’s low voice carried decently well over the noise of the

club, but Kylie’s lighter, higher tone got lost in the din.

“They got separated,” Trevor offered, diplomatically succinct.

“She’s got to be here. She wouldn’t leave without telling me.”

Yeah. Not willingly. Kylie’s expression assured him there was at least one person in the club as

anxious about Stacy being MIA as he was, but he didn’t take any comfort in the realization.

“Kylie told us about the creepy letter,” Ginger said. “Do you think a guy who gets his rocks off

putting a bunch of threats on paper would actually show up tonight and make trouble?”

“It’s possible,” Trevor replied. “This person might feel the need to witness firsthand what kind of

reaction his letter caused, or he might want some kind of acknowledgement.”

“We’ll help look for her,” Lee Ann offered. She gestured to Ginger. “We’ll go back and check the

restroom.”

“You have a phone?” Ian asked.

Lee Ann nodded and pulled hers out of her white cowboy boot. “Always, sugar.”

He nodded, waited while Trevor took her number, and sent them both a text. He replied and looked

at Lee Ann. “Got it?”

“Got it,” she confirmed.

“Okay.” Turning to Trevor and Kylie, he said, “I’ll go this way. You two take the middle. We’ll all

meet back here. Text if you find her.”

Ginger squeezed his arm, and then she and Lee Ann were gone. Trevor took Kylie’s hand and

pulled her away. She trailed behind, craning her neck to give him an anxious look before the crowd

swallowed her up. He took a deep breath and plunged into the fray.

Chapter Seven

Stacy pushed her way through a jungle of humanity. Her head wasn’t liking the whole vertical thing

too much anymore, and her stomach wanted her to rethink the three drinks, but she kept moving.

The bone-jarring beat of the music made her head pound. The flashing lights assaulted her eyes. She

swallowed hard and put her chin to her chest.

God, she felt awful. Her mind tossed out a fantasy of Ian coming up behind her, scooping her into

his arms, and carrying her out into the blissfully cool, head-clearing air. He’d put her down and take

her hand. Then he’d tell her he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her past, he only cared about her future…

and he’d ask her to marry him and share it with him. She’d wrap her arms around his neck, bury her

face against his chest, and tell him she loved him. She’d always loved him, and, for her, there would

never be anyone else. He’d drive her home, tuck her into his bed, and hold her close for the rest of the

night, and the next night…and the rest of their lives.

Let go of the grand-gesture fantasy. It’s not gonna happen . Fate didn’t arrange happy-ever-after

endings for girls like her, and she couldn’t let herself believe differently just because he’d shown up

tonight. She had her Worst Nightmare to thank for that. Were it not for the threat, he’d clearly been

prepared to do precisely what she’d asked him to do—leave her alone. Once he realized she’d

eliminated the threat with her preemptive strike, Ian could go back to leaving her alone.

The already impossible-to-navigate interior of the club blurred behind a stinging sheen of tears.

She squeezed her eyes shut and gave up fighting her way through the crowd like a salmon swimming

upstream. Instead, she let the momentum of the people around her carry her in whatever direction

prevailed. Go with the flow for a minute, get yourself together.

A sharp pain slashed across her left side. “Ow!” She sucked in a breath and turned, ready to tell the

gladiator standing beside her to watch it with the sword, but before she could open her mouth,

something cold and hard pressed into her spine. At the same time, a low, harsh voice whispered,

“Keep walking.”

“What?” She tried to turn the other way now, but the unyielding rod dug into her back and the voice

said, “That’s a gun, and I’m your worst nightmare. Unless you want me to blow a hole through you

right now, don’t turn around. Don’t make a sound. Keep your mouth shut and walk.”

My worst nightmare? Her heart froze, her lungs stopped working, and she completely forgot about

the pain in her side. A gun? All three drinks in her stomach immediately reversed course. She bent

forward and threw up, while little gray dots swam at the edges of her vision. She would have gone

down completely, but her assailant grabbed her hair and pulled her head up. Hard.

“I said walk!” The gun stabbed into the center of her back and sent another spear of agony along her

side. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but managed to stay on her feet.

Her side was killing her, but if she refused to take another step, the maniac behind her could shoot

her down in the middle of Deuces and disappear in the ensuing chaos. The chances of surviving a

bullet fired point-blank into her spine didn’t sound good.

She looked right, then left, without turning her head, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kylie, or Trevor,

Ginger, Vern…anyone who would recognize she was in trouble. She couldn’t find a soul.

The flashing lights and constant movement of the crowd worked against her. Nobody in the tightly

packed club could tell there was a gun-wielding, crazy nut on her ass. Even if someone came up from

behind, her stupid wings covered the gun.

Could she reach out and grab on to some of the people around her, and try to get their help? Sure,

but unless they also had guns, incredible instincts, and some awfully quick reflexes, the psychopath

behind her would simply shoot several people instead of just one. She couldn’t let that happen. Too

bad she’d left one of the only people who had the kind of instincts and reflexes she needed sitting

half-naked in the VIP room.

A rough hand shoved her in the direction of the door leading backstage. Stacy resisted. Normally

the backstage area bustled with activity. But tonight, with the party out front and no performances

scheduled, the narrow hallway would be a dead zone. No performers, no techs, no runners…no help.

Nothing. She liked her odds better right here in the main part of the club.

Resistance earned her another jab with the pistol, which sent more pain ricocheting along her side.

“Go through the damn door, or I’ll put a hole in you,” came the cold, hollow voice again.

Stacy’s sweaty palm slipped off the knob on the first attempt. She got another grip and tried again.

“I can’t. It’s locked.”

She jumped and gasped when a booted foot shot past her and connected with the door, just above

the knob. The flimsy lock popped and the door swung in. “I’ve got the key,” her captor taunted, and

shoved her into the hallway.

She realized the voice belonged to a woman. The knowledge sent her fear skyrocketing. Something

told her Worst Nightmare wasn’t an obsessive admirer trying to save her from the evils of

Hollywood, or a member of the morality police, determined to punish her for her immodest past. No,

this was personal. Had she slept with the woman’s boyfriend? Stripped for her husband? Maybe he

sat on the couch every Thursday night and ignored her while he watched Vegas Vixens? She honestly

didn’t have a clue—didn’t even know who the crazy bitch was—but it hit her with sudden certainty

that one of her choices, somewhere along the line, was about to come back and bite her in a big

way…a big, deadly way.

…

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Stacy, where are you? Ian cut a path through zombies, mummies, and vampires,

scouring his search area for any sign of her. There was none. To compound his apprehension, his

phone remained frustratingly silent. The secret hope he’d harbored that she’d sneaked away to a stall

in the ladies’ room to put herself together and curse him to hell and back waned with each passing

second.

If anything happened to her, he’d…he didn’t know what he’d do. His hand shook as he shoved it

through his hair, pulling hard at the roots until his scalp screamed. They had to find her. End of

discussion. There was no way his last interaction with the love of his life could take place in a back

room at a strip club, her staring at him with a heartbreaking expression on her face, saying, “I’m

sorry.”

Absolutely not. He’d find her. And when he did, he’d sit her down and they’d have an honest talk—

no more games or tactics. He’d ask her, point-blank, what the hell part of their relationship scared

her, and then he’d do whatever it took to calm the fear. They belonged together. They made each other

happy. That wasn’t his selfish needs talking, but pure, indisputable fact.

The door leading backstage caught his eye. No security posted there, of course, because Vern made

money optimizing the black ink on the club’s income statement, so he tended to go cheap on stuff like

security. He relied on his bouncers to do periodic sweeps.

Someone had left the door hanging open, which was a no-no on any night, for the dancers’ security,

but with all shows canceled tonight, nobody had a legitimate reason to be back there. He checked in

with Trevor and the girls by text as he moved to the door. Nobody had seen Stacy. Ginger and Lee

Ann were headed back to the bar in case she turned up there. Trevor and Kylie were on their way to

the front of the club, to see if Stacy had gone outside for some air.

I’m checking backstage, he texted, and nudged the door open.

Chapter Eight

Stacy moved as slowly as she dared down the dim, narrow hallway, ever mindful of the gun pressed

to her back. Cold seeped into her limbs, even as her side burned with a hot, persistent pain. She

wrapped her arm around her middle and pressed her hand to the ache. Something warm and sticky

pooled between her fingers. She lifted her hand away and squinted. Blood. She looked down at

herself. A crimson stain bloomed over the left side of her white dress.

“I’m bleeding,” she said lamely.

The comment earned her a shove. “You’ll bleed even more if you don’t keep moving.”

Right. Worst Nightmare had cut her with something before drawing the gun just to make extra sure

she’d be in too weak a state to fight back. The odds of her walking away from this encounter shrank a

little more. Don’t give up. Unfortunately, a detached, fuzzy-headed sensation made formulating a plan

difficult. Blood loss? Shock? It hardly mattered. Knowing the cause of her symptoms didn’t do

anything to fix them.

Talk! her mind ordered, and she opened her mouth to obey. Then, in the next instant, a competing

instinct warned, Don’t. Your mouth gets you into trouble.

Probably good advice, but she found she couldn’t march meekly to a quiet, deserted corner and let

Worst Nightmare put a bullet in her. She had to speak up, try to slow this runaway train down. Kylie,

Trevor, and Ian would link up at some point, realize she was nowhere to be found, and, please God…

start looking for her. If she could just stall, and give them time to find her…

“Wh-why are you doing this?”

She received a whack in the back of the head with the gun in response. “Shut up. Keep walking.”

A wave of dizziness crashed over her. She sagged against the wall. Only sheer stubbornness

stopped her from curling into a ball and surrendering. She refused to give the crazy bitch the

satisfaction of breaking her, so she dug in and waited for the hallway to stop teetering like a Tilt-A-

Whirl. Eventually the dizziness subsided enough to allow her to straighten.

“If you fracture my skull, I’m not going to be able to walk anywhere,” she pointed out, impressed at

how steady her voice sounded.

“Then I’ll drag you.”

Over my dead body. She pushed off the wall, placed one foot in front of the other, and made her

way along the hallway. At least she knew the layout of the backstage area. Not that familiarity gave

her much of an edge, because during two years of dancing at Deuces, she’d never discovered a magic

portal to safety tucked behind the blackout curtain, but she considered it a small factor in her favor.

She kept her head bowed, in part to look compliant and in part to try to get a lock on Worst

Nightmare’s exact position behind her.

White wisps of…something…floated to the floor behind her. Whatever they were, they seemed to

glow in the gloom. Feathers. Her wings were shedding. A bubble of hope rose in her chest. If

anybody came backstage looking for her, they might spot the feathers and follow. Sure, it was a long

shot, a damn small detail to pin all her prayers on, but right now, it was all she had. Ian was smart.

He noticed small details.

A memory floated through her mind, rising above the pain and terror of her situation. The first time

she’d spent the night at Ian’s place. They hadn’t been together long—just a month—and all their

previous overnighters had taken place at her apartment. Backassward arrangement, since Kylie had

been her roommate at the time, while Ian had lived alone. But her twin had spent most of her nights at

Trevor’s place, and Ian had knocked her off her game so badly she’d clung to the home-court

advantage like a security blanket. Still, on that first morning at his place, she’d wandered into his

bathroom after a knee-weakening session of wake-up sex, and found her favorite soap, shampoo, and

conditioner in the shower. Yes, he noticed small details. He drew the lines, made the connections. A

guy like Ian knew something innocuous could send a big message, like “I care about you and I want

you to stick around.”

She wanted to stick around too. She crossed her arm over her stomach, as if pressing her hand to

her injured side, but every few steps, she used her fingertips to dislodge more feathers from the inside

of her wing. Yes, Ian was observant, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t give him all the help she

could.

If he came looking…if anyone did. They might simply assume she’d left without a word—another

selfish, irresponsible stunt from do-as-she-pleased Stacy. What if she’d tested everyone’s patience

one too many times? Was anyone even worried about her, much less riding to her rescue?

As if to prove the thought, Worst Nightmare grabbed a handful of Stacy’s hair and brought her to a

halt. Another tug yanked her head around until she faced the wall. Her eyes automatically refocused,

but she knew where she was even without the benefit of twenty-twenty vision. Narrow metal rungs

stretched up the wall and led to a small, wooden platform twenty-five feet overhead. The lighting

techs used it to access the long lighting rig suspended from the ceiling over the stage.

“Climb.”

Oh, no. No one would see them up there. “I can’t. I’m afraid of heights.” Also, she was in no

condition to scramble up a straight-vertical ladder. Numb hands, shaky legs, and the unrelenting pain

in her side made the climb risky.

She released a shuddery breath when the pressure of the gun disappeared from the center of her

back. Her shoulders dropped and she relaxed infinitesimally, just knowing the damn thing wasn’t

poised to blow a hole through—

The cold, unforgiving metal pressed against her temple, scattering her thoughts like seagulls. She

heard the click of the safety release.

“Climb or die.”

“Okay, okay.” The words scraped along her tight, dry throat. Turned out her fear of bullets trumped

her fear of heights. She clasped the nearest rung in a bloody grip. “I’ll climb.”

Working her way up the ladder took even more effort than she’d anticipated. Escape scenarios

cartwheeled through her mind too quickly for her to get a solid hold on any one plan.

Stay calm. Easier thought than done, but she slowed the chatter in her head to something she could

at least track.

Worst Nightmare was right behind her on the ladder. Could she land a good, solid kick to the

bitch’s head and knock her off the ladder? Wouldn’t a fall from even halfway up incapacitate anyone?

She glanced down to gauge kicking distance. Big mistake. Not only was Worst Nightmare smart

enough to stay a few rungs out of range, but the sudden awareness of how high she was made the

ladder dip and sway like a rope dangling from a helicopter…during a category-five hurricane. She

clung to the rungs and prayed. Thoughts about knocking anyone off the ladder flew right out of her

mind. She needed to concentrate on keeping herself from falling.

“Keep moving,” an impatient voice ordered from below.

Gritting her teeth, she resumed climbing.

She had accomplished one thing with her aborted escape attempt. She’d gotten a better look at

Worst Nightmare. The woman’s height, weight, and identity remained unknown, because the angle and

the overall gloom made a clear view impossible, but now she knew her attacker wore a nun’s habit,

like some sort of crazy, holy judge. The surreal image somehow made her predicament all the more

terrifying. Dread shot threw her and she practically flew up the last few rungs.

Getting from the ladder to the platform involved twisting sideways, grabbing the rails surrounding

the platform, and pulling herself over. As soon as she got her hands around the rails, a solid weight

struck her from behind and sent her sprawling onto the platform. She landed hard on her left side.

Pain flared, and then spread like wildfire as a body landed on top of her, forced her face down, and

straddled her. Survival instincts trumped pain, and she struggled, trying to dislodge the nun from hell.

A hand fisted in her hair and slammed her forehead into the wooden floor. Fireworks exploded in

front of her eyes a second before she felt the unmistakable imprint of the gun’s barrel digging into her

right temple. The prospect of a bullet in her brain drained the fight out of her. She stilled and

concentrated on catching her breath.

The grim voice echoed close to her ear. “I’m going to stand up. And then you’re going to do the

same. Nice and slow. Got it?”

She nodded.

“One wrong move and I put a hole in your fucking head. Understand?”

Stacy swallowed hard and nodded again. The weight of the other woman’s body lifted off her and

the hand tangled in her hair pulled viciously, forcing her to her feet. They did a quick shuffle, until

Worst Nightmare had her where she wanted her. Once she did, the woman let go, pivoted right, and

aimed the gun at her temple in a steady, two-handed grip. Somewhere behind her was the open side of

the platform, which enabled the lighting technicians to access the network of bars and wires housing

the stage lights.

A desire to turn her head and get a good look at Worst Nightmare proved nearly irresistible, but the

proximity of the gun kept her from moving a muscle. You’re one twitchy trigger finger away from

having nothing to lose. Don’t move . Relying on restraint from a homicidal nun struck her as crazy.

Not homicidal-nun crazy, but right up there.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish, but your big plans to ruin my reputation

and career are over. My producers already knew about my past. I spoke to the press tonight and now

my fans know too.”

“I’m aware. Why do you think I’m here?” Fury caused her voice to go high and ragged on the

question. “I didn’t want things to come to this, but you made the choice, Stacy. I asked one simple

thing of you—go back to the little shithole you crawled out of and stay there—but could you do it?

No. You opened your big mouth, talked to the media, and tried to take charge, because clearly, you

don’t understand who’s in control here. So fine,” she breathed deeply, “we’ll do this the hard way.”

From the corner of her eye, Stacy saw her tighten her grip on the gun. Sweet Jesus, was the

conversation over already? “Wait! Tell me why? At least have the guts to look me in the face and tell

me why you want to get rid of me.”

A tense silence stretched for several heartbeats, and then the gun began an unhurried journey around

her forehead, until they stood face-to-face. Worst Nightmare drew the gun back a couple inches.

Stacy’s universe collapsed to the single black hole directly in her line of sight. A twisting cramp

turned her insides to liquid. It was one thing knowing some maniac had a gun aimed at her head, but

staring down the barrel offered a whole different level of terror. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink.

She shifted her eyes from the gun to the woman standing wielding it.

“Oh, my God.” Recognition hit her like a fist to the stomach. “You?”

…

Ian bit back a curse as he examined the broken lock. Kicked in? He pulled his gun and crept through

the door, keeping low. Since nobody shot him in the head the moment he cleared the threshold, he

swept left with his gun, then right. No sign of anyone.

He straightened, stuck his gun into the back of his jeans, and debated his choices. Vern’s office and

the dancers’ dressing room were down the hallway to the left. The hallway on his right led to the

stage, and beyond that, another narrow hall led to the back door of the club.

Instinct told him to go right, since that direction ultimately led to an exit. He shot off a text to

Trevor. Door’s busted. Get back here. Don’t bring Kylie . He didn’t wait for a reply, just tucked the

phone in his pocket and started down the hall, scanning in every direction as he went. A few steps

along, he glanced down and froze. What the hell…? He crouched and picked up a small white feather.

His heart thundered in his chest. Stacy’s wings were covered with white feathers. He continued

down the hallway. A couple feet farther, he saw another feather…and another. He drew in a breath to

call out to her, but then his gaze snagged on another clump of feathers, and his voice died in his throat.

Something dark coated these. Something like oil…or… He picked one up and held it close to his

face.

An invisible fist grabbed his gut and squeezed. Oh, God. Blood. He ran his finger over the wispy

plumes. Claret red smeared his skin. Fresh blood.

He dropped the feather. Every instinct clamored to tear off down the hall, but the calm, logical

detective inside him took charge and forced him to slow down. His tactical training dictated he take

some precautions, like putting backup in place first. He spent a precious minute texting Trevor again.

Where r u?

Come quietly, from outside door. Stay sharp. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket and pulled

out his gun.

Chapter Nine

“Why are you doing this?” Stacy asked, still not quite trusting her eyes.

Mandy sneered. “Because you’re nothing but a greedy, trashy whore. You slithered into this town,

flashed your tits and ass, and stole everything I worked for. Everything I deserved.”

“I didn’t.” The accusation didn’t make any sense. She’d had her low moments, and, yes, even

broken the law on a few occasions, but she’d never resorted to thievery. Ever.

Careful. Do NOT start an argument with the crazy bitch , her voice of reason counseled. Then her

mouth took over. “That’s bullshit. I’ve never stolen anything in my life.” Crap.

Her quiet, mousy assistant slapped her across the face. “Liar! You think I don’t know what you

are?”

She resisted the reflex to press her palm to her burning cheek. The slap felt and sounded odd, not

quite skin-on-skin. She stared at Mandy’s hand and frowned. Her assistant wore thin latex gloves.

Nausea swirled as she digested the significance of that information. No fingerprints. “W-what am I?”

“You’re a sociopath. You have no concern for the effects of your behavior on others. People are

nothing but tools to you, and if they can’t help you further your own agenda, then you don’t even see

them. Knowing that made everything easy for me.”

I’m the sociopath? “I don’t understand—”

“You assumed I was a pathetic, self-conscious wallflower, hoping to get a shred of excitement out

of being your assistant, because that’s what I wanted you to think. But you’re wrong. I’m an actress,

and a damn good one. Not that I needed to be, in your case. You were so ridiculously easy to fool. A

little hair dye, some colored contacts, a crappy wardrobe, and I might as well have been invisible to

you. You still don’t recognize me, do you?”

Stacy shook her head. “You’re…Mandy Waltrip, my assistant.”

The manic laugh Mandy let loose chilled her blood. “You really are stupid. I’m Amanda Walters.

You and I attended the same acting classes, workshops, we even worked together once on a student

film. And you know what? Everybody says I’m the better actress. Everybody.”

Amanda Walters? Stacy searched her memory, trying to put a face to the name. A vague picture of a

perky, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl-next-door type formed in her mind. She compared the woman in

front of her with the mental image. Yes, they could be the same woman.

“I auditioned for the part of Nichole in Vegas Vixens ,” Mandy continued. “I met with the director,

the producers…my agent told me the part was mine. There was one more girl they had to audition, as

a favor to her agent, but that was just a formality. I’d won the role. I called my parents, my friends,

everyone. They were all so happy and proud of me.” A tear trickled down Mandy’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Stacy said, cautiously. “I didn’t know.” There was no way they’d ever been in serious

contention for the same part. Amanda Walters was Doris Day to her Marilyn Monroe. Except, of

course, in this case Doris had a dark side.

“You stole it from me! I’m Nichole. I’m the good girl. You swooped in, seduced somebody who

made the decisions, and took my part from me.”

Mandy’s voice pitched wildly as she spouted her accusations. But the good girl’s gun hand

remained level and steady.

“I didn’t seduce anyone,” Stacy insisted. “I went in, I read, and I got the part. I didn’t even know

who else was up for the role. And I can’t tell you how many times I thought I’d nailed an audition,

been promised the part, only to get a call from my agent a few days later and learn it went to someone

else. That’s all part of the Hollywood hazing.”

“No. It’s how you operate. You use sex to get what you want, and you don’t care who you hurt in

the process.”

“I have a lot of flaws, Mandy, but I’ve never screwed my way into a job, or deliberately tried to

screw anybody else out of one. That’s not the kind of woman I am.”

“Don’t make me laugh.” But Mandy wasn’t laughing, or crying anymore, for that matter. She was

deadly calm again, her stony-faced, sitting-in-judgment expression all the scarier now that Stacy had

glimpsed the freak show going on behind the facade. “You’re the kind of woman who works at a club

like Deuces, stripping for money and leading men astray by appealing to their basest desires, so don’t

even try to convince me you’re too moral for the casting couch, because we both know better. It’s

completely twisted, you, playing the good girl on Vixens. America rooting for Nichole to keep her

innocence despite all the sleazy behavior she’s surrounded by. Won’t the viewers be surprised to

meet the real Nichole and discover she’s as sleazy as they come?”

No amount of arguing would change Mandy’s mind. She’d only succeed in riling her attacker. She

needed a plan of action. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with any good options. A head-on

assault would be suicide. Might as well put the gun in her mouth and pull the trigger herself. Even if

she managed to surprise Mandy and, best-case scenario, knock her off her feet, between the side

wound and her adversary’s strength, there was no way she’d succeed in overpowering and disarming

her. She’d probably pass out during the struggle and that would be that.

All she could do was try appeasing her captor to buy more time.

“I’ll admit when I want something, I go after it with everything I’ve got, and my boundaries might

not have always been where they should have. But I spoke to the press tonight and announced I used

to strip here, so you win. Now everyone knows my past, what kind of choices I’ve made. You’ve

helped me see the error of my ways. Believe me, Mandy, I’ve learned my lesson. Let’s talk about

how to get us both what we deserve.”

Mandy didn’t blink. “I’m not here to teach you a lesson. That time has passed.” She stepped closer,

so close Stacy smelled the woman’s Listerine breath. “And you’re going to get exactly what you

deserve.”

That sounded bad.

“I’ll resign from the show,” she volunteered, voice desperate to her own ears, “just like you

wanted. We’ll go to my place. I’ll write my resignation and e-mail it to my agent. Then I’ll disappear.

I’ll never come between you and a role again.”

“No. You certainly won’t,” Mandy agreed, and stretched her lips into a wide, sharklike smile. She

pressed the gun to Stacy’s forehead—right between her eyes. “But it’s too late to walk away. That

offer came off the table the minute you spoke to the press and forced us into this little one-on-one

conversation. Do you think I’m crazy? You’ve seen me. You know who I am. Turn around and climb

over the railing.”

Blood rushed out of her head, leaving an echo chamber between her ears. “What?” Her numb lips

had a hard time forming the word. The only thing on the other side of the railing was the lighting rig,

which hung suspended from the ceiling and extended almost the entire length of the stage. Other than

that, nothing but twenty-five feet of free fall stood between the platform and the stage below. “I can’t

climb over the railing. I’ll fall.”

“That’s the idea. Everyone will think you jumped to your death.”

“You don’t think they’ll notice someone stabbed me, and figure maybe I had some help?” She

gestured to her bloody side.

Mandy smiled and pulled a kitchen knife out of the folds of the habit. “You stabbed yourself, in an

overdramatic suicide attempt, but when you realized you lacked the courage to inflict a fatal wound,

you jumped instead.” She held the knife up for inspection, and Stacy recognized it as one from her

own kitchen.

“I took it tonight on my way to the limo, after I overheard you tell Kylie you planned to talk to the

press.” She tossed the weapon behind her on the platform, where it landed with a hollow thud, and

then she waved her gloved hand at Stacy. “No prints on the thing, except…hmm…yours.”

“Why go to all this trouble? Why not just hide out in my house and kill me in my sleep?”

“You die at home, under suspicious circumstances, and I’m the first person the cops question. You

off yourself at some Halloween sleaze-fest, after…let’s add everything up.” She raised her index

finger. “Breaking up with your boyfriend last month”—she raised another finger—“confessing your

sinful past to the world tonight”—another finger—“downing several drinks in front of hundreds of

eyewitnesses”—and, one last finger—“heading to the VIP room for a cheap hookup with a stranger.”

She shook her head sadly. “Nobody questions your suicide. You’re clearly a woman in crisis.”

Ian would. He’d question until his dying day. Because as much as she’d tried to convince them both

otherwise, they were so not over, and he knew it. Funny how standing on the wrong end of a gun

snapped certain things into perfect focus.

“Party’s over,” Mandy said, and gave Stacy a shove. She stumbled and lost her balance. Her arms

windmilled for a suspended moment as she fought for footing. Her heels slid off the platform. She

screamed and fell backward into open air.

…

Ian hurried down the passageway toward the stage, hugging the wall and keeping his steps quick and

light. He doubted anyone would hear him coming over the noise of the party, but he didn’t plan on

leaving it to chance.

The passageway widened at the back of the stage. A retractable metal security gate spanned the

stage to prevent anyone from moving the festivities to the backstage area. The blackout curtain hung

just beyond the security gate. He wrapped his hand around a slat and gave the gate a shake, testing it.

Fully secure, with very little give. No one had slipped into or out of the backstage area through there.

He worked his fingers between the slats, moved the curtain aside and looked out. A sea of zombies,

ghouls, princesses, and pirate wenches danced under flashing purple lights. Nothing unusual.

His phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. A text from Trevor read,

At the back door. Wait for me . For a nanosecond he considered waiting, because, procedurally,

Trevor was in the right. Smart cops didn’t rush headlong into an unknown situation without someone

a t their back. But the bloody feathers spelled emergency in big, flashing letters. He couldn’t stand

there with his thumb up his ass while time ran out for Stacy.

Another hallway extended from the other side of the stage, and led to the back door of the club. If

whoever grabbed Stacy managed to get her out the door…he refused to let his mind go there. They’d

have to get through Trevor, and that wouldn’t happen. He hurried across the stage and into the second

hallway, moving fast until a realization struck and stopped him in his tracks. No feathers. He looked

around. There were absolutely no feathers in the hall.

He retraced his steps, back down the hall, across the stage. Still nothing. When he reached the other

side of the stage, he stood by the last feathers in the trail and peered down the hall the way he’d

originally come. Had Stacy and her abductor doubled back toward the club while he’d charged off

down the other hall? Impossible. He’d been on high freaking alert for any signs of movement, and any

hidey-holes. There was no place for them to have stayed concealed while he’d walked past. Was

there? Could he have missed a trapdoor in the stage floor or…?

He sprinted back to the stage and quickly paced off the entire floor, all the way to the concrete-

block wall at the back. Nothing. He’d missed nothing. So where the hell was she and why did the trail

of feathers stop at the end of the first hallway?

Another few seconds brought him back to that spot. He looked to his right and saw nothing but a

solid, blank wall. He turned and looked to his left. The rungs of a narrow metal ladder extended from

the wall. Dread gripped him. Stacy didn’t like heights. She’d never attempt a climb like that by

choice. He started to look up when somebody screamed.

Chapter Ten

Stacy’s scream ended in a grunt of pain as she hit the lighting rig. One hard bounce, and then gravity

immediately sent her sliding ground-ward again. She reached up, scrambling for a hold somewhere

along the steel frame of the rig. Her right hand touched a smooth steel bar, but she couldn’t keep her

grip. The metal might as well have been coated in oil. She caught a bar with her left hand, but her

grasp couldn’t withstand the downward momentum of her body. She slipped off. Like a cartoon

character running off a cliff, she pumped her legs, stretched her arm, and snagged the last bar with the

tips of her fingers. She locked her left hand around the metal, gritted her teeth, and hung on for dear

life while she waited for the full weight of her body to test her hold.

When it did, she screamed again, this time in agony. Her side burned like she’d been stabbed with a

red-hot poker. Every molecule in her body wept, but somehow, she held on. The one-handed grip

wouldn’t last forever though. She needed both hands, and she needed them now.

Come on. You’ve danced through pain. You can do this . She swung her right arm up, but only

brushed the bar before the strain on her left arm had her lowering it again. Her fingers slipped a few

millimeters. If she didn’t get her hand on the bar with the next attempt, she’d have to hope her angel

wings worked.

This time she scissored her legs for an extra boost when she grabbed for the bar. She caught it,

slipped, tightened her grip and, yes! Held. With her right hand locked on, she finally adjusted her left

hand and secured her grasp. Good. Her weight felt evenly distributed, which took some pressure off

her side. Now, if she could just… She swung her legs back, then forward. On the next upswing, she

lifted her right foot, snagged the bar parallel to the one she held on to, and looped her leg through. She

followed suit with the left leg and hung there for a moment, sucking in oxygen and letting her arms

recover from the strain of clinging to the rig while her body had dangled.

Movement to her right drew her attention back to the platform. Mandy stepped gingerly onto the

metal framework and made her way toward Stacy.

“Jesus, you’re like a spider.”

Stacy scooted her legs farther onto the bar, flexed her arms, and struggled to pull herself upright.

Too late. Mandy crouched down and lifted the gun over her head, butt end out like a hammer. Stacy

held her breath and watched, helplessly, as Mandy brought the gun down on her right ankle. She cried

out as the impact reverberated through her body. When Mandy raised the gun again, Stacy’s pain-

avoidance instincts kicked in. She shimmied her leg free of the frame and let it hang in the air.

Her strappy, thousand-dollar shoe slipped off her foot. She watched as it fell like a stone into the

darkness below.

…

The scream from above jerked Ian’s head up, and his heart stopped. He watched helplessly as Stacy

fell from the platform into the lighting rig, caught herself, and dangled from the stage light housing, at

least two stories off the ground. He stood below, paralyzed with horror, as she struggled to pull

herself up onto the rig while a black-cloaked figure closed in on her. The sight mobilized him. He

leaped onto the ladder. At the same time, something whizzed by his head and crashed down on the

stage directly behind him. He glanced back and saw Stacy’s shoe lying on the floor. If she took her

shoe’s path down, she wouldn’t survive.

Chapter Eleven

Mandy squinted into the darkness, following the progress of the shoe, and then cursed and looked

back at Stacy. “How sweet, your boyfriend’s here to save the day. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right

back.” She scuttled off the light rig.

No fucking way. Fear for Ian gave her new strength. She swung her dangling leg back up onto the

lighting rig, and then pulled herself through the bars until she sat on top of the metal framework. The

world tilted and threatened to topple, but she put her clumsy limbs into motion and scooted back to

the platform.

Mandy squatted beside the access ladder, with her back to the rig, taking aim at Ian. She’s so

certain she’s got you beat. Figures you’re too weak to pose a threat . Her eyes landed on the kitchen

knife, lying on the platform where Mandy had tossed it. Think again, bitch.

She lunged for the knife at the same time Mandy pumped off a shot. Stacy’s heart stalled. Return

fire from below relieved and galvanized her. She grabbed the knife. Mandy edged closer to the ladder

and prepared to take another shot.

“No!” Stacy charged forward and brought the knife down with all the strength she could muster.

She aimed for a lung or a kidney, but Mandy sensed the attack and straightened at the last second, and

the blade ended up planted between her shoulders.

Mandy screamed and turned on her, eyes wild, teeth bared. “Bitch,” she muttered.

Stacy would have liked to reply, “Takes one to know one,” but there was no more spit in her mouth.

“And now you die.” Mandy raised the gun and pointed it at her head.

She stared down the barrel and swallowed bitter regret. This was it. She’d missed her chance to

tell Ian, “I love you.”

…

Ian climbed the last few feet like a monkey on crack. He hauled himself onto the platform, pulled his

gun from the waist of his jeans, and yelled, “Drop it!”

The nun didn’t drop it, and he didn’t waste time on a second warning. He fired.

The slug he put in her leg knocked it right out from under her. Her gun flew out of her hand. Stacy

dove after it, snagged the airborne weapon, and landed on her knees.

He raced toward her. From somewhere behind him he heard Trevor say, “I’ve got the nun,” and

then, thank God, he had Stacy in his arms.

“Ian,” she looked up at him with big, pain-hazed eyes, held out the gun, and gave him a weak smile.

“Good catch,” he replied, hoping to make the smile linger, but it was too late. She’d already passed

out.

Chapter Twelve

The light hum of female voices registered first, followed by the smell of roses and lilies. Stacy lay

still for a moment, kept her eyes closed, and did a quick physical inventory. Toes? Check. Fingers?

Check. Head still attached to shoulders? Check.

Best she could tell, all parts were present and accounted for. She felt stiff and groggy, like she’d

been asleep for a week, but nothing too alarming. A vague impression of Ian holding her hand and

telling her not to worry about anything danced through her mind, but she couldn’t say for sure whether

that was memory or wishful thinking. She racked her brain for something more. Other images formed

—a nurse with a short brunette bob offering her water. Kylie smiling through tears while helping

brush her teeth and hair—but no Ian.

Deciding to chance a look around, she opened her eyes, and blinked a few times to adjust to the

sudden brightness. Sunlight streamed through an unfamiliar window, below which sat a metal cabinet

holding a farmers’ market worth of flowers. “Holy crap. Am I dead?”

“What a question, Snowflake.”

She turned her head and realized the flowers were not the wildest, most colorful things in the room.

Ginger sat in a chair beside her bed, wearing short, eye-popping red spandex. Lee Ann perched on the

arm of her chair, in Daisy Dukes and a pink plaid shirt knotted under her breasts. Ari stepped to

Ginger’s other side and adjusted the thin shoulder strap of a slinky purple dress.

“Oh, my God. I am dead. I’ve died and gone to hell.”

Ari raised one perfectly plucked brow. “No. The devil did not want you.”

“That’s right, sugar. Instead, you’re stuck in the hospital for a few days. But don’t fret one little

bit.” Lee Ann smiled her big, beaming, Southern belle smile. “We’re here to help you pass the time.”

“You’re here to hit on the doctors,” she shot back, but couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

“The upside of you being here is that we can do both,” Ginger said.

Just then a humongous arrangement of white flowers waddled into the room.

“Holy shit, Vern. What did you do, mug a flower cart on your way here?”

Vern lumbered over to the flower-laden cabinet by the window and dumped his load. “Least we

could do, kid. Thanks to you, we’ve had calls for reservations tonight. Reservations! We’re a strip

club, people. We don’t take no stinking reservations.”

“What makes you think that’s because of me?”

“Last night’s escapade has been all over the news. Now every agent in Hollywood wants to come

down to Deuces and discover the next Stacy Roberts.”

Stacy laughed. “That’s…great, I guess.” Her voice trailed off because a lump suddenly wanted to

form in her throat. She took a deep breath, looked at her friends, and said quietly, “You guys are a

sight for sore eyes.”

“Uh-oh. She’s delirious,” Ginger quipped, and elbowed Ari. “We better find that cute doctor we

met on the way in and get his sexy ass down here right away.”

The brunette’s lips stretched into a slow, wicked smile. “If I find him, I don’t bring him here for a

while.”

“Yeah, yeah, I see what kind of priority I am for you girls.” She planted her hands on the mattress

and tried to push herself into a sitting position. It turned out to be a lot harder than she expected.

“Before you go seduce Dr. Feelgood, can one of you help me sit up?”

“That sounds like a job for me,” a deep voice replied. Stacy looked up to find Trevor coming

through the door, carrying an enormous bouquet of cheerful yellow sunflowers. Kylie followed,

holding three huge, happy-face Mylar balloons that read “Get,” “Well,” and “Soon.”

Stacy watched as everyone exchanged greetings and hugs. Then Kylie took the bouquet from Trevor

and walked to the window to add their arrangement to the bounty already taking up most of the surface

of the cabinet. Ginger, Ari, and Lee Ann followed to help rearrange all the flowers.

“You’re looking a little better than last time I saw you.” Trevor leaned down to kiss her cheek.

Then he slid one arm around her back, hooked the other under her knees, and lifted her higher in the

bed.

“Thanks.” She hit the button to raise the bed. “Of course, last time you saw me I probably looked

like I was about to fall off a light rig and crack my skull like an egg.”

“Yeah.” He smiled and pinched her chin. “I could go awhile without seeing that again, so in

addition to putting your Worst Nightmare in custody where she belongs, I’m putting a five-foot

vertical limit on you.”

She settled back and grinned at Kylie. “Man, he’s a tough one. Bossy.”

Kylie snuggled against his side and smiled up at him. “He has his softer side too.”

“You’re not supposed to tell anybody about that,” Trevor complained, and then tipped his bride-to-

be’s chin up and kissed her with a thoroughness that had every woman in the room sighing.

“All right, break it up, you two,” Ginger joked, and tossed a handful of rose petals up in the air so

they rained down on the lovebirds. “Save something for the wedding.”

“Can I join the party?”

Stacy’s heart stuttered at the question. She swung her eyes toward the door. There stood Ian,

leaning against the doorframe, holding a dozen red roses and looking unfairly gorgeous in wash-faded

jeans and the emerald-green cashmere crewneck she’d gotten him for Christmas last year because it

was the exact same shade as his eyes.

“Whoops, would you look at the time!” Ginger pointed to her nonexistent wristwatch. “We gotta go.

See you tomorrow, Snowflake. C’mon, Vern.”

“What? I just got here!”

Ginger elbowed him, hard, and glanced pointedly at the door.

“All right. All right. I’m going.”

The girls headed out in a flurry of hugs, good-byes, and waves.

“We better go, too,” Kylie said. “We’ve got that thing.” She tugged Trevor’s arm.

“Right. The thing. Bye, Stace. Remember, five-foot vertical limit.” He clapped a hand on Ian’s

shoulder as they passed.

Ian straightened and sent Stacy a crooked grin. “Do I know how to clear a room or what?”

She laughed, and then, to her utter horror, burst into tears.

He dropped the roses and had her carefully gathered in his arms before they hit the floor.

“It’s okay. Shh. C’mon, Stacy, don’t cry.” The low words vibrated from his chest to her cheek. His

hand rubbed slow, comforting circles over her back. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m ruining your s-s-sweater, t-that’s what. And I…I l-love you, goddammit.” Well, shit. That

hadn’t come out right.

The hand on her back stilled for a moment. His heartbeat sped up a couple notches, but all he said

was, “I know.” The response was so typically Ian—calm, cocky, completely in control—she almost

laughed. But then he followed it with, “Glad you finally worked up the courage to say the words,” and

she wanted to cry all over again, this time out of shame for how she’d handled things.

Instead she lifted her head, wiped her face, and looked at him, drinking in those patient, observant

eyes, the thick fringe of eyelashes God sometimes wasted on a man, and the firm, expressive lips. A

muscle ticked in his jaw, and she realized he wasn’t as calm and cool as he let on. She owed him an

explanation and an apology, and hoped that for once in her life she could find the right words,

because even if he’d figured out for himself a long time ago that she loved him, she’d let him think she

did so against her will, or at least her better judgment. And, honestly, that’s exactly how she’d felt.

He needed to know how much she regretted her lack of faith in them.

“I’m sorry, Ian. I should have told you a long time ago. I didn’t because I thought—I don’t know—I

was scared.”

“I know. I get that. I always knew you were holding back—”

She snorted. “You’ve had my number, right from the start.”

“I understand you, Stace, that’s all. And because I do, I knew certain things would be bigger issues

than others, like the whole ‘I love you’ thing. I thought I could afford to be patient. What I don’t

understand…what I didn’t see coming…was you walking away.” His fingers tightened the tiniest

degree on her shoulders, and the small gesture gave her a world of insight into the depth of his

frustration.

“I was afraid you’d change your mind,” she confessed. “When you asked me to move in, I thought

you were keeping your options open. I mean, marriage is a big step…a big public commitment. A

divorce takes time. But living together?” She shrugged. “It’s not so hard to just pack your stuff and

leave if things don’t work out. Not that I blame you,” she quickly added when he would have

interrupted. “The show took off practically overnight, and suddenly, I realized it was only a matter of

time before bits and pieces about my past came to light. Little details like me working at Deuces.

These were my choices, and I always considered them part of what made me…well…me—

uninhibited, a little bit wild, and shocking. But I saw how my past had the potential to embarrass or

alienate people I cared about, like you, and your family.”

“I love you, Stacy. I love that you’re uninhibited, and, yeah, a little bit wild. As for shocking,

well,” he shrugged, “I think you know by now I’m kind of hard to shock. Same goes for my family.”

Her heart soared at his words, but she shook her head. Get all the fear out. Drain it like venom.

“Your parents didn’t sign up for notoriety. How are they going to feel when someone posts a video of

me stripping on YouTube, and some tabloid reporter shoves a recorder in their faces and asks them if

I pole dance at the family barbecues?”

“Honey, if you want to pole dance at the next barbecue, my parents will install a pole. And, as

much as I hate to say it”—he grimaced—“my mom would probably be the first in line for a lesson.

She keeps talking about what a great workout it’s supposed to be. Obviously, I can’t be there for that,

or I’ll have to tear my eyes out, but—”

She thwacked the solid wall of muscle he called a chest. “Ian, I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. Look, they know. They know how we met, where you’re from, how you got your

start. Everything. They also know I love you, and you love me. That’s really all they care about.”

“I hope you’re right because they’re probably stuck with me.”

The hand at her back stilled again. “You figure?”

Now her heartbeat kicked up a notch. “If you still want to try…if you’ll still have me…I’d love to

move in with you.”

He frowned and shook his head. Her heart did a belly flop straight into her stomach. “I’m sorry, but

after everything we’ve been through, the move-in offer is no longer on the table.”

Tears threatened again, but she blinked them back. Okay, understandable. You’ll just have to

change his mind. She firmed her chin. “I’m ready for the next step. How can I prove it to you?”

He gave her a funny look and then cocked an eyebrow. “You really think you’re ready for the next

step?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” she replied without hesitation. “Bring it on.”

“Okay, then.” He drew away from her and eased off the bed until he knelt beside it, facing her.

“Remember, you asked for this.”

“Ian, what are you…” Her words died away when he pulled a small square box out of his pocket

and held it out to her.

“Stacy Roberts, former Two Trout troublemaker, ex-stripper, and the woman I love, will you marry

me?” He opened the box to reveal a gorgeous, radiant blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds.

The gasp escaped before she could help herself.

He shrugged, but the quirk of his lips told her he appreciated rendering her speechless. “I wanted

something as unique as the woman who’ll wear it. The color reminded me of your eyes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful. And I’m waiting for an answer,” he prompted.

She shifted her attention to him and watched the slow, sexy grin she’d been dreaming of for six

lonely weeks spread over his face. “This is the next step?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sure?”

His unwavering gaze locked on hers, making her head spin a little. “I am dead positive.”

“Then, my answer is yes.”

He slipped the ring on her finger, climbed onto the bed, and swept her into a kiss. By the time he

was done, her head spun more than a little, and there was a strange clapping sound assaulting her

ears. “Ignore them,” he whispered, cupped her jaw, and lowered his head for another kiss.

Confused, she looked beyond him, toward the door. Vern, Ginger, Ari, Lee Ann, Kylie, and Trevor

gathered just beyond the threshold, clapping.

“About time, Snowflake,” Ginger called.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Ian called, never taking his eyes off her. His smile held

wicked intent.

The door whooshed closed.

“I’m injured,” she warned as he moved in.

“I’m careful.” He traced the front opening of her hospital gown, barely grazing her flesh.

“I guess you are,” she managed, as his fingers parted the gown.

“And creative.” As proof he tapped the bed-adjust button and eased her into a more reclined

position.

She raised a brow at him. “A nurse could walk in here at any moment to check on me.”

He leaned in and brushed his mouth over hers. “Then she’ll get an eyeful of you being kissed by the

man who loves you.”

The enormity of everything she’d almost lost dropped on her like a falling sky. She wrapped her

arm around his neck and pulled him closer. He let her, but lingered on her lips, kissing her tenderly

when she would have gone for the heat and the rush. He tipped her head back and kissed her again.

And again, with a gentleness that brought tears to her eyes even as her body trembled. If she didn’t

watch it, she’d start to feel…cherished.

“Missed you, Stace,” he murmured when they broke for air. “So damn much. Promise me—” She

moaned and tried to draw him in. He evaded. “Promise you’ll never walk away from us again.”

“I promise—” Two words were all she managed, because he sent his lips trailing down her throat,

her chest, stopping to bestow one slow, deliberate kiss directly over her heart. The sweetness of the

gesture had her blinking back tears. Then his mouth was on the move again, placing soft kisses along

the edge of the shockingly white bandage affixed to her side. When he finished, he looked up at her,

and she saw all the raw fear and pain of the last twenty-four hours reflected in his unguarded

expression.

“Ian—”

He shook his head and straightened her gown. “I could have lost you last night. When I saw you

dangling from the light rig, I was so fucking scared. You can’t possibly imagine.”

Judging by the look on his face, she couldn’t. “I’m fine,” she whispered, and sank her fingers into

his hair, “thanks to you.” To lighten the mood, she fluttered her lashes and sighed. “You’re my

Halloween hero.”

His eyes didn’t quite lose their haunted look, but he flashed the cocky smile that had hooked her

right from the start.

She gave his hair a quick tug. “Come here. I have to kiss that grin off your face.”

He hit the remote control for the bed and raised her up until their lips were tantalizingly close.

“Only if you say the magic words.”

“Magic words?” She tried to lean in and close the distance, but he tapped the bed control and sent

her sinking backward.

“Ian!”

“Magic words,” he prompted, and stopped the bed.

She made a grab for the remote, but he pulled it out of her reach.

“You can do it. Just repeat after me. I.”

“You really like that remote control, don’t you?”

“It’s a guy thing. I,” he said again, his clear green eyes blazing with triumph.

She crossed her arms over her chest and huffed, “I.”

He hit the button and raised her a third of the way. “Love.”

“Love.”

The bed whirred again and she sat straighter.

“You,” he said quietly.

“I love you. Ian, I love you.” A dam broke inside her and she reached for him as the words poured

out. He wrapped his arm around her and brought her the rest of the way home. And then she was

there, snug against him, kissing his mouth, his chin, his jaw, anywhere she could reach while saying “I

love you” over and over again.

“Every day,” he said between kisses. “I need to hear you say it every damn day for the rest of our

lives. Think you can handle me?”

She eased back, put her hands on his cheeks, and stared into his eyes. “I can handle you, Ian. It’s

Epilogue

“You sure you’re ready to do this?”

Stacy met Kylie’s eyes in the mirror. “Hell yes. We’ve rehearsed and everything. Aren’t you?”

“Me? Yes. I can’t wait. But I know this whole thing was kind of my idea.” She bit her lip and gave

Stacy the big, blue-eyed Bambi stare. “Now I’m worried I’ve rushed you. Maybe you need more

time.”

“Nope.” For emphasis, she shook her head. “I’m good. Completely healed.”

“Physically, yes,” Kylie quickly agreed. “And you’ve never looked more beautiful.” Stacy watched

in the mirror as Kylie smoothed nervous fingers along the short, silky skirt of Stacy’s dress. “But are

you mentally prepared?”

Was she? She frowned. “I think I am. I mean, how hard can it be? One little strut down the line. All

eyes on us. Give ’em a show when we get to the end, then we’re outta here. Easy.”

“Okaaaay. Just so you know, I think the plans leaked to the press. Doing this outdoors was probably

a mistake. I can’t promise some paparazzi won’t get a shot. This could be splattered all over the

tabloids come tomorrow.”

Now she did feel some hesitation, only because that kind of publicity might not be what Kylie

wanted. “I’m sorry. If you want to pull out, I completely understand.”

“No, no. I want to go for it. I don’t care who sees.”

What a sister. “If you’re good to go, I’m good to go.”

Kylie smiled, and happiness radiated off her in waves. “All right. I’ll stop stressing.”

“About time. You also look amazing, by the way. Sweet, classy, and hot as hell, all at the same

time.” It was true.

Kylie blushed. “Thanks.”

A rap sounded on the opposite side of the door, and then Vern came into the small room. “You”—

he pointed at Kylie—“and you.” He swung the finger toward Stacy. “Let’s go. The other girls got the

crowd warmed up. It’s showtime.”

Stacy glanced at Kylie and lifted a brow. “Ready?”

Kylie nodded.

Vern offered them each an arm. They linked up and walked through the door, down a short, marble-

floored hall and along a vine-covered pergola. She heard the music now and tried to pace herself

accordingly. They reached the lawn. Sunlight streamed over a runner of white carpet. The pristine

path bisected the assembly of guests standing in front of their white-slipcovered folding chairs, and

ended at a rose-covered lattice arbor where several people waited. Beyond the arbor stretched a

breathtaking view of the gleaming Pacific, but gorgeous as the ocean view was from the bluff-top

perch of the Malibu estate they’d rented for this particular event, Stacy found her attention drawn to

the people gathered in front of the arbor.

Ginger, Ari, and Lee Ann stood on the left, uncharacteristically elegant in shimmering silver

sheaths. Opposite them stood the younger McCade brothers, two dark-haired, dangerously hot

specimens molded from the same formidable clay as Trevor—Michael, the rough, tough, US Marine,

and Logan, the MBA, which Stacy thought in his case ought to stand for Major Bad-Ass.

Then came Trevor, all restrained ruggedness in his black tuxedo, standing next to the placid-faced

minister. Her eyes cut right, landed on Ian, and her heart did a little flutter. God, he looked so

handsome. Tall and tanned and cover-model polished, but the civilized tux couldn’t conceal the

energy coiled in his lean, hard body, or his innate, alpha-male assurance. That insanely gorgeous,

sexy man right there loves you, a little voice whispered.

The music swelled, and then subsided when they reached the arbor. Vern snuffled loudly, cleared

his throat, and said, “Thought you girls were smarter than this,” in a gruff stage whisper that sent a

ripple of laughter through the audience. He kissed Kylie’s cheek, then turned to Stacy, swept her into

a theatrically dramatic embrace, and planted a loud, smacking kiss on her. She raised a hand to her

head to keep her hair from spilling out of its sleek twist, and used the other hand to feign some

damsel-in-distress beating on Vern’s back.

He hauled her upright, tapped her chin lightly with his knuckles and said, “Best move you ever

made, kid.” Then he was gone and the minister turned to Kylie and Trevor. Stacy watched, teary-

eyed, as they pledged their love, their futures, their everything, to each other, and exchanged I-dos.

Then it was Ian’s turn. She watched his face as he repeated the minister’s words. No hesitation.

Not a single stutter. He topped it all off with a slow smile delivered straight to her.

The minister turned to her. “And do you, Stacy, take—”

“I do!” she shouted. Oh, hell yes, she did. She wrapped her arm around Ian’s neck, fused her mouth

to his and kissed him with everything she had. And kissed him…and kissed him…and kept right on

kissing him.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard the guests cheering and clapping. She heard the

minister saying, “Wait. Wait…not yet!” and then rushing through the “With the power vested in me, I

now pronounce you husband and wife” part.

When she broke away for air, Ian looked down at her with a devilish glint in his eyes. “Wanna cut

out early and get started on the honeymoon?”

Her laugh turned into a squeal when he hauled her up against him and brought his mouth down to

hers. “I do,” she whispered when she could speak again, and sealed it with a kiss.

Acknowledgments

You learn who your friends are when you turn to them and say, “I need to do research for a story.

Want to go pole dancing?”

I’m not naming names, or calling anyone double-jointed, but I do want to thank:

Heather Howland, editor and masochist, for allowing me to be part of the anthology, and my

anthology-mates, Cari, Katee, and Tessa, for inspiring me with your authorly awesomeness.

Fellow Entangled authors Robin Bielman and Hayson Manning, for all your encouragement, (i.e.

listening to me whine when my characters won’t behave).

The whole Kentucky crew, for not disowning me, and especially Peggy Tucker, for saying what you

said, and also for the pole dancing lessons.

To my family, for everything.

About the Author

Award winning author Samanthe Beck lives in Malibu, California, with her husband, their son, Kitty

the furry Ninja, and Bebe the trash talkin’ Chihuahua. When not writing fun and sexy contemporary

romance, or napping on her beach towel with her face snuggled to her Kindle, she searches for the

perfect ten dollar wine to pair with Lunchables.

Connect with Sam via

Facebook

Twitter

, or through her website at

www.samanthebeck.com

check her progress on that never-ending quest, or to get the latest on her upcoming Brazens!

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Discover Samanthe Beck’s McCade Brothers series...

OVER

NDERCOVER

When timid yoga instructor Kylie Roberts is forced to step into her twin’s sexy stilettos, she isn’t
prepared for the dead body in the parking lot—or the ridiculously hot detective assigned to the case.
It’s only a matter of time before Kylie’s awkward attempts at seduction land her in Trevor’s bed, but
how long can a good girl from a small town hide her identity from a big city detective?

ALLING

FOR

THE

ARINE

USMC  helicopter  pilot  Michael  McCade  has  two  goals:  Get  his  damn  back  into  alignment and  stay
out  of  trouble  until  his  commanding  officer  clears  him  to  fly  again.  When his  too-hot-to-handle
neighbor  turns  out  to  be  his  masseuse,  he  strays  from  the  plan in  a  major  way.  But  can  a  girl  who
avoids attachments at all costs fake an engagement to a straight-arrow soldier without falling hard?

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Sam Kercher is every inch a wickedly hot Marine. But when his best friends call in a favor, Sam is
forced  to  face  an  entirely  new  line  of  duty—playing  nanny  for  their newly  divorced  sister  and  her
seven-month-old  twins.  Problem  is,  Sheridan  has  sworn off  overbearing  military  men,  so  Sam  must
hide  his  identity. And  that  he’s  been  ordered  not  to  touch  her.  Ever.  But  even  the  most  disciplined
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