Czytaj książkę: «Hot Contact»
“If We’re Going To Work Together, We Need To Forget Tonight Ever Happened.”
“Why’s that?” Joe asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Apparently only to you, Arianna. The way I see it, we reached out to each other. We kissed. We made love. It felt good. It felt great. Didn’t it feel great?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. We needed each other. We met those needs. We’re adults.” Joe was silent for several seconds, then finally said, “You can try to ignore it all you want. I choose not to.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m not going to ignore it. Or forget it. It meant something to me. Didn’t it mean anything to you?”
How was she supposed to answer that? Damn him.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another passion-filled month at Silhouette Desire—where we guarantee powerful and provocative love stories you are sure to enjoy. We continue our fabulous DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS series with Kristi Gold’s Challenged by the Sheikh—her intensely ardent hero will put your senses on overload. More hot heroes are on the horizon when USA TODAY bestselling author Ann Major returns to Silhouette Desire with the dramatic story of The Bride Tamer.
Ever wonder what it would be like to be a man’s mistress—even just for pretend? Well, the heroine of Katherine Garbera’s Mistress Minded finds herself just in that predicament when she agrees to help out her sexy-as-sin boss in the next KING OF HEARTS title. Jennifer Greene brings us the second story in THE SCENT OF LAVENDER, her compelling series about the Campbell sisters, with Wild In the Moonlight—and this is one hero to go wild for! If it’s a heartbreaker you’re looking for, look no farther than Hold Me Tight by Cait London as she continues her HEARTBREAKERS miniseries with this tale of one sexy male specimen on the loose. And looking for a little Hot Contact himself is the hero of Susan Crosby’s latest book in her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series; this sinfully seductive police investigator always gets his woman! Thank goodness.
And thank you for coming back to Silhouette Desire every month. Be sure to join us next month for New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson’s Best-Kept Lies, the highly anticipated conclusion to her wildly popular series THE MCCAFFERTYS.
Keep on reading!
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Hot Contact
Susan Crosby
MILLS & BOON
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SUSAN CROSBY
believes in the value of setting goals, but also in the magic of making wishes. A longtime reader of romance novels, Susan earned a B.A. in English while raising her sons. She lives in the central valley of California, the land of wine grapes, asparagus and almonds. Her checkered past includes jobs as a synchronized swimming instructor, personnel interviewer at a toy factory and trucking company manager, but her current occupation as a writer is her all-time favorite.
Susan enjoys writing about people who take a chance on love, sometimes against all odds. She loves warm, strong heroes; good-hearted, self-reliant heroines…and happy endings.
Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.
For Jerry, who patiently answers my questions and
makes me look smart!
And for Jack—because.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
One
Joe Vicente strode into his office and stumbled over a body pierced with half a dozen daggers. He studied the giant of a man sprawled on the floor, then he did what any veteran homicide detective would do—he laughed. Small Corn Flakes boxes were stuck to the man’s chest, knife handles protruding from each box. Unnatural red blood dripped from the points of entry.
“You get it?” the body asked.
Joe got it. “Cereal killer. Good one, Reggie.” He walked backward toward his desk. “You going trick-or-treating on your way home?”
“Nah. I’m meeting the wife at the Blue Zoo for a Halloween party. Wanna come?”
“No, thanks. If I’m not there to pass out candy to the little monsters, they egg the house.”
Reggie straightened his costume as he stood. “I didn’t think kids did that anymore.”
“They do in my neighborhood.” Joe turned around and bumped into a descendent of Al Capone, wearing a pin-striped suit, black shirt, white tie and Fedora. Tony Mendes, the newest detective assigned to the elite Robbery-Homicide Division of the Los Angeles Police Department—and Joe’s partner.
Joe grinned. He couldn’t remember a Halloween in his seven years in RHD when anyone had dressed up. But then the Blue Zoo, the local cop watering hole, had just changed ownership, expanded and was making an effort to draw a bigger crowd.
Joe dropped his notebook onto his desk and spied Lieutenant Morgan heading his way.
“Interview room two, Vicente,” he said to Joe. “Now.”
The lieutenant’s tone of voice said Joe wasn’t being invited to a party.
He avoided eye contact with the other detectives as he followed Morgan. In the interview room he sat in the chair across the table from the lieutenant, slouched a little and crossed his ankles. His stomach caught fire, but he didn’t reach for the antacid tablets he chewed like candy, not in front of the boss.
Morgan leaned back, stone-faced. At six foot two, he was as tall as Joe but had ten years and thirty pounds on him. Morgan was a good supervisor. Fair. “Catch me up on the Leventhal case.”
“Dead ends. One after another.”
The lieutenant was quiet long enough to almost make Joe squirm. He knew the tactic, used the tactic. Shut up and the let other person bear the burden of the silence, forcing them to speak first.
“I’ve cleared you for four weeks’ vacation,” Morgan said, his gaze steady.
Shock rolled through Joe in tidal waves. He fought to maintain his equilibrium. Vacation, hell. He’d lost his cool too many times lately, but the last thing he needed was a vacation. Time on his hands? No way. “I know you’re not happy with my work—”
Morgan frowned. “It’s got nothing to do with your work, Joe. You’re a damn good cop. But you are this close to being reassigned. This close.” A piece of paper might have fit between his thumb and index finger. “That’s about a day from now.”
“I can’t go on vacation.”
“You need to get away from here. Right now. Before you get hurt, before someone else gets hurt. Never mind that you’ve worked the Leventhal case way too long. It should’ve been filed by now.”
“I can’t get the witnesses to cooperate. You know that.”
“Yeah, and you’re taking it out on everyone here. When you walked in just now, that’s the most civil any of us has seen you for months. You don’t think the captain hasn’t noticed? I’m saving your hide here. You start vacation tomorrow.”
Desperation slammed into him. His lungs froze. If he didn’t have work, he wouldn’t survive. The constant burning in his gut would only get worse. He didn’t want to think about what it would do to his insomnia.
“Two weeks,” Joe countered. Maybe he could tolerate two weeks.
“Four. And if anyone sees you at the site of the Leventhal shooting or hears you’re trying to contact a witness, you won’t have a desk to come back to.”
Joe knew Morgan was right. Something had to change. But staying away from the job wasn’t the solution. Legally they couldn’t force him to use his vacation time, either.
“You know I can’t leave town,” he said. It was as close to begging as he would get.
“Maybe that’s exactly what you need,” the lieutenant said, his voice not as gritty. “How long has it been since you went away? Since you went on a date, even? I know you’ve been through hell, but take the time and be grateful for it. Clear your head. Take back your life.”
“Or don’t come back?”
Morgan crossed his arms. “I want the case file and notes on my desk before you leave tonight.”
Joe was thirty-nine years old and an eighteen-year veteran of the LAPD. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. He also knew not to argue with the boss, especially one who thought he was doing you a favor.
“Who’ll take over on Leventhal?”
“Mendes.”
Joe tried not to wince. “He’s green.”
“As green as you were seven years ago. You solved your share of cases from the beginning.”
Joe stayed at his desk for an hour organizing his notes. No one would call him at home with questions, even if he didn’t include every detail he knew, but he covered all the bases regardless. Mendes knew most everything anyway.
Everyone but the lieutenant was gone by the time Joe put the folder on Morgan’s desk.
“Thanks,” he said. “See you after Thanksgiving.”
Joe nodded, started to leave then turned back. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. At least Morgan knew he hadn’t slacked off, that he’d continued to give his best to the job, even when he wasn’t coping well with the frustration of dead ends. And life.
“Call me with me a progress report now and then,” Morgan said.
“Yeah.” He left, the effort to walk almost more than he could manage. Now what? Go home and face the demanding trick-or-treaters? It would be easier to scrape dried, splattered eggs off his house.
Go to the Blue Zoo and forget himself in the booze and shoptalk? Given his mood, he’d probably end up in a fight.
He made his way to his car. On the passenger seat was an invitation he’d been carrying around for a couple of weeks. He picked it up. A costume party thrown by Scott Simons, his training officer after graduation from the academy. When Scott retired twelve years ago, he became a lawyer and had built a reputation for winning tough criminal cases. The Halloween party was at his house in Santa Monica and would start in an hour.
Costume and mask required. Joe drummed his fingers on his steering wheel. He wasn’t a costume kind of guy. But if he went to Scott’s party he would be among strangers mostly, hot-shot lawyers and a celebrity client or two. He’d be anonymous, but not alone. It was better than the alternatives, especially staying home and drinking himself into oblivion, which was the last thing his stomach needed.
Take back your life. Lieutenant Morgan’s words jabbed him.
He tossed the invitation onto the seat, started the engine and pulled out of his parking spot. He couldn’t believe he was asking himself this question, but where could he find a decent costume at six o’clock on Halloween night? Something a little more original than a George W. Bush mask. Something without a ruffled shirt or that required him to say, “Yeah, baby,” all night.
Surreal, Joe thought, shaking his head. Utterly surreal. He would’ve laughed—had it been the least bit funny.
The party was in full swing, the music loud and the party goers boisterous—exactly the kind of gathering that Arianna Alvarado loved. Crowds and noise were an invigorating change from her relatively quiet work life. She sipped her martini, appreciating the bite of the gin, then drew a green olive into her mouth and chewed it. “You’re sure he’s not coming?” she asked the man standing next to her.
“I told you it was a long shot at best,” Scott Simons answered. They stood in the foyer as Scott greeted arriving guests. “If he can’t wear jeans and boots, he’s not going to show.”
“Add a western shirt and a Stetson, and you’ve got a classic,” Arianna pointed out.
“But still a costume.”
Arianna shrugged her agreement. “He didn’t say no, though?”
“If he were coming, he would’ve called.”
Disappointment twisted a knot in her anticipation, choking it off.
Scott welcomed a couple dressed as pro wrestlers then pointed them toward the bar. “Why don’t you just call him at the P.D.?” he asked Arianna.
“It doesn’t suit my purposes.”
He turned to her, his brows raised, a smile flickering. “So you weren’t telling me the truth when you asked me to include him on the guest list. It’s personal, not business.”
“It’s business, in a personal way,” she offered, along with a smile. The business was her own.
“He likes beautiful women. He would like you a lot, Arianna.”
“Flatterer,” she said in return. She didn’t want Detective Joe Vicente of the LAPD to like her, however. The one time they’d met, last December, she’d felt a pull toward him that seemed reciprocated, but he hadn’t followed up on it. Neither had she. Mutual attraction. Mutual reluctance. She’d been glad then. He would’ve been hard to say no to, but she definitely would’ve said no.
“Have I told you how stunning you look in that flamenco costume?” Scott eyed the large red rose tucked behind her ear in her low-coiled hair. He winked. “I wouldn’t mind a private performance.”
She gave him a sultry look—or she hoped it was sultry, but she was wearing a mask, so she wasn’t sure he could tell. She knew he had no interest in a private performance; he had a beautiful wife whom he adored. But Arianna raised an arm anyway, assumed a classic dance pose and clicked her castanets above her head. Her ruffled skirt brushed her knees in front and her ankles in back. She’d wanted to draw Detective Vicente’s attention tonight. A wasted effort now.
With a laugh she tugged on Scott’s long white barrister’s wig then walked away, wandering out to the backyard bar by the pool, stopping here and there to talk with other guests as she went. She had the bartender add another toothpick full of olives to the drink she would baby all evening, then went in search of a quiet spot to consider her next move. How could she get Joe Vicente’s unofficial help?
She moved along a path around the pool, past the cabana and into a dense profusion of fragrant vegetation, following the sound of trickling water to its source—a rock waterfall in a hidden grotto, humid and verdant.
She stopped when she saw a man dressed in black standing next to the falls, lost in his own world, a tall, lean man with dark hair, wearing high boots, snug pants, loosely flowing shirt and a dashing hat, tipped forward rakishly. A mask hid half his face. Zorro. He carried himself well, his posture perfect, with a hint of the arrogance Zorro was known for. She expected him to draw his sword and slash a Z in the air at any moment.
Intrigued, Arianna straightened her satin mask and took a step toward him. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste, after all.
Joe’s nose twitched as a spicy scent assaulted him then radiated to the far reaches of his body, creating a sudden, intense heat. He searched for the fragrant flower source but saw instead a woman approaching him—tall and dark-haired, with a body better than dreams could usually conjure up. Her costume was exotic-looking. Skinny straps, low cut, fitting each amazing curve snugly and ending in ruffles that undulated with every step. Long legs, high heels. Red and black, satin and lace. A rose behind her ear. Red lips. A small beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. Black mask trimmed in lace. Dark, unfathomable eyes behind it.
She looked like sex, if it had a human name.
“Buenos noches,” she said with a perfect accent, her teeth white against the red lipstick.
“Buenos noches.” He guessed her age as thirty. She wasn’t wearing a ring.
“May I join you?” she asked.
He held out a hand to help her negotiate the final steps leading to the substantial rock ledge where he stood. Her breasts were covered only by a layer of smooth lace, her nipples pressing against the fabric. He managed to shift his focus to her face as she pulled her hand free.
“Thank you,” she said, then looked around. “This is beautiful, isn’t it? I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You are. Thank you.”
She smiled.
Joe tried to place her. There was something familiar about her. Her voice? Her body? With that kind of self-assurance, an actress, he decided. Could he have seen her in a movie? Joe knew most of the criminal attorneys in the L.A. area. None of them looked like her. If she would take off her mask…
“So, you’re not wearing your cape, Zorro,” the woman said.
“It’s not a black-tie event.”
Her laugh was light and musical and seemed to have magic powers. The burn in his stomach cooled to a simmer. “Do you dance?” he asked.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I mean as you’re dressed—flamenco.” He wanted to see her in motion, to smell her spicy perfume as her body heated up. It had been so long since he’d felt anything remotely close to lust, he almost didn’t recognize the signs—how his breathing turned shallow and his pulse pounded and his body went on alert, as if a caution sign had been placed in front of him, a sign he wanted to plow through. Caution be damned.
“I dance,” she said, confidence in the lift of her chin, the move emphasizing her slender neck.
He waited. She didn’t offer to perform. Tension hovered between them, although it was more anticipation than uneasiness.
“How do you know Scott?” she asked, breaking the silence.
He’d started to get swept into a fantasy. Her question brought him back to earth. “Professionally. You?”
“The same.”
That nagging sense of familiarity returned. Had Scott defended her? A case that generated media attention?
She gestured toward the path leading back to the pool area. “I think perhaps I interrupted you, after all,” she said, her expression as apologetic as her mask would allow. “I’ll go.”
“No.” He caught her by the hand then didn’t release her. He hadn’t realized how little he’d spoken. Obviously he had made her uncomfortable. “I had a rough day.” Week. Month. Year. “I thought I dreamed you up.”
Her dark gaze held him captive. “I’m quite real.”
“I can see that.” He didn’t know what else to say. She was like a beacon in the fog of his world. He wanted to follow the light, to let it shine on him, to brighten his existence. Pure selfishness, he admitted, since he had nothing to offer her or any woman except dead emotions, a screwed-up mind, an ulcer, probably, and the short fuse of a man long deprived of uninterrupted sleep. Plus a job in jeopardy. Oh, yeah. He had a lot going for him, all right.
Take back your life. Again the lieutenant’s words assaulted him. Suddenly he wanted his life back. No, not back, but better.
The woman continued to study him. He didn’t break eye contact. Couldn’t. Something about her demanded that he look deeply into her eyes, to allow her to look into his, not an easy feat with masks on. Finally she set her martini glass aside and took a step toward him.
“Dance?” she asked, soft and low, as music filtered in from hidden speakers.
He took her into his arms. Her body felt lithe and limber as they moved to the slow rhythm. He pulled the rose from her hair and dragged it across her cheek. Her eyes glittered darkly. He went hard with need.
One strap of her sexy dress slid off her shoulder and down her arm. He hooked a finger into the fallen strap and dragged it onto her shoulder. She didn’t protest nor did she encourage him toward more. He let his finger slide down the strap until it met fabric. Her breast cushioned his hand; he felt her breath stop then tugged her toward him, his gaze on hers, lowered his head, brought his mouth close—
“Well. I see you’ve met,” Scott Simons said into the magic moment.
Joe swore.
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