Don't Tempt Me Read online

  “Splash around, make big, messy waves?” he supplied, obviously trying to lighten the moment.

  “Exactly.” She had to get away from those eyes of his, so she rose to slide panties onto the mannequin. Rick braced the doll that was shaking under her nervous fingers.

  “Now that I have an assistant, of course, I’ll have much more time, so I can get out and get…busy.” Get busy? Even worse. The panties snagged and she jerked them up, making the mannequin rock back and forth. Rick steadied it.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “The same thing that’s wrong with me.” He gave her a wry smile, which made her feel better, even if he was exaggerating in sympathy.

  “Anyway, looks like we’re about done.” She grabbed up the pale boa and draped it around the doll’s shoulder. She wanted to be finished, to get out of the window and away from Rick. “There. All done.” She jumped down and Rick joined her. “Thanks for the extra help. I’m sorry I can’t pay overtime, but—”

  “It’s fine. I’m glad to do it. When do you want me, Samantha?”

  “Huh?” Every minute of every hour. She couldn’t help it, standing so close to him, her lips still hot from his kiss. “Nine,” she managed to say. “We open at nine.”

  “See you then. And thanks for the job.”

  She couldn’t even remind him they were trying it for a week because she could hardly let him go now. He might think it was because he’d rejected her. “Sure, no problem,” she said.

  No problem? Who was she kidding? She’d attacked an employee in the lingerie window. Holy horny Hannah, she would never stop cringing.

  Chapter 5

  Rick got to his desk at the station before six the next morning to key in his notes for the update with his lieutenant. He’d scribbled down as much as he could remember about the various shop owners, the layout of the building, what he’d picked up about Darien Sylvestri from his wife and Samantha, especially the details of Lester Tabor’s loaned services. He hadn’t learned anything significant about the case from the Joey Balistero shoot, except that scumbag mobsters needed love, too.

  Insomnia had left him foggy. Going undercover was always an adjustment, but Sawyer had seriously thrown off his rhythm.

  That kiss had shocked him. But he’d gotten into it fast, yanking her tight against him and kissing her deeply, his heart banging so hard against his ribs he’d feared he’d bust one out right there.

  Hell, he’d wanted to throw her down among those plaster dolls and find out exactly what she had on under her clothes. One of those open bras and skimpy panties they’d been fiddling with for torturous hours maybe? Or maybe sweet cotton panties with flowers on ’em?

  He’d been weak. And way too human.

  There’s someone else. Yeah, right. So lame. He should have cooked up some excuse, but he’d figured that since he had the job, the whole dinner-dessert idea was out for good.

  But that story about how her lame-ass boyfriend had hurt her had gotten to him and then she’d kissed him and he didn’t need Mona’s massage to make him forget his name and where he was.

  He liked how she forced herself to be bold—joking about the vibrator that clearly embarrassed her to death. He liked the sweetness she seemed to see as a weakness. She smelled good, too. Like talcum powder and flowers and apple pie and…home.

  “So how’d it go with the porn queen?”

  He jerked up, realizing he’d been daydreaming. “Huh?”

  “Lots of sex shots?” Trudeau asked.

  “That’s boudoir shots, pal. She gets testy if you even hint about anything lewd. Straight photography so far.”

  “How about video? Sylvestri’s got associates distributing bootleg porn.”

  “No video equipment that I’ve seen. What Samantha does is, uh, tasteful.” Trudeau would laugh him out of the station if he tried explaining what she’d said about forgetting society’s rules and finding that special double image and true beauty. “No crotch shots or throbbing members.”

  “Damn.”

  “She seems clueless about Sylvestri. She thinks he loaned her his bookkeeper because he’s generous. My take on her is she’s just naive.”

  “After half an afternoon? What the hell did you do with the woman?”

  Fondled dildos, dressed store dummies and came this close to ripping off her clothes.

  He remembered her bracing that black corset against the mannequin and asking him, What do you think? He’d never been into kink, but if she wanted it, he’d bring the cuffs.

  If he weren’t working the case, of course.

  If he weren’t a changed man.

  “We talked. Setup…inventory. I studied her…books.” Yeah, right. “I’d bet my badge Sawyer’s not involved in whatever’s going on. But I’ll poke around some more.”

  “You bet. You poke around.” It was a standard Trudeau remark, nothing more, he knew. Mark would never believe Rick had done what he’d done. His gut clenched as he gathered up his notes. “Gotta meet with the lieutenant before I head out.”

  He left, thinking about the implication of Mark’s remark. Had he been too easy on Samantha? Getting personal with suspects blurred your instincts. That’s why there were regulations against it. There were reasons for most rules, he’d learned over the years. You broke the rules and the rules broke you. Sooner or later.

  He hadn’t always felt that way. He’d done what he wanted pretty much until Brian had died. As a kid, school had bored him, so he spent his time screwing around with friends and girls and engines.

  Pushing an engine to its limit in the desert late at night made him feel fully alive, with every breath shooting down his lungs, sending fresh blood to the tips of his toes and out the top of his head.

  There’d been plenty of tickets, the accident that had messed up his back. Minor troubles, really, but life had been full. And he’d kept on living it—wide open—until his brother’s death had hauled him up short.

  Rick had been twenty-five, working in an auto shop, living cheaply to sock away money for a muscle car, doing freelance magazine photos. He’d been in the sack with a nameless girl when his cell phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

  It was a buddy with the Phoenix P.D., who’d called to tell him his brother, a defense attorney, had been shot dead in the apartment of one of his clients, a drug dealer, who’d been killed, too.

  The cops had kept the negative stuff out of the report—one time he’d been glad someone bent the rules. Brian’s death had been tough enough on his parents without the rest.

  Like the flip of a switch, a finger snap, Brian was gone and Rick had realized he’d been tossing away his own life as though it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered a hell of a lot.

  He had to do something to make up for his brother. Something straight and strong and right. School took forever, so he applied to the academy and he’d been on the job four years.

  He liked the work. Loved it, really. His parents seemed pleased, maybe proud.

  From time to time he’d had to defend his brother’s reputation—sometimes with his fists—from older cops or attorneys who made cracks about him.

  His brother had done some good. He’d just been limited. And, dammit, he was Rick’s brother, for better or worse.

  And now he was gone, before he’d had a chance to figure it out, settle down, have a family of his own. So Rick would do it for him. For himself, too.

  But lately he’d been isolated. The dates had fizzled; he’d been bored. Maybe that was why Samantha had hit him like a Mack truck. She would be something else in the sack, for sure, with all that sweetness coupled with her fire to get busy. That was funny. But out of the question. Even without the case to consider, he wasn’t looking just to get laid. He wanted a wife, two-become-one, all that jazz.

  He could see making an exception for her. If only he weren’t working for her. If only he weren’t a cop and she a suspect. If only everything were different.

  Samantha pulled into the Mirr
or, Mirror parking lot at 8:30 a.m. Hers was the only car, so she’d beaten the other shop owners and the construction crew, which had an unpredictable schedule. There was no black Jeep, so no Rick, either. But it was still early.

  She couldn’t help hoping he wouldn’t come at all, just quit and be done with it. But she knew Rick was a man of his word and he’d be here when she’d said she wanted him.

  She had to stop that—wanting him. She’d already shown him how desperate she was. If he gave her another you-poor-horny-thing smile she’d die a thousand deaths.

  On the other hand, Rick was the first man she’d attacked, so she had to expect a learning curve.

  She climbed out of her Jetta, determined to act normal, no matter what. She pushed her hair, which she’d fussed with, out of her face and straightened her skirt—the short one that hugged her curves. She was primping and preening for a guy who had a girlfriend, for God’s sake.

  Luckily, they’d be too busy to talk much today. Several clients were due to look at proofs and she’d scheduled three shoots. She’d have to send Rick to Shear Ecstasy on his own to check out the plumbing troubles Blythe was having.

  She unlocked the back entrance and blinked bleary eyes against the early morning dimness inside Mirror, Mirror’s lobby. She’d hardly slept a wink. She’d tried to work up a fantasy to relax herself, going for the tiger-striped chaise ravishment, but Rick’s face had appeared instead of the usual blurred features of her dream lover, and when she’d gotten close to climax, he’d said, I can’t, and the mood had wisped away like smoke on a breeze.

  She paused at the Venus in a C Cup windows to make sure the displays looked okay. The dominatrix–sex-kitten window looked fine, but the mannequins in the kiss-and-crash window looked like they’d had a drunken party. One doll’s wig was crooked, her leg twisted wrong and the hand on the lounging doll looked as if she were reaching for her own breast.

  Samantha went inside to fix it before Val saw it.

  The instant she stepped into the window, Rick’s scent mainlined to her memory center and she could almost taste the mint-and-man flavor of his lips. He’d gripped her forearms so tightly, too, holding himself back, fighting his desire.

  He’s taken, she reminded herself and set about fixing the mannequins, adjusting the crooked leg, turning the twisted hand, straightening the sliding wig.

  Smoothing the lace over the doll in her butter-cream teddy, she imagined Rick’s fingers on her body and couldn’t help closing her eyes….

  “I want to touch you where you’re swollen and soft.”

  “Please,” she begs, desperate for exactly that. She writhes against his body, wanting his hands on her, his fingers probing secret places, giving her pleasure and taking his own.

  His hands slide down her belly and find her damp glory—her desire made liquid. He brushes her slick, wet flesh over and over, slowly at first, then more firmly, knowing exactly the effect of his torture, and pushing, always pushing her higher and higher.

  “I want to give you pleasure until you scream. Right here, in the window, so that passersby know how this feels, so that they long for what they’re missing—”

  Something—a sound, a flicker of light—made Samantha open her eyes. She looked out at Rick standing there staring at her. He seemed frozen by the sight, his hands fisted, then opened, his lips parted, his chest expanded and shrank in quick, uneven breaths timed with her own, a few feet away through the glass.

  I want you, his eyes said. More than ever.

  She wanted him, too, and a hot chill coursed through her.

  Could he tell what she’d been doing standing here with her eyes closed? Her palm still cupped one of the mannequin’s breasts, so she jerked it down to the waist and pulled the teddy straight, smoothing it flat over the doll’s torso.

  Be cool, be easy. You’re working here, she told herself and smiled at him, wiggling her fingers in greeting.

  He waved back, fingers moving slowly, his Adam’s apple doing a slow glide. She turned her attention to the wig, trying to act natural, though her heart pounded, and when she glanced up again, he was gone.

  “Can I help?” His voice behind her made her jump. He’d moved with silent swiftness and appeared as if she’d conjured him from a fantasy. He extended a hand, which she took, aware that her skirt rode high on her thigh and gapped open.

  He averted his eyes and held on to her until she was solidly on the floor. Rick was a gentleman. Protective, too, in a way she responded to at a primal level.

  “So, you came back?” she said, forcing herself to speak lightly. “After last night I wasn’t so sure. I mean all that ladies’ underwear and sex toys.” And that kiss. Don’t forget that kiss. She never would.

  “You said nine.”

  “You’re early.”

  “That I am.” He smiled. Whether with regret, continued interest or self-mocking humor, she couldn’t quite tell. What was going on behind those lush green eyes? And why did she want to know so damn much?

  “So here’s what I have in mind for you,” she said, and began babbling out his chores—help her with client meetings, follow up on her marketing, check the hair salon’s plumbing—

  “I’ll stay busy, Samantha,” he said, interrupting her cascading list of tasks. “You won’t be sorry you hired me.”

  “Or that I kissed you?” The words burst out.

  “Or that.” His eyes held her—all of her—as though he wouldn’t change a thing. “I kissed you back, remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “So how about if we stay out of windows in empty underwear shops from now on?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, acting cheerful and reasonable when she secretly was wondering how he felt about empty studios with satin-covered beds. Oh, dear.

  So far, so good, Rick thought, heading for the beauty salon around noon. He was supposedly checking on the clogged drains, though he intended to comb every inch of the center today, with special attention to the storage the generous Darien had insisted on, according to Samantha. Cupboards could hide drugs, guns, stolen goods, anything. Sylvestri showed up often with instructions for the crew, Rick had learned, so he’d be alert for any appearance the man might make.

  Rick patted his shirt pocket for the tiny camera, his jeans for the mini tape player he’d grabbed before he’d left the station, eager to get going. He liked the investigative part of undercover work. It was just the subterfuge that bugged him.

  Such as the fact that Samantha already trusted him, after only a few hours of work. If she knew what he was up to, she’d be shocked, hurt and mad as hell. Couldn’t be helped. Nature of the work. He shouldn’t care.

  But he did. She was so honest—even in little things. He’d sat in on two order sessions where she’d refused to soak the eager customers for maximum prints and poses, keeping them within the budget they’d tossed out the window the instant they’d seen the shots. Samantha was good, no question, and she had integrity and a clear-eyed approach that made sense in a kooky way.

  He’d found no evidence that she knew about any criminal activity occurring—or planned—in the building. He’d pored over her books, but found no double billings, erasures, odd checks or unusual cash flow. If Lester Tabor was laundering money through Bedroom Eyes, he did it with a second ledger Rick would have to locate. He planned to grill the guy when he came in to do the month’s accounts in a few days.

  Rick headed for the beauty salon. Shear Ecstasy. What a name. Everything in the center dripped with sex. It got on his nerves. He paused at the lingerie shop. He’d stood here this morning, staring at Samantha, while she’d stroked that doll’s breast, her eyes closed. Had she been thinking anything like what he’d been thinking?

  He prided himself on total control on the job, but he’d limped over to her, so erect it had hurt to move.

  Somehow, she threw him, made him forget he was a cop, turned him into a slathering wildebeest. Or some other creature easily led by its horn.

>   He entered the salon and got a nose-stinging blast of hair junk and perfume. Three stacked women flipped through magazines in the waiting area, their supersized racks barely reined in by a tube top, a tank top and a low-necked leotard. Long, tanned legs extended from a miniskirt and two pairs of shorts short enough to be underwear. Strippers, maybe? The task force had ID’d several who’d had photos done at Bedroom Eyes. A few had rap sheets for turning tricks after hours. Not that unusual for exotic dancers.

  Maybe this trio just liked to make men pant. He didn’t get why women had to be brazen about their assets. He preferred the pleasure of slow discovery, the secret beauty a woman shared only with her man.

  He suspected that was Samantha’s preference, too, despite what she said about clothes and their effect. On the other hand, the mental picture of her in that yellow silk thing shot lust through him like a high-voltage current.

  Back to business. All three women smiled up at him. He smiled back, then turned to the unstaffed counter, which held a rack of lime-green flyers advertising a strip revue with three dancers in elaborate costumes. One looked familiar….

  He turned back to the women reading magazines.

  “Yep. That’s me,” said the one in the silver tube top. “Nevada Neru. Choreographer. The other two are back there, if you want a signed flyer.” She pointed at the back of the shop where two hairdressers were at work on women and a manicurist was doing someone’s nails.

  “Thanks,” he said, grabbing a flyer. The club’s name—Moons—rang a bell. Had there been a drug bust there? Arrests? The photo looked like Samantha’s work. He’d already noticed the salon walls held framed pictures labeled Photo by Bedroom Eyes, Hair by Shear Ecstasy. Good advertising, he guessed. Samantha had a good concept. Too bad she’d established it in a mobster’s lair.

  “Bring a friend,” the choreographer added, winking. “Your mother, even. It’s a very tasteful show.”