Lover Undercover (14 page)

Strangely, the sentiment seemed inapplicable when the stripper in question was Stacy, and the cop, Ian. “You never know,” she encouraged.

“Is that what you’re going to do with Trevor?” Stacy challenged. “See where things lead?”

She squirmed under Stacy’s pointed stare and looked away. “No, I’m not, but my situation is completely different.”

“Your situation is better. A yoga instructor is a hell of a lot more respectable than a stripper.”

“Trevor’s attracted to Stacy Roberts—sexy, sassy stripper. He doesn’t even know Kylie Roberts—quiet, responsible yoga instructor.”

Stacy’s trill of laughter jerked Kylie’s attention back to her sister. “What’s so funny?”

“You are. You couldn’t be more off base saying Trevor’s attracted to me…or someone like me. This sexy, sassy stripper spent several hours alone with him in an interview room and I never picked up even the slightest vibe of interest. He was all business. Trust me, I’m not his type.”

“He was all business because he was working.”

“Yeah, right. He was working 99.9 percent of the time you spent with him. Was he all business?”

Stacy’s assessing gaze traveled over her, making her acutely aware of her bed-hair and the tender, red skin along her neck caused by Trevor’s beard.

“I think not,” Stacy finally said with a sly smile. “It’s you he wants. Maybe he doesn’t know you completely—yet—not your innermost hopes and fears. You’ll have to decide whether to trust him with those.”

Chapter Fifteen

A good night’s sleep and a full Monday of yoga classes brought Kylie no closer to solving her Trevor quandary. She was still doing battle with herself when she climbed the stairs to her apartment, stopping at the landing to appreciate the last soft gasps of lavender twilight surrendering to night. But when she opened the door, a not-so-soft gasp burst from her lungs.

Candles flickered from strategic points throughout the living room. The sofa and coffee table had been transformed into a cozy dining spot for two, complete with white tablecloth, a centerpiece of long-stemmed red roses, place settings, and more candles. The tangy, spicy aroma of Stacy’s famous lasagna—her sister’s only claim to culinary excellence—wafted from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.

Stacy strode through the archway carrying a salad bowl, spotted Kylie, and stopped in her tracks.

“Hi, Ky. Didn’t you get my message?”

Voice mail. Shoot. She needed to check hers more often. “No, I came straight home after my last class. What’s”—she gestured around the room—“all this?”

Stacy continued to the coffee table and set the salad down, then ran a fingertip over one of the velvety blossoms. “I’m fixing dinner for someone.”

Her eyebrows lifted. Stacy didn’t do romantic home-cooked meals. For anyone. Ever. “Someone?”

Stacy straightened and shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “For Ian.” Her gaze dropped to the roses, and a sappy smile curved her lips. “He sent these. Couldn’t you just die?”

Yeah, she could. “They’re beautiful,” she mumbled, still astounded by the notion of her sister getting soft-eyed over a dozen roses.

“Aren’t they? Here, read the card.” Stacy extended her hand, the small card held between her fingers. Kylie took it and read, “Congratulations on the new job. Now the rest of the world will see what entranced me from the moment I met you.”

“Holy smokes, did you…?”

Stacy practically jumped up and down, despite the cast. “Yes! Remember the audition I went on almost a month ago, for the pilot about the Vegas showgirls?”

She didn’t exactly remember, but she nodded her head anyway, already thrilled for her twin.

“I got the part! Can you believe it? I’ll be dancing and acting—it’s like all my career dreams coming true at once!”

She rushed forward and hugged her twin. “That’s wonderful! I knew this would happen for you. I never doubted…oh, my God, what about your leg?”

“Not a problem,” Stacy replied, obviously already having contemplated the question. “Wardrobe and rehearsals don’t start for another eight weeks. That’s plenty of time. I’ll be good as new.”

Kylie sent a quick prayer of thanks to the universe before she sagged onto the sofa. “Fabulous. Excellent. I’m so happy for you. Hey, does this mean you’re quitting Deuces?”

“I think so. I mean, I don’t intend to leave them in the lurch, but…can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Then it hit her. Ian knew about this before her, and Stacy eagerly anticipated a celebratory evening with him. Sometime during the last few days, she’d slipped a notch in her sister’s hierarchy. The realization hurt, but in a strange way, it was also a relief. Keeping her voice neutral, she carefully probed the subject. “I guess you told Ian the good news?”

“He called right after I got off the phone with my agent. I wanted to tell you first, Ky, but I was so excited, I just couldn’t hold back. After I spilled the news he was so genuinely excited and happy for me—not in a superficial ‘flatter her and get in her pants’ kind of way—I couldn’t resist inviting him for dinner. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No,” she answered honestly, “of course not. I’m proud of you, and also glad you decided to give Ian a chance.”

“Good, because he just called and told me he’ll be here in about ten minutes.” Stepping around the table, she headed toward the archway leading to the kitchen. “I need to put the garlic bread in.”

She followed Stacy into the kitchen. The clutter of cooking paraphernalia confirmed her sister had gone all out over the meal. The amazing scents intensified when Stacy opened the oven and slid the tray of garlic bread inside. Her stomach grumbled again—loudly.

“I guess I was supposed to make myself scarce this evening?” The thought of going out made her cringe. She’d showered at the studio after her classes, bundled her hair into a sloppy knot at the back of her head, and changed into a white tank top and loose gray sweats. No makeup whatsoever. Not even a swipe of mascara or a film of lip gloss. Her gym bag hung from one shoulder and her oversize purse from the other. She looked like a bag lady.

“Oh, Ky. I’m sorry. I thought for sure you’d get my message. I told you to call me right away if it would be a problem. When I didn’t hear from you”—she shrugged again—“I figured you’d made plans to grab dinner and a movie with some of the other instructors, or something. Why don’t you join us?”

Third wheel on her sister’s date? Never. “No, no.” Hefting her gym bag higher on her shoulder, she said, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll head down to BJ’s for a few hours. It’s fine.” She backed out of the kitchen. “Say ‘hi’ to Ian for me, and, um, have fun.”

Stacy’s heartfelt “Thanks, Ky. You’re the best!” followed her out of the apartment.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered to herself on the way downstairs. Back in her car, she tried to muster up some enthusiasm for dinner alone at the local sports bar. She didn’t even know what season it was, sports-wise. Maybe there’d be some tennis or basketball games on to help her kill time? Or maybe she’d just get dinner and then drive on up to Sunset and see a movie.

Somehow, during the course of weighing her options, she bypassed BJ’s, crossed Sunset, and worked her way along Laurel Canyon. Without really thinking things through, she found herself parked in front of Trevor’s house. Apparently some appetites trumped others.

Would it be so wrong to indulge the craving? Be like Stacy for once, take what she wanted, and get on with her life. She couldn’t afford more. That much she knew. Allowing herself to fall for Trevor threatened to turn her from a determined, goal-oriented woman to a clinging basket case, completely dependent on him for her happiness and sense of fulfillment.

Stacy’s usual approach to physical intimacy represented her only viable option aside from abstinence. Comparing twenty-three years of abstinence to a couple nights with Trevor, she could say with utter certainty, abstinence sucked.

Lights shone through the windows facing the street, making it easy to see his Yukon in the driveway. While she sat there, debating her next move, a car pulled to the curb behind her and a man wearing a Panda Pagoda uniform stepped out, carrying a large paper bag. She watched his progress up Trevor’s front walkway to the door and sat, holding her breath, as he rang the bell and waited. A few seconds later Trevor appeared, in well-worn jeans and nothing else, looking rough and rumpled and impossibly gorgeous. He took the bag, handed the guy some cash, and then zoomed in on her as if she’d parked in a spotlight. Which she might as well have done, she realized, considering she’d left the car idling with the headlights on.

The Panda Pagoda driver sped away, leaving her alone in front of the house. Her heart thumped away in double time as Trevor sauntered down his walkway and along the sidewalk to where she sat. Unhurried, he walked around to the driver’s side and crouched beside her open window. Her eyes gobbled him up, from his thick, disheveled hair—which looked all the darker thanks to the stark white bandage at his temple—to the gold flecks in his deep brown irises. His lip curved ever so slightly, forming a ghost of a grin. Her body answered with a cascade of tingles starting in her stomach and flowing like mercury to all her erogenous zones. Many, many erogenous zones. Possibly, she was one big erogenous zone.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Self-consciousness doused the tingling a little, but not much. True, she had no explanation for her sudden, uninvited appearance, but he didn’t look upset to see her.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

He stood, reached in her window, and unlocked her door.

“I probably should have called, but I really wasn’t planning…”

He pulled the door open, reached in and killed the engine, and unlatched her seat belt.

“What I mean to say is—” Speech, and thought, became impossible because he leaned in and covered her mouth with his.

The tingling surged, more powerful and concentrated than ever. God, she was predictable. One kiss from Trevor and she turned into a puddle of need. She barely noticed him hauling her out of the front seat and molding her to his body because she was too busy trying to touch every inch of his bare skin—his shoulders, chest, and hard, flat stomach.

Somehow they made it inside his house without falling, which was a good thing, because if they’d gone horizontal at any point during the trip, she felt fairly certain they would have ended up having sex in his front yard. By the time he kicked the door closed, his hands had found their way into her sweats, cupping her backside, splaying his long fingers over her cheeks in a way that made her arch and squirm to bring them lower, closer where the tingling was now concentrated, with an almost painful urgency. When he lifted her so he could grind the hard, thick ridge of his erection against the cleft between her thighs, she moaned into his mouth. Her fingers speared into his hair and held on as the kiss became hotter, wetter, and hungrier.

“Your head?” she gasped, when they broke for air.

“What head?” he asked, diving back into the kiss.

The next thing she knew, her world toppled. She fell into his bed and he followed her down. Pinned between two hundred pounds of hard-packed muscle and a firm mattress, her breath escaped in a rush. “Sorry, I interrupted your dinner,” she managed.

He worked his way from the curve of her neck to her ear with his lips, and in a harsh whisper, said, “You
are
my dinner.” With that announcement, he pushed her tank top up to her armpits, sprang the front clasp of her sports bra, and feasted on one achingly sensitive breast. Using his hand to plump the flesh, he took her deep into his mouth, and then drew back so his lips slowly contracted around the tight crest. Hips pinned to the mattress, she couldn’t rock against him the way she wanted, and the pressure between her legs intensified. By the time her frustrated groan found its way free, he’d already moved on to the other breast.

“Trevor…” Begging, she arched her back, giving his wonderful, talented mouth full access.

“Time for dessert,” he murmured against her skin, so softly she didn’t at first recognize his words as a warning. The next thing she knew, he yanked her already loose sweats down and off—panties included—and parted her legs. Her gasp turned into a cry when his mouth fastened over her center and his hot tongue laved her in exactly the right spot. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but her hips were completely out of her control. They lifted and pressed, lifted and pressed, awkwardly seeking and retreating from the addictive agony.

It was too much, too fast, and yet still not nearly enough. She wanted
him
filling her, stretching her, moving inside her. “I want you,” she cried. “Now.”

He raised his head just enough to let his breath tease her wet, quivering flesh. “Not yet. I’m still hungry. You can take a little more.”

No, she couldn’t. If his talented tongue found its target even once more, she’d shatter into a billion pieces. “Oh, God, you have to stop,” she pleaded and, with a burst of energy, tried to roll away from the sweet assault.

He let her roll. When she was belly down on the mattress, he leaned over her and pulled a condom from the nightstand drawer. Then he snaked an arm under her hips, and in one seemingly effortless motion, hauled her knees up under her. The sudden move forced a squeak of surprise from her throat. A rip of foil, the roll of latex, and then he sank into her from behind.

The next sound she heard was her own grateful moan. From this position, his penetration seemed to reach all the way to her soul.

“Okay?” he ground out, holding still, cupping and squeezing her backside with his big hand while her body adjusted to him. She made a small, affirmative sound, and anxious to meet his impending thrust, tried to support her upper body with her arms. Unfortunately, her trembling limbs refused to respond to her mind’s command. Bracing her forehead on her forearms and grasping his pillow was the best she could manage.

It hardly mattered, she realized, when he began to move. He had the situation handled. Pleasure built and tightened with every slap of his body against hers. Soon, she involuntarily punctuated each slap with a greedy cry of pleasure. The depraved sound coming from her own throat might have mortified her, but his low, husky “More” rolled over her shoulder at the same time he set about making it happen with renewed fervor. After that, she clung to the pillow like a shipwreck victim and simply rode out each powerful wave.

When the inescapable tide of the orgasm building inside her swelled to frightening proportions, she moaned, “Trevor, please, I—”

She didn’t get to finish, because at that precise moment, he reached between her legs, slid his thumb over her throbbing center, and said, “Come for me.”

She came. The orgasm broke over her. Inundated her. Took her under. Before she could surface, Trevor suddenly changed his angle and drove into her again, still bracing her from the front, so she was completely at his mercy. Her breath backed up in her throat, her heart thundered in her chest, and her vision blurred.

Helpless, she pressed her face to his pillow to muffle the sounds coming out of her mouth while her body, stretched to capacity and stimulated to a frenzy, clutched and released around him in quick, endless spasms. The contractions rolled through her and into him. She felt him stiffen, heard the almost pained groan that rose up from deep in his chest. Felt the heat of his release flood her and surrendered to her own scream of ecstasy.

…

Trevor eased out of her, savoring every tiny, involuntary flex of her body. Each felt like a little attempt to hold him inside her. A very gratifying whimper interrupted her shallow breaths when he finally slipped free.