Heat (The Stark Affair Book 1)

Heat:

The
Stark Affair Book 1

by

Skylar
Cross

Copyright 2014 D2Rev
Publishing /
Skylar
Cross

First edition

October 22, 2014

Cover design:
Letitia
Hasser
at Romantic Book
Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)

Story/Concept Editing:
Cathy Yardley (rockyourwriting.com)

Editing: Missy
Borucki
(missyborucki.com).

Promotion:
Brina
Courtney and Rachel Marks at Mark My Words Book
Publicity (markmywordsbookpublicity.com)

All rights reserved. No part
of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or
mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain
other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters depicted in
this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Morgan
Black,
Brina
Courtney, Rachel Marks, Cathy Yardley,
Missy
Borucki
,
Letitia
Hasser
,
Dede
Nesbitt, Kayla Ann
Bennerotte
, Babel Td, all the amazing bloggers who support
me, and everyone who reads my books and cheers me on. I so appreciate you.

Chapter
1

Sofia

I knew I was in trouble the
moment I first saw Colton Stark’s eyes.

They
glare up at me from a headshot on
LaTashia’s
iPad
. He’s sitting—hands clasped around a pair of
leather gloves—looking upward, all pensive and determined like he’s
accepting a challenge.

Zing!

Shit,
was that a wet spark firing up in my panties?

Fuck,
it was. Goddamn. I cross and
recross
my legs.

Weird.
Rich, billionaire playboys born with silver spoons in their mouths usually don’t
do
jackshit
for me.

LaTashia
and
I sit at an outdoor table at the top end of Ocean Drive, having just finished a
delectable lunch from BLT Steak at The Betsy Hotel.

“Know
him?”
LaTashia
asks, gesturing to the picture of
Colton Stark on her
iPad
.

Today
she’s
all professional
in a black suit with
pinstripes. Expensive shoes. Badge and gun hidden in her purse. Lustrous black
skin, broad shoulders, a strong chin, and kind eyes that morph into vicious
spears the moment you irritate her.

LaTashia
Washington is my role model.
Lieutenant at forty, head of the
Organized Crime Section (OCS) at forty-five.
To me she’s a mentor,
having promoted me to OCS, at age twenty-four, last year. Not to mention giving
me some sorely needed tough love and discipline along the way.

Why are we meeting outside the office?

LaTashia
takes a sip of her coffee. She shoots a serious squint at me.

“I
know
of
him,” I say. “How can you
not? Stark Technology has been around forever.”

“Used
to be Stark Technology. Now it’s Stark Worldwide. Branched out into
biopharmaceuticals, aerospace research, and water filtration systems.

“Capitalism
at its finest. Only other fact I know about Colton Stark is that every cokehead
tramp in Miami goes to his club down the street just for a chance to suck his
cock. Can’t remember the name of it…”

“Heat.”

“Yeah,
that’s it. How fucking original.”

LaTashia
frowns. “Sofia, we haven’t talked recently about your profanity issues. Do we
need to revisit that subject again?”

I
clear my throat. “No. Sorry.” I take a sip of my coffee.

“We
believe Stark Worldwide is involved in some narcotics shipments from Colombia.
We’ve actually suspected it for many years, but never got the evidence.”

“This
guy?” I laugh. “No fucking way.”
LaTashia
frowns
again. “Sorry, I mean no way. He’s more of a magazine model. Probably gets
mani-pedis
in between $5,000 bottles of Krug at the VIP
table.”

“Well,
that’s the question. We’re not sure Colton Stark himself is involved. Or even
knows. We do suspect, however, that he’s up to something else.”

“Like
what?”

“That’s
just it. We don’t know. There is a lot of money moving around inside Stark
Worldwide. Some of it ends up in a series of shelf companies owned personally
by Colton Stark, while some is transferred into offshore accounts and then
funneled somewhere else.”

“What
does that mean in English?”

“Colton
Stark is stealing from his own company. Millions of dollars that would have
gone unnoticed if it weren’t for our new whiz kid who identified the
complicated algorithm Colton uses. It’s quite brilliant, actually. Designed it
himself.”

“Why
would Colton Stark steal money from his own company?”

“That’s
the question. We don’t know. We’re not even sure if it’s related to the
suspected drug trafficking. Seems to be separate because it happens at
different times.

I
flip the screen. Another shot of Colton Stark glaring into the camera.

Zing!

“This
guy?” I say, then cough and clear my throat. “Looks like all he knows how to do
is pose.”

“On
the contrary.
Top of his class at MIT.
Degree in computer science and engineering.
Father wanted
him to go to Yale but he has a gift for math. Claims he sees everything in
formulas and algorithms.
Like that guy from
A Beautiful Mind
—only without the
hallucinations.
Even designed his own operating system for his
graduating thesis.”

“
Hm
, for such a smart guy he seems to spend a lot of time
squandering his skills.”

“His
hands are tied by the Board his father set up before he died. Colton Stark only
owns 49% of Stark Worldwide. While he is the majority shareholder, most company
decisions are made by Jasper van
der
Voort
, his father’s best friend and Chairman of the Board.”

“Ooh...
Daddy didn’t trust little
Colty
, did he?”

“Apparently
not.”

I
look out at the ocean. The bright turquoise waves glow as they hit the shore,
shiny white reflections of October sunlight dancing on their caps.

“
LaTashia
, I need to ask. Why are we meeting way out here on
SoBe
?”

She
takes a sip of her latte and glances out at the park, squinting. Some kids are
setting up
a volleyball
net on the grass under the
palm trees.

“I’m
not supposed to be telling you this,” she says, “but there is an Inter-Agency
Task Force operation going on. They have people on the inside of Stark Worldwide.
We’ve been sharing
intel
with them, but every time they get close to nabbing a shipment, it vanishes.”

“Oh
my God, you think we have an informant on our team?”

“There’s
no evidence, but I smell a rat. Could be any member of the task force. FBI.
DEA. Coast Guard. Us. I don’t want to think it’s us, but I am now forced to
operate with that possibility.”

LaTashia
earned the nickname “The Cleaver” for cleaning house her first year. Looks like
it’s
time to do another sweep.

“Sofia,
I need to ask you a favor. It’s personal.”

“Anything,
Lieutenant. You know that. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be losing my mind
in the Pit.”

“You’d
have lost it already. You were a ticking time bomb when I pulled you into OCS.”

“Yeah.”
I get a flash of the dead girl on the landing, as clear as if I were looking at
her right now. Then I shake my head to make it dissolve. It never fully
dissolves, though.

“Sofia,
what I’m about to ask you is... not an assignment. It’s a favor. If you say no,
I understand perfectly.”

“You
want me to get to know him?”

She
nods while biting her lower lip. “Well, I know he isn’t your type.”

“My
type?”

“Either
hyper-masculine men or runway model girls.”

I
smile. “What can I say? Life is short. I want to experience it all.”

“But
you’re definitely
his
type.”

“He
likes tomboy bitch cops with short fuses and profanity issues?”

LaTashia
grins. “No, Latinas. Latinas with... assets.”

“You
mean Puerto Rican girls with big butts?”

She
shrugs. “You say potato, I say pa-
ta-tah
.”

“Lieutenant,
you’re serious? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not your typical
nightclub party girl.”

“Oh,
I’ve noticed. But Sofia, you’re a detective now.
A good one.
I know you’ve never been deep undercover, but you’ve shown promise on your assignments.
This is a little out of character for you, I admit, but I would appreciate it
greatly.
Nothing too intense.
Maybe go to his club...
attract his attention... get him talking after a few drinks. Get to know what
makes him tick. We don’t know what motivates him. If we could figure that out,
maybe we could figure out what he’s doing with the money. Not to mention who’s
blowing our cover.”

I
look over at the kids setting up the volleyball net. One side isn’t secure
enough. It’s going to fall as soon as someone taps the top.

“I
can take him down,” I say.

“Sofia,
I don’t want you to take him down. I’m just looking for information. Put your
gun away. Leave it at home. Just get me some insight. Discreetly. Nobody can
know about this. I’m not asking you to sleep with him or anything.”

“Him?
Ha, I would never sleep with a guy like him! I don’t do criminals.”

Chapter
2

Sofia

LaTashia
has
a meeting in Doral so I go back to the office. Right away, I know somebody has
been at my cubicle.

I
don’t bring home to work and vice versa, like other people. My space is
purposely sparse. No pictures. Nothing
thumb-tacked
to
the wall.

Which
makes it easy for me to notice that two paper clips are askew and the
push-pins
are not in the same pattern as when I left.

Who
the fuck would open my drawer?

I
look around. Nobody meets my eyes.

I
put my bag down on the floor, under the desk.

I
login to my computer and check email. I make a few replies,
then
pull out my Ops Folder.

But
before I go into my usual routine, I can’t help but be perplexed about
something. I look around before I click on Internet Explorer.
I Google “Colton Stark,” then click on Images.
Several
pictures pop up.

Zing!

Oh
God. What the fuck? There it is again. Another fucking moist spark down below,
as those gorgeous blue eyes look out at me.

Fuck, Sofia, get control of yourself!

I
take a deep breath and count backwards from 500... 499... 498. By the time I
get to 490, I’m usually centered again. All good.

Then
I return to the pictures. In one, he’s stepping out of his Bentley Continental
GT in front of his palatial
Vizcaya
-like estate.
Shiny dark suit with a blue tie.
Windsor knot. Handkerchief.
Again, looking up at something.

I
stare more intently, trying to figure him out. My head sinks into my cupped
left hand.

There’s
something about his face. Don’t know what it is.
A symmetry
.
Square jaw.
Thick masculine lips.
An
intensity that is all man.
Most humans seem to be randomly thrown
together, but this guy looks like somebody designed him. I could study that
face for days. Maybe make a sculpture of it.

I
click the next image.
Unshaven in a casual blue shirt with a
Latina girl leaning her head on his shoulder.

Zing
!

Oh
my God! This can’t be happening. It’s so unlike me. I am
not
attracted to pasty, rich, white boys.

Not
at all.

“
Whatcha
doing?” says a male voice.

I
make a throaty gasp as I nearly jump out of my skin. Simultaneously, I click
the window closed and look up at Mike
Everly’s
smirk.

“Scare
much?” Mike says.

“Don’t
fucking sneak up on people, asshole!” I say.

“
Ooooh
, somebody’s in a mood. Time of month?”

I
extend my middle finger to his face.

Mike
is my former partner. We rode overnights in the Pit together before I moved up
to OCS. Six months later,
LaTashia
took him up too,
based on my recommendation.

“Suck
it,
chica
dura
.” He
smiles and chews his gum. “Hey, want to do lunch?”

I
look up at him. Mike is a short, good-looking guy with slicked back black hair.
Wiry frame. Pale with bright red cheeks.
Tougher than he
looks.
We had sex once, while drunk, after busting an infamous coke
dealer.

Both
of us woke up knowing it was a huge mistake.

Huge.
Fucking. Mistake.

Now
I cringe every time I see his wife and kids.

“
Naw
, I already ate,” I say. “But thanks.”

“Oh
yeah? Where?”

I’m
about to say The Betsy Hotel but stop myself.

“Checkers.”

“You
had a
Checkerburger
with Cheese without me? God, you
have no respect for Four-Victor-Eight anymore, do you?”

Four-Victor-Eight
was our old patrol car.

“Nope.
Just you,
cabrón
,”
I say, checking my
iPhone
.
Five
texts from Kristy.
She wants to make dinner at my place. Shit.

“Oh,
come on!” Mike says. “You still think about me.”

“
Pfft
.
Was
you that made me switch
teams.”

“Yeah,
right.
You been
playing for all teams since the first
tuft of hair on your infield. But seriously, what are you working on? Anything
good?”

“Couple
of leads. Some boring surveillance.”

My
eyes fall on the napkin protruding from my bag. The Betsy Hotel is emblazoned
in gold on it. Mike looks down at it.

I
send Kristy a text:

Fine

“How’s
it going with
Miley
Cyrus?” he says.

“Mike,
don’t you have fucking work to do?” I say as I sneak the napkin out of my bag
and into the wastebasket.

“I
do, but I have my priorities. It wouldn’t be Monday without getting a rise out of
my
muñequita
Sofia. But seriously, I think you and Kristy should send a photo of both of you
together to TMZ. They’ll report right away that Michelle Rodriguez is now dating
Miley
Cyrus.”

“Kristy
looks like Kristy. And, I do not look like Michelle Rodriguez! You, on the
other hand, are a dead-ringer for Boy George—only in a cheaper dress.”

“Cute.”

“Now,
Mike, leave me the fuck alone or I don’t know on what social media site the
pictures I have of your tiny penis might find themselves.”

“I
love it when you talk dirty.”

“Pulling
up the
pic
now. You have five seconds.”

“Bitch.”

“Four...
three... two... “

Mike
flips me two birds behind his back and heads back to his cubicle.

I
look at the clock. 1:06pm. I need to formulate a plan for Colton Stark, but I
can’t do it here.
Too many eyes.
LaTashia
wants me to be discreet.

So,
I catch up on my giant stack of paperwork for two hours and leave the office at
three.

That
gives me some research time before Kristy shows up for dinner.

That
will be nice, right? Won’t it?

Sure.

That
will be nice. Kristy is nice.

Right?