Dirty (2 page)

My gaze strayed longingly toward the bathroom door where the sound of the shower told me the man in question was still otherwise occupied.
 
A mixture of disillusionment and dread settled like a bad Mojito in my stomach.

I should have known.
 
I finally meet a guy who feels like a perfect fit and he’s a freakin’ fugitive.
 
An accused felon.
 
My head moved slowly from side to side in denial, but the energy was wasted.
 
My assistant wasn’t the type to make mistakes.
 
Unlike me, apparently.

Utterly deflated, I plowed my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to evict the disenchantment from my head.
 
“You got the paper already?”

If I’d learned anything about Hans Christian Hobbs it was that he never introduced a possibility he hadn’t researched.
 
If he said this guy was money in the bank, then he’d already done the grunt work.

And don’t ask about the Hans Christian thing, apparently his parents—who are every bit as made in the U.S.A. as I am—thought it would be cool to name their only son after their favorite author of children’s stories.
 
In my opinion that’s likely why the guy decided he was gay.
 
What the hell else was he going to do with a name like Hans Christian?
 
This is Texas you know, where country western music is king and guys aren’t named after prissy storytellers who’ve been dead for more than a century.

“Of course I have the paper.
 
I can be there in twenty minutes,” he offered, going for considerate but sounding more hopeful than anything.
 
Hobbs liked the whole rush of taking down the bad guys.
 
Of flexing his woefully meager masculinity muscle.
 
At least in theory.
 
He rarely participated in field work, but then this was personal.
 
“You don’t need to do this alone,” he tossed in for good measure, “especially under the circumstances.”

Like hell.
 
“I’ve got the situation under control.”
 
Ignoring his protests, I ended the call.
 
A sense of calm settled over me; that confusing whirlwind of emotions subsided.
 
Being the persistent meddler he was, Hobbs instantly called back.
 
I gave him the bitch button then shoved the phone back into my bag.
 
My fingers instinctively curled around the comforting grip of the Smith & Wesson .38 nestled at the very bottom of the chaos there.

That’s the one thing I can count on without question or hesitation...my work.
 
It never lets me down.
 
And neither does Shorty.
 
That’s the nickname for my .38 since its barrel is a mere three inches but, trust me, it’s not the length that matters, it’s how you use it and I know how to use it.

I didn’t bother with credentials or clothes.
 
Just eased cautiously into the steamy bathroom then pulled open the shower door, careful to keep my right hand and the weapon shielded behind me.

The man I knew as Kevin Williams, the same one who’d swept me off my feet and straight into his bed after only three dates, smiled widely.
 
“Decide to join me?” he inquired with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

One look at his gloriously aroused lower anatomy told me he was definitely prepared to back up the proposition.
 
For a single second I considered taking him up on it.
 
I knew first hand how good it would be.
 
But that part of our relationship was over.
 
Oh well...it wasn’t the end of the world.
 
Just the end of the best sex I’d had since the last Texan resided in the White House.
 
What a waste.

I laughed softly, hating the female weakness that allowed me to still want him on a physical level.
 
“You know,” I said casually, “you’ve been after me to tell you what I do for a living since we first met.”

He reached up with both hands and pushed the damp hair from his face, the move giving me another mesmerizing view of his spectacular body.
 
Damn he was something.
 
The muscle definition alone was enough to get a girl’s motor running.

“You said you didn’t want to ruin things,” he reminded, “that your profession usually sends the opposite sex running.”
 
He twisted the faucet lever to the off position and grabbed the towel he’d slung over the door.

The humid air suddenly felt too thick, the room too quiet for my comfort.
 
I had a feeling his lust wasn’t the only thing I’d just aroused.

“That’s right,” I admitted with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and one last wistful eye tour of that phenomenal body.
 
I should have known that nothing this good would last.
 
Maybe it was bad karma.
 
Or simply the poor judgment I’d suspected since my very first sexual experience.
 
Whatever the case, I appeared destined to set the world record for disastrous choices in men.

He draped the terrycloth around his hips and propped one broad shoulder against the elegantly tiled stall opening.
 
Good-looking and money, too.
 
His luxurious townhouse sat on a rare, neatly manicured plot of designer grass in the swankiest part of Houston.
 
Not to mention the very expensive, very classy Jag he drove.

All likely paid for by other people’s hard-earned money, if the warrant for his arrest was legit.

Now
that
pissed me off.
 
Narrowed everything into instant, crystal clear focus.

“Look, Jackie,” he said gently, his face the perfect mask of genuine affection in spite of the suspicions no doubt taking root, “if it bothers you that much, you don’t have to tell me.”
 
He traced a finger down my arm, eliciting a shiver in spite of my surge of irritation and absolute determination not to react.
 
“I’m perfectly content with things just as they are.”

Damn.
 
That was sweet.
 
“Actually,” I countered, “I do.”
 
I swung my weapon into position, my aim automatically zeroing in center torso.
 
Disbelief registered briefly in his eyes.
 
“Have to tell you that is,” I explained flatly.
 
“I’m a private investigator who does a little bounty hunting on the side.
 
And your ass is mine, darlin’.”

CHAPTER TWO

Sour sweat, bad coffee and stale smoke.

Houston Police Department’s Central Processing always smelled that way.
 
No matter what time of year, no matter how heavy or light the number of reluctant guests.
 
Maybe it was because most of the detainees were male and either flat out nasty, perspiring profusely or both.
 
The stagnant aroma reminded me of the boys’ locker room back in high school.

Not that I thought boys were stinky or that I spent that much time in forbidden male territory but there was that one senior who had made my ripening freshmen hormones fizz like a shaken bottle of Double Cola.
 
Apparently I wasn’t any smarter about men back then either.
 
Otherwise I wouldn’t have lost my virginity on a battered wooden bench surrounded by dented metal lockers and abandoned football gear.

O-kay...enough with the stroll down memory lane.

I ignored the leers sent my way by a couple of the social misfits draped against the bars of their cages.
 
Freshly apprehended perps generally fell into two categories.
 
The ogling slugs who knew the routine well enough to be bored and the quivering first-timers huddled in the far corners fearing for their very survival.

Ken Willis refused to fit into either slot.
 
He’d shut down like going-home traffic at five o’clock on Friday, uttered not a single word to me after I identified myself.
 
All emotion had blanked from his face.
 
He’d merely pulled on his clothes as I ordered, then offered his wrists for the Tuff-Tie cuffs I dredged up from the bottom of my Birkin.

Sounds kinky, I know.
 
But carrying around the essentials like a gun, cell phone, hand restraints, as well as pepper spray and a Tazer, is part of the job.
 
Just like a Girl Scout...always prepared.
 
Too bad I’d missed out on the merit badge for recognizing creeps posing as Prince Charming.

I paused at the processing desk long enough to collect a body receipt for the fugitive I’d just turned over and produced a smile for the uniform on duty.
 
“Thanks.”

“Chief Cates wants to see you upstairs,” the sergeant told me without actually looking up and definitely sans any suggestion of a return smile.
 
This guy had evidently skipped the class on public relations or maybe someone besides me woke up in the wrong bed this morning.
 
Still, I muttered another thanks and moved on.

I didn’t bother with the stairs since I’d already had my aerobic workout for the day, took the elevator to the third floor instead.
 
Besides, I didn’t want to risk scuffing one of my heels.
 
This is the only pair of Christian Louboutins I own and only by virtue of the fact that a former client had used the like new designer shoes for her retainer fee.
 
I protected them at all costs.
 
Anything I own in the way of designer icing, like the cherished Hermes Birkin bag, I gained that way.
 
I’m a woman, I can’t help myself.
 
We all need a little pampering now and again.

I didn’t like this little detour.
 
Getting called into the chief’s office usually meant I’d encroached on someone else’s territory or otherwise overstepped my bounds as a private investigator.
 
Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time or the last.

The elevator doors slid open and a sea of cluttered desks and harried detectives dressed in cheap suits spread out over the tan commercial carpet and beige painted terrain for as far as the eye could see.

The Robbery-Homicide bullpen, otherwise known as Rob-Ho.
 
The largest division in the department.
 
The guys who got all the glory.
 
Narcotics didn’t have half the manpower but that division did have its own private niche in the basement where few outsiders dared to venture.
 
I’d been there once not long ago after a joint sting involving a pimp who’d decided to go into an additional crack trade in his spare time.
 
Those narc dudes rarely associated with other cops.
 
Homicide might get all the glory but those guys in the basement were the ones with all the guts.
 
The T-types.
 
Men who got off on the thrills of near death experiences.

As I navigated my way to the far side of the male dominated domain a couple of the detectives I’d worked with on missing persons cases turned homicides waved, phones attached to their ears like a permanent accessory.
 
I waved back, flashed my pearly whites.
 
Felt good all over again about the black mini skirt I’d opted to wear last night in light of the blatant gawks of approval several of the guys tossed my way.

Look all you want, boys, I mused.
 
It’s all
natural
, no lifts, no tucks, and no nips.
 
Forty-five and loving it.

It’s funny, I considered briefly, how much a mind-blowing session of sex could do for one’s self esteem–in spite of present circumstances.

As I reached the chief’s door a voice I’d just as soon banish from my memory banks for all eternity made me hesitate.
 
The sound had the same effect as nails scraping across a blackboard.
 
I cringed.

“Well, damn, Mercer, I hardly recognized you without the blond wig, fishnets and street-walker boots.”

I told myself to ignore the knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.
 
Argued that anything I said would only give the misogynistic dinosaur glee.
 
And it might have worked had I not overheard the aside he made to his partner.

“If I had an ass and tits like that I’d sure as hell put them to better use.”

I turned around slowly.
 
Pinned my lips into a wide smile.
 
“What’s up, Nance?”
 
Definitely not your limp dick, I mused as I stalked over to his generic metal desk.

The coordinating economical chair squeaked as he dropped his feet from the desktop to the floor and sat up straight.
 
He grinned like the jackass he was. “I was just saying to O’Linger here,” he jerked his head toward his partner who was preoccupied with my bare legs, “how nice it is to see you.”

“Yeah, I heard.”
 
I leaned down and flattened my palms on Nance’s desk giving both him and his partner a wide-angle view of the cleavage provided by the wickedly tight devil red tank I ambitiously selected last night to complement the skirt.
 
Who would have guessed I’d end up at HPD this morning?

“You made a good point, Nance,” I allowed, “if you had an ass and tits like this you might actually be good for something.”

His lower jaw joined his feet on the floor.

“O’Linger,” I said with an acknowledging nod to the other detective who looked red-faced from choking back the mirth shaking his belly.
 
Then I swiveled on the heel of my coveted stilettos and strutted straight into the chief’s office.
 
There was nothing like putting a jerk in his place to make me feel on top of the world.
 
Yeah, baby.
 
Don’t mess with this private dick—pardon the pun.