Lover Undercover (4 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s try another face and see what you recognize.” With that, he opened the evidence envelope again, pulled out a photograph from his cold-case file and tossed it on the table between them. “Recognize this man?”

She picked up the photo and stared at the well-groomed, swarthy man, as if memorizing for a test. Finally, she dropped it and shook her head. “No.”

“His name is Alex Montenegro. Sound familiar?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Is that a no?”

“Yes, that’s a no.” Her irritation came through loud and clear.

“Vern indicates he was also one of your regulars, until about eight months ago. At that time, the LAPD discovered his body in an alley a block from Deuces. He’d been beaten to death, just like Mr. Long.” Trevor tossed out another picture of Mr. Montenegro, this one a lot less flattering.

Her eyes darted to his. “I thought you said the similar crimes angle was a dead end?”

“I said
sometimes
it’s a dead end.” Relaxing in his chair, he folded his hands behind his head and smiled. “Not this time, as it turns out. Speaking of similarities, Vern says Mr. Montenegro behaved improperly during one of your private dances and security escorted him out against his will. Do you remember the incident?”

“I don’t know…vaguely?”

“A disappointing answer from such an observant woman. Vern couldn’t remember exactly what went down, but he thinks the incident occurred during what ended up being Mr. Montenegro’s last visit to Deuces. Tell me, Stacy, do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“A jealous ex? An overprotective man in your life who isn’t real happy with your career choice?”

“No.
No
,” she insisted when he continued to stare at her. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m getting at two men, beaten to death in a manner so similar it’s practically a signature, whose only other connection appears to be their enthusiasm for Deuces…and you. That’s either an incredible coincidence—and I don’t believe in coincidence—or you’re involved. For several reasons, not the least of which is all the heat you walked into by finding and reporting Mr. Long’s body, I doubt you’re knowingly involved.”

He waited a beat, to gauge her reaction to his statement, and caught the faintest flicker of relief cross her face. “Don’t take too much comfort from staying off the suspect list, because if I’m right, you’re in an even more precarious situation. You’ve caught a killer’s eye. So far he’s going after your poorly behaved clients, but I can’t help wondering what happens if he decides you’re the one behaving poorly.”

His words rounded her huge, blue eyes, but she didn’t crack. Instead, she dropped her gaze to her watch. “I’ve answered your questions as best I can. Am I free to go?”

“What’s your hurry? Somebody extremely dangerous is watching you closely, if my theory is correct. Maybe you’d like to consider the implications for a moment?”

She didn’t respond, but her expression conveyed such apprehension, uncertainty, and plain old misery, he couldn’t stop himself from trying again.

“Hey.” He softened his voice. “You’re in a risky situation. I need your help to get you out.”

She glanced his way, but said nothing.

“Is there anyone hanging around Deuces who makes you nervous—a client or a coworker you dated, or who wanted a date and didn’t get one? A guy who’s controlling, possessive, or just not quite right? Now’s not the time to protect someone you feel sorry for. Protect yourself.” He let concern lace his voice. Not hard. He was extremely concerned. Duty compelled him to keep her safe, but his desire to do so went well beyond a professional aim to protect and serve. He’d developed a soft spot for this resourceful little stripper with a core of old-fashioned decency.

“There’s something you’re not saying. I can tell.” Knuckle under her chin, he tipped her face up and held her wary, frightened gaze. “Please, talk to me.”

The signs of her indecision played across her face for several moments. Ultimately, though, she shook her head. “I can’t—”

“God, you’re a tough one.” For the second time now he’d convinced himself she was about to trust him.

“I’m not,” she shot back, voice quavering. “I’m so far from tough it’s frightening.”

“Stacy, we can keep you safe—”

“You don’t understand. I can’t tell you anything more because I don’t know anything. I don’t know who killed Carlton Long or the other one…Alex Montenegro—”

“Impressive memory for someone who claims to be terrible with names,” he pointed out softly.

Her expression froze, then shuttered. She pulled away and stood. “I’m leaving now.”

“Fine. We’ll continue this discussion tonight at Deuces.”

That stopped her at the door. She swung around and stared at him. “Detective, I’ve answered your questions. The whole
point
of coming here this afternoon was so you wouldn’t come to the club tonight.”

“I know.” He smiled as he said it, showing her he wasn’t particularly concerned with her lack of enthusiasm for his company. “I also know you’re our only link between two unsolved murders. So unless and until something else breaks, I’m your new best customer. Better get used to me.”

…

“You’re stoned if you think I’m going to the cops,” Stacy declared with a humorless laugh. “I might as well lock myself up and throw away the key.”

Kylie stopped pacing a threadbare path over the worn rug covering the scarred hardwood of their living room floor and stared at her sister, who sat on the sofa with her cast-encased leg propped on their dinged Ikea coffee table. Having just recapped a high-volume account of the last twelve hours of her life, her twin’s flat-out refusal to come clean to the police about their switcheroo threw her for a loop.

“Stacy, this is not like me taking your place for one of Mrs. Higgins’s algebra exams. It’s a murder investigation, and I don’t know the right answers. I told them I didn’t recognize Carlton Long’s name, but it looks like a big, fat lie, given he was one of your best clients. The good news is, despite all the holes in my statement, they don’t think you’re knowingly involved in the murders.”

“Good. We’re home free, Ky. Why mess things up now?”

So Trevor doesn’t come to Deuces every night and watch me dance,
she wanted to scream, but bit the words back and offered up a more rational explanation. “Because it’s illegal to lie to the police? Because you might know something important you don’t even realize, or maybe have some detail tucked away in your memory that will unlock the case for them? Do you want me to keep going? This is nonnegotiable, Stacy. We’ve got to call Detective McCade, explain what we did, and talk to him. Don’t be afraid. You’re not a suspect.”

Stacy’s face lost every bit of color. Even her lips went pale at Kylie’s words. “No, Kylie,
you’re
not a suspect. You come across as innocent and trustworthy. They could have found you standing over both dead guys, bloody brass knuckles in hand, and somehow, they’d still believe you had nothing to do with it. I’m different. My whole life, all I had to do was breathe and I’d be accused of doing something wrong. If we come forward now and tell these detectives about our little fraud, I’m screwed.”

And there it was, the crux of her sister’s refusal. “This isn’t Two Trout. These detectives don’t operate on preconceived notions. They look for the truth and back it up with facts. And the fact is, you didn’t commit these murders. But they happened, and you can’t afford to hide your head and pretend otherwise.”

“Please, Ky, keep being me,” Stacy begged. “I’m no good with police. I don’t trust them. Remember how it was in Two Trout? The second anything bad happened, the cops always showed up at our door, wanting to question me. And I always said something wrong, even when I hadn’t
done
anything wrong.”

Kylie wanted to deny the assertion, but she couldn’t. Their whole lives, her sister had always been guilty until proven innocent. Over the years, run-ins with teachers, social workers, and yes, on occasion, Two Trout’s finest, had formed Stacy’s distrust of the establishment—and those run-ins involved nothing as serious as murder.

As though she sensed her sibling’s wavering certainty, Stacy went on. “You’re handling them so much better than I ever could. Thanks to you, I’m not even a suspect. I promise I don’t have any information that could possibly help this investigation. If I did, I’d tell you. I remember Alex, and I remember Carlton, but I have no idea who killed them. I’m not the link. There’s got to be some other connection the cops haven’t figured out yet. Maybe they will, if we don’t distract them with our situation.”

“Stacy, I’m not trying to scare you, but they think you’ve attracted the attention of a killer. If they’re right, you’re in danger, and as long as I’m pretending to be you, I am, too.”

“We’re not in danger, because I’m not the connection,” Stacy said firmly. “Trust me, Ky, I can spot the freaks from a mile away, and I’ve never gotten that vibe from anyone at Deuces, clients or employees. Besides, if this Detective McCade is at the club every night, what can happen?”

She didn’t want to think about what might happen with Trevor at Deuces every night.

“Please, Ky? Please don’t throw me to the cops.” Stacy wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “I’ll end up convicted of something. I’ll lose my job.” Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “Afterward, no reputable club will touch me. My performing career will be over before it’s really started. None of this will bring Carlton or Alex back or get anybody one step closer to finding out who killed them.”

Irrational fear had taken control, Kylie knew, but logical or not, her sister really was scared. Kylie couldn’t help wanting to comfort her. She sat on the couch and slid an arm around her shoulders. Stacy covered her face with her hands and leaned in, seeking support.

“Okay,” she sighed, defeated. “I’ll handle the police.”

Stacy sniffed loudly, wiped her cheeks, and gave her a grateful look. “You will?”

“Yes, but this is the absolute last time we resort to an identity swap to get out of a jam. Things have to change. We need to take responsibility for our own lives.”

“Last time. I swear. I’ll do anything you want, Ky. Just name it.”

“You have to help me if I’m going to pull this off. I need to be a much more convincing Stacy, for starters.”

“I’ll help.” Stacy smiled through her tears. “By the time I’m done, even you won’t believe you’re not me.”

Chapter Four

Halfway through her second featured dance, Kylie completed a slow twirl around the pole and her gaze slammed into Trevor’s. She tightened her grip and slowed the turn so she didn’t stumble. His controlled expression gave nothing away, but the sight of him watching her like a hawk from the back of the audience stretched her already-tight nerves until they quivered like overwound violin strings. Deep breathing didn’t do much to ease the painful tension.

Why wouldn’t she be tense? She’d spent the whole evening hyperalert, wired from drinking too much caffeine and stressed because she imagined a killer monitoring her every move. Call her uptight, but constantly scanning her coworkers and customers for signs of homicidal tendencies made her edgy.

Yet despite her vigilance, she hadn’t seen Trevor arrive.

Now that he had, a different sort of edginess took hold. Her focus contracted. Everything around him faded to an indistinct blur while the dark, velvety weight of his stare stroked her like a touch, igniting little fires everywhere it lingered—her lips, her breasts…lower. Somehow, she managed to complete the dance, but her wobbly legs and shortness of breath couldn’t be blamed on exertion.

Backstage, while waiting on her clothes, she worked on bringing her heart rate back to normal and accepting some uncomfortable truths. Trevor held power over her, and not simply because he was investigating a murder and she was walking a razor-thin line between witness and suspect. No, it came down to something much more personal—and worrisome. When he looked at her, feelings she’d buried and left for dead a long time ago pulsed to life. Sexuality and sensuality heated and mixed. The molten concoction flowed to all her erogenous zones—zones she would have sworn never existed before now.

Being the “good twin,” the “let’s
not
give ’em something to talk about” girl, demanded self-control. Their mom had chucked her independence, rearranged her priorities, and clung like a burr to any man in a nicely packed pair of Levi’s who gave her a second glance. Determined never to measure
her
worth by her relationship status, avoid any whisper of scandal, and prove to everyone a Roberts woman could make something of herself, Kylie had resolved to be the boss of her hormones.

The testament to her success? She’d left home a virgin. And although liberated from the prying eyes of Two Trout’s gossips, five years in LA hadn’t broadened her experience in any noteworthy ways. While Stacy seemed bound and determined to prove she could pick men up and toss them aside without breaking stride, Kylie was too busy pursuing her goals to date. Her yoga classes took up practically all of her bandwidth.

She pulled on the outfit and glanced down at herself. Thanks to this latest fiasco, Kylie’s lean, flexible body had been transformed into something ripe and seductive. A lacy black push-up bra boosted her breasts to heretofore unimaginable heights. A matching G-string and thigh-high stockings created a lace-embroidered invitation to stare at her crotch.

Someday in the future, when she owned her own studio and Stacy had a legitimate entertainment job, maybe she’d be able to rearrange her priorities. Stop spending all her time working and rescuing Stacy, and find a nice guy to…um…show her some of life’s sweet mysteries. But so far, nobody had much tempted her.

Until now,
whispered a brutally honest voice as she shrugged into a thigh-grazing man’s white button-down shirt and draped a blue and silver striped tie around her neck. Trevor definitely tempted her. Those hormones she thought had dried up and blown away like an untended garden were dropping roots and sprouting like crazy.

“Crazy” being the operative word. Now was the wrong time, and Trevor, the wrong man. Appalled with herself, she shoved her black fedora on her head, turned, and nearly screamed as she ran smack into Vern.

“Jesus, you scared me!”

Vern rolled his eyes and smoothed his shirt. “What’sa matter? Last night’s excitement got you jumpy?”

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“I’m always jumpy when cops come around asking me questions.” He paused and gave her a serious look. “The detective who came to see me this morning told me they’d be speaking to you. Handle them on your own time. I’m telling you now, if I see more cops around here, things will get ugly.”

Kylie swallowed the urge to tell him tonight’s audience included at least one homicide detective. “I intend to cooperate.”

“I’m not saying don’t cooperate. Hell,
I’m
cooperating. They asked me for a list of all your regulars for the last year, based on private dance receipts, and I’m going to get them their damn list. Soon as I do, they’re going to ask you about those guys. If you don’t want the LAPD scaring away your best clients, I suggest you convince them they don’t need to talk to every single one of them.”

Lord, how was she supposed to prepare for this? She was going to have to memorize all Stacy’s regulars—what they looked like, their personalities, what type of…entertainment…they preferred. Impossible. To Vern she said, “No problem.”

“Good. Then maybe we can focus on work for a second. You’ve got a thirty-minute private dance in VIP room two. He’s not a regular. Go make him one. Benny is already in there reviewing the rules, so unload your tips and hustle over. If you can’t get another thirty minutes out of him, you’ve got just enough time to give grandpa at table seven a lap dance. If the private extends, you’re done for the night. I’ll have Lee Ann do the old guy.”

Before Kylie could reply, the honey-haired Southern belle stepped out of the dressing room at the end of the hall. “Lee Ann!” Vern barked and lumbered toward his next target.

Dread knotted her stomach as she hurried toward the dressing room. She’d been hoping against hope to avoid private dances. Public ones were bad enough. Pushing through the door, she smiled absently at Ariana, nodded to Ginger, crossed to Stacy’s vanity, and stopped short. Stacy’s overpriced boots sat on the vanity, safe and sound.

Surprised, she scanned the room. Ariana noticed her look and responded with a haughty smile. “Yes, Stacy, last night before I leave, I find your boots over there by the lockers. I figure you forget them…not like you to forget your things. I think, ‘Ari, these boots will not be here tomorrow unless you lock them up.’ So I do.” She raised a shoulder and let it drop. “Now I take them down and give them back to you.”

Kylie stared at the Russian. “Thank you. These boots were new and expensive and, to be honest, I never thought I’d lay eyes on them again. If you hadn’t put them in a safe place, I’m sure I never would have.”

Ariana lifted her nose in the air and looked down at Kylie through lowered, heavily lined eyelids. “Thank you for letting me borrow body oil last night.”

“Any time.” The way Stacy had described her coworkers left Kylie with the impression they were all viciously competitive and out for themselves. Not so true, apparently.

At least the precious boots were safe. She wished she could say the same for herself. With shaking hands she transferred her tips from her costume to her lockbox and tried to get herself calm and mentally prepared for the private dance.

“Private” wasn’t really accurate. Deuces mandated a bouncer stay in the room. At least Benny was bouncing for her rather than Ramon, the other security team member working tonight.

Ramon had been on stage duty the night Carlton Long pulled Stacy offstage. He’d left his station mid-dance to take a call, which broke club rules and, indirectly, her sister’s leg. Stacy dismissed Ramon as “a lazy weasel who never has your back,” but the vast nothingness in his dull black eyes bothered Kylie almost as much as his unreliability.

Then again, who was she to judge? For the next few weeks, she’d be dancing next to naked around a pole, on a table, over some guy’s lap, or up close and personal in the VIP room—the most profitable option by far, which is why she had to do this private dance. Panic skated through her at the thought of providing such intimate and blatantly sexual-themed entertainment, but there was no way around it. She and Stacy had bills to pay. Besides, quitting now would look suspicious.

To calm her jittery nerves, she reviewed Stacy’s instructions. They played in her head while she made her way to the VIP room with all the enthusiasm of a dead man walking.

A private performance takes the fantasy to the next level for the client. One-on-one attention from the girl of his dreams. The performance is what we call “full contact,” though he’s not allowed to touch you anyplace personal. You, on the other hand, can touch him anywhere above the belt, and you can sit on his lap.

My clients tend to want an artistic experience. Carlton, for instance, liked to undo my top, but otherwise, wasn’t into a lot of contact. He preferred to sit back and watch while I touched myself and put on a show for him. He enjoyed…theatrics.

Not just dancing, but acting, Kylie thought facetiously. Still, at the end of the day, it remained just a fantasy. For whatever comfort that offered. She opened the red leather-upholstered door to the VIP room, steeled her nerves, and stepped inside.

Deuces’ upscale ambience extended to the private rooms. Dark colors and low lights called to mind a gentleman’s study. But rather than shelves of books and a desk, the room boasted mirror-paneled walls, a comfortable leather chair, and a small table for holding drinks. Tucked in a shadowy corner sat a utilitarian wooden stool for the bouncer.

Benny stood in front of the client, reviewing the VIP room etiquette. When he stepped to the side, her heart stuttered in her chest. Trevor sat in the chair, enigmatic eyes fixed on her.

Benny glanced at her and tipped his head. “We’re on the clock.” With that, he retired to the corner and literally faded into the background.

She stood rooted to her spot by the door, unable to move.

“Hello, Stacy.” Trevor’s low greeting sent a tremor down her spine. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’m guessing you need to come a little closer.”

…

Stacy marched over to him, eyes flashing. The energy coming off her in waves announced one thing. She was ready to rumble. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Her furious whisper reminded him of an alley cat trying to intimidate a pit bull. Her coconut-vanilla scent reminded him of sex on the beach, somewhere tropical and isolated, preferably deserted, except for them.

He shoved that thought aside and smiled up at her in his best impersonation of an eager client—a disturbingly easy role. Through his teeth he said, “I’m getting a private dance, just like any avid customer.”

“You’re not a
real
customer.” She kept her voice low, but her temper came through loud and clear.

“I’m as real as they come. I’ve paid the money, I’ve agreed to the rules. And now”—he leaned back in the chair like a guy about to enjoy a private dance—“I’m ready for my performance.”

Ready
might have been an overstatement. Her plain man’s button-down, striped necktie, lace-trimmed stockings, and shiny black heels fucked with his head, not to mention a few other things.

She stared a hole through him for a long second, and it occurred to him she might refuse. But then she reached behind him for the stereo programmer. Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” moaned from the surround sound. Music selection complete, Stacy took her position straddling his lap and slowly rolled her hips in time with the music.

“Anything particular on your wish list tonight?”

Tons, but this wasn’t about him. He needed to keep his mind on the investigation. “How’d you dance for Carlton?”

“Carlton liked a sensual dance, if I remember correctly.”

God bless Carlton. “Okay. Give me what you’d give him.”

She lowered her lashes, which he couldn’t interpret. Was she afraid? Resigned? Sleepy? Nimble fingers undid the knot on the tie at her throat. She swirled the strip of silk around her shoulders, down her arm, and let it fall to the floor. The collar of her shirt draped open, revealing and abundance of smooth cleavage nestled in a lacy black bra.

He wanted to drag his own tie down and tear open the top few buttons of his shirt. The damn thing choked him. He couldn’t concentrate.

She moved her hips over his lap, barely brushing him. His cock immediately sat up and took notice, reminding him control and self-discipline had their limits. But her reaction surprised him a lot more than his own. Pink invaded her cheeks. She raised her hips slightly and focused her attention in the vicinity of his mouth.

“How’d you get this?” she murmured, tracing her index finger lightly along his upper lip.

His tongue itched to follow the path of his finger. Most people never noticed the thin, almost invisible, white scar, but whenever someone did ask, he usually dismissed the question with a bullshit answer.

“Domestic disturbance call, back when I was a rookie,” he said, before he fully realized he planned to tell her the truth. “We showed up and separated a couple tearing into each other right there in their front yard. Huge guy, and he’s got this scarecrow of a woman in a headlock. She’s kicking and screaming, trying to twist out of his grip. We waded in. I took the guy, and my partner took the female. Anyway, she slipped out of his grip, I turn around, and—wham—she slugs me in the mouth. Her ring scratched that little reminder right where I can see it every day.”

Her eyes shifted to his and lingered for beat before dropping to his mouth again. “Reminder?”

“Yeah. Don’t underestimate someone’s capacity for violence just because they look like they couldn’t hurt a fly.”

She brushed her fingernail lightly along the scar, in what he recognized as an instinctive effort to sooth a hurt. Didn’t matter. The uncalculated gesture affected him almost as much as her outfit, her dance, all the artifice. All the blood in his body settled heavily between his legs.
Get your head out of your pants. You’re investigating a murder, for Christ’s sake
.

“You learned the same lesson, I think.” At her raised eyebrows, he said, “The other night, with Long, when he pulled you offstage.”