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“Maybe he wil
l, maybe he won’t. But somebody always walks the girls to their cars, so at least one person from Deuces will see us leave together. According to Vern, Stacy doesn’t hook up with customers, so word of her breaking tradition should spread pretty quickly. If the killer doesn’t see us tomorrow night, possibly he’ll hear something through the grapevine. That alone might be enough to compel this guy to make a move on me. Especially if I can convince Stacy to come in to work on Saturday and tell everyone I turned out to be a prick. Then, if I show up Saturday night and cause even a hint of trouble, our killer’s not going to have a choice. He’ll have to take me out.”
“Could work,” Ian agreed. Then his lips curled into a lazy grin. “You know, for someone getting a private dance every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, you’re in an awfully big hurry to close this case.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a problem, too.”
Ian’s easy laugh rolled out. “She is one very sexy girl. Anytime you want to trade places, let me know.”
“Dream on.”
“Oh, I do. Believe me, I do.”
Chapter Eight
Trevor sat in a VIP room at Deuces, sipping vodka, waiting for Stacy and fixating on a whole bunch of stuff that had nothing to do with the job. What would she be wearing? How would she dance for him? How was she holding up?
Ramon occupied a dark corner in the back of the room, but for some crazy reason, the possibility of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound homicidal nut-job lurking nearby didn’t distract his thoughts from Stacy. A half hour of private time with her had quickly become the high point of his day. Among his fellow detectives, he had a reputation as a focused investigator, even a bit of a workaholic. But Stacy scrambled his priorities so badly he had a hard time remembering the real purpose for his visit—a minor matter of solving two murders.
The door opened and Stacy walked in. No, that wasn’t right. She glided through the door in a cloud of vanilla and coconut, looking sleek and sexy. The black cap and large silver-rimmed aviator sunglasses of her stylized chauffeur’s outfit concealed her hair and eyes, adding an air of mystery. She wore a black jacket that fit like a second skin. Beneath, it looked as if she wore nothing except a narrow black necktie. Leather driving gloves covered her hands and a tiny black G-string covered the essentials. The tall, shiny boots he remembered so fondly from a week ago encased her endless legs. When she turned around to shut the door, he enjoyed the way the tails of her coat shifted to offer glimpses of her delectable ass.
Then she turned to face him and sagged against the door. Something in his chest contracted, quick and sharp. Tough little Stacy held up, but it cost her. Thanks to the sunglasses, he couldn’t really gauge just how much, and that frustrated him. He wanted to see her eyes.
“Hello, Trevor.” Her husky voice held a note of resignation. “What would you like tonight?”
“I’d like you to take off the hat and shades.”
She shook her head, dislodging the hat so it tumbled to the floor, and pushed away from the door. “The glasses stay. What kind of dance do you—”
“Fifty bucks to lose them.”
Her lips pursed into the stern pout that always got him right by the balls. “This isn’t an auction. I’m not taking the glasses off.”
He gave her the cop stare, and he prided himself on having a good one, but he got nothing back except his own reflection in the damn mirrored glasses. “Why do you work here, Stacy? For the satisfaction of a job well done?”
“I work here to make money,” she clipped out.
“Strange how you’re turning mine down with some regularity then.”
Her lips parted, ready to fling a response, then slowly closed. She shrugged. “You’re not a real client. I don’t want your money.”
“I’m way beyond a client and you know it. You also know what’s going on here is undeniably real.”
Her face actually paled at the observation. She couldn’t look more skittish if he’d pulled his gun and aimed at her. Fair enough. Rules applied, even in their unusual game. He ought to stick to them, for both their sakes. Physical intimacies everyone expected. There were recognized plays in this particular sport. Emotional intimacies were out of bounds. Lowering his chin, he inhaled deeply. “Come here.”
“I don’t want to.” Her protest barely qualified as a whisper.
“I want you to,” he insisted, and patted his leg like an owner signaling a recalcitrant pet. Apparently he was trapped in the role of asshole tonight.
Reluctantly she obeyed. When she neared, he parted his legs. She stepped between his knees and perched lightly on his thigh, clearly prepared to bolt at the least provocation.
“Relax,” he breathed, nuzzling her ear, slightly light-headed from her nearness, her scent.
“I can’t,” she choked out. Then she burst into tears.
Shit. Completely freaked, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, until her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder and she more or less collapsed against him. “Don’t,” he begged. “Baby, I’m the oldest of three boys. I can handle a fist to the face, an elbow to the ribs, even a flying tackle. But a woman’s tears? They scare me, straight to the bone.” His confession provoked a quick little hug from her, but the waterworks continued unabated. The way she shook in his arms, the misery in her quiet sobs, simply ripped him apart.
He pulled her glasses off, folded them one-handed, and slipped them into the breast pocket of his black button-down. Bringing his hand back to her cheek, he lifted her face and carefully wiped the tears with his fingertips. One look and he understood her insistence on the glasses. Even in the low lights, he could see shadows under her eyes.
