Her Sexiest Surprise

Her hand worked at his zipper and he went at her buttons, sliding her blouse off her shoulders to kiss the tops of her breasts above the white lace of her bra.

“That feels…so…good,” she said, reaching to unclasp her bra in the front, watching his face as she did, offering herself to him, brave and vulnerable at the same time.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, cupping her breasts, which trembled in his hands, the nipples tightly aroused. He took one into his mouth, tonguing the tight bud while Chloe squirmed and moaned, fighting her way into his pants, intent on his cock.

She shoved at his jeans, her nails scraping his skin. He smiled against her mouth. No one had gone at him this way in a long time and he liked it.

“Allow me,” he said, tearing off his clothes, then tackling her skirt. She lifted her hips to help him and soon she was down to white panties, through which he could see her soft hair. When he tugged off the thin fabric, she gasped, then smiled, wiggling against him.

What next? He wanted to kiss and lick and stroke her everywhere at once. First, he had to make sure they were protected, so he reached beyond her to the nightstand, praying what condoms remained hadn’t passed their use-by date.

Grasping a loose foil square, he checked. Score. He waved it at her.

“I’m on the Pill,” she said. “And healthy. If you are, too, maybe we don’t need that.”

“Sounds good.” He tossed the condom onto the nightstand and smiled down at her. They’d slipped into an easy familiarity that made sex seem the natural next step.

She ran her hands down his arms, and he slid his hands across her ribs, along the curve of her hip to her thigh, enjoying her warmth, the shakiness of her breath, her smooth skin. Then he reached his target. Watching her face, he gently brushed the unbelievably swollen softness of her folds.

She gasped and cried out, lunging at him, lifting her hips, asking for more. Blood pounded in his cock. “You’re so wet,” he breathed, letting his fingers slide in and out with silky ease.

“I know. I can hardly believe this is happening,” she said, her eyes shining with a trust he wanted to be worthy of. She took little gasping sips of air, swept away on sensation.

“Me, either,” he said. He prided himself on being rational, self-sufficient and in control, but all that was out the window at the moment.

She stroked his cock with diabolical fingers, arousing him nearly blind. Everything he did made her moan and writhe, as though she hadn’t been touched in a long time. As though she didn’t expect to be touched again for even longer. They were like hungry animals together.

“We’ve got all the time we need,” he breathed in her ear, thinking they should slow down before something snapped, but Chloe was having none of that.

“Did you forget who the birthday girl is?” She shot him a look full of fire and determination and gripped his cock with both hands like she expected to steer him somewhere.

Anywhere you want, babe, he thought, while she straddled him on her knees, then lowered herself, sending him deep into her tight, wet heat. Damn, that felt good.

“Oh. My.” She blinked, startled, it seemed, to find herself in this position.

“You feel good,” he said to reassure her, squeezing her butt cheeks with both hands, lifting and lowering her slowly.

“Mmm, I do. I do feel good.”

He brushed her clit with a thumb and she shivered and began to wriggle in a slow circle. “Slow is nice, too,” she said, smiling in soft surprise.

“Slow is great.” Slow gave him time to memorize how she looked above him, her breasts swaying, lips swollen and parted, eyes dazed with arousal, time to enjoy being buried to the hilt in her warmth.

She swiveled her hips, making him want to pump into her, catch the wave of release, but he resisted, forced himself to stay slow and easy, to let it build.

He stroked her clit, enjoying her cries and moans, the way she threw her head back in pleasure, the way her body responded to him. She sped up and so did he. She was close…closer.

She made a little sound and her eyes flew open as she stiffened, then shuddered into a climax. He held her hips, steadying her, then released himself, flying free of everything but her body. They shook for long seconds, moving, making sounds, shivering and bucking. When she was finished, she fell onto his chest. “That was great,” she panted. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” he said as he had when she first kissed him, chuckling as he wrapped his arms around her. He was Mr. Lucky, all right. Lucky he’d gone to Enzo’s for dinner. Lucky he’d left his phone. Lucky Chloe had her eye on him.

It was no doubt a bad idea to sleep with a hostess at the Chicago mobster’s restaurant. Supposedly, Enzo had retired from his vending-machine business when he moved to sunny Arizona with his second wife and kids, but wiseguys always kept their beak in, Riley knew.

He himself had been part of busts with other Sylvestris—fraud with a charitable trust, drug smuggling at a strip joint and a knitting shop, of all places.

Surely the sweet woman in his arms knew nothing of her boss’s evil deeds, despite the fact that the man had been smack-dab in the middle of her birthday dinner. Just this once, Riley would hope for the best.

2

WHEN CHLOE OPENED HER EYES, she found herself looking between Riley’s fingers like they were the bars of a cell where she’d been locked away by the slut police.

She’d just slept with a man she knew nothing about except that he preferred booths to tables and was great in bed.

She’d been wild, too, carrying on like a porn star, except none of her moans had been fake. Remembering, she got a queasy stomach and a pounding head she couldn’t blame on champagne.

She’d made that birthday promise, right? Except it was to ask him out, not to screw his brains out. She’d gone too far. Having more fun and being free did not equal mindless sex with a near stranger.

How mortifying. She gently lifted Riley’s hand from her face to check the old-fashioned alarm clock ticking noisily on his nightstand—3:00 a.m. She had to get home.

She hoped her father hadn’t waited up for her. He’d only made a cameo at her party, since she’d insisted he go to his favorite AA meeting. He went to bed early, so hopefully he hadn’t noticed she hadn’t returned. She should have called. It had been the champagne, the birthday candles. And the man.

Oh, the man.

There he lay beside her, naked, tan and muscular, half-covered by white sheets that smelled of laundry soap and the spicy cologne he wore. She sighed. If she had to go wild and throw herself at a guy, at least she’d snagged a good one.

He’d made her slow down and enjoy what they were doing. Are you sure? he’d asked her more than once. He’d even offered her coffee to clear her head. Surely he hadn’t thought she was drunk. There had been no stopping her. The new Chloe had broken free, seized her sexual power, gone for it.

The old Chloe woke up mortified by her actions, worrying about her father, wondering what Riley thought of her. Did he think she was a slut? He wouldn’t say so, but she might read it in his eyes and she couldn’t bear that. How could she face him at Enzo’s again? She had to escape before he awoke.

The new Chloe would have teased him awake with a blow job. The old Chloe had to get out fast.

She slid out of bed with great care. The still-sleeping Riley reached for her, so she pushed a pillow over and he settled into a cuddle. For a sec, she wanted to crawl back into bed with him, but what was the point? She’d had her new Chloe moment. Enough for now. She grabbed her scattered clothes, then got on her knees to hunt a missing shoe.

She’d kicked it across the room, under the bureau. When she stood, her fingers brushed a small, framed photo. Leaning in, she recognized Riley wearing a police uniform. Riley was a cop?

Wow. She looked over at his sleeping form. He hadn’t mentioned what he did for a living. Actually, she hadn’t asked.

She’d never dated anyone in law enforcement. Sadie considered herself an expert. Drawn by the sexy uniform, she’d gone through what she called her law-and-order phase, but gave up when the guys turned out to be “macho, uptight, emotionally stunted commitment-phobes.”

It was wrong to generalize, despite her father’s bad experiences with the law, and she knew cops came in all flavors, but Riley didn’t seem to fit the mold. He’d been so easygoing, gentle and warm. And such a good listener.

She tiptoed to the door, clutching her clothes to her bare chest. Idle jumped from the bed and followed, tags rattling. “Shh!” she said, and the dog tilted his head at her, curious.

“Where you going?” Riley’s voice was scratchy with sleep.

“Home,” she said, embarrassed to be sneaking out naked.

“Come back here.” He patted the sheet beside him. “We’re still celebrating your birthday.”

Desire shivered through her. More would be nice. They could try new things, more positions, go slower….

No. She’d had a great time. She should be content. She backed up and banged her shoulder against the doorjamb.

“Careful there.”

“I’m fine,” she said, pulling the door closed.

“Chloe?”

She peeked in again. “Yes?”

“Happy birthday.”

She smiled. “You made it that way. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Anytime? He wanted more, too? How could it be that good again? It had been the right mood, the right man, the right moment. She’d made a memory. That was plenty enough for her.

She wiggled her fingers goodbye.

For just a second, in the warm spring night, she missed new Chloe, who might dance down the street singing. New Chloe wouldn’t have turned down more sex with Riley.

But reality now weighed on her shoulders. She checked her cell phone. No missed calls. No messages. Whew. Her father didn’t know she’d stayed out this late. She didn’t want him to worry about her. She worried enough about him.

He’d been quiet lately, which was odd in such an affable man, and he seemed troubled. What was up? He never complained, feeling guilty for all the trouble he’d been over the years.

It had been unusual last night and yet freeing to not be the person who watched out for her father and Clarissa, the one who thought two steps ahead, anticipated problems, pushed for solutions.

Not that Chloe minded taking care of her family. She’d been proud to take on the role when their mother left. Unable to cope with Mickey Baxter’s drinking and fresh-start promises, she’d taken off when Chloe was ten, Clarissa six.

Their mom visited a couple of times, but after a while they had to settle for weekly postcards—thoughtful and loving messages, but not the same as seeing her in person. Chloe longed for her tight hugs, reassuring smile and loving encouragement.

As an adult, Chloe realized her mother had been wracked with guilt, making the visits pure torture. At the time, Chloe had felt like a burden, a weight and a worry. Taking charge of the house gave her a way to be useful, to feel valuable.

Lately, though, she’d become impatient with her sister, whose financial struggles had drained Chloe’s savings and delayed her dream, and her father, whose good sense could be snuffed out like her tiny birthday flames with the merest puff of temptation. She tried to support, not enable, both of them, but sometimes it was tough to tell the difference.

Having wild sex with a man she hardly knew had been a way to rebel, she guessed. Here on out, she’d choose more productive actions. Though she might not need to rebel.

Her sister, married last year, seemed settled in Ventura and her husband finally had a solid job. Chloe’s father, sober for the ten years they’d been in Phoenix, seemed to have his gambling under control and spent less time with questionable friends.

As long as her family remained stable, her new job with the Sylvestris meant she was all-systems-go for a bright future.

When she opened the door, the roar of sports from the TV startled her. Had her father fallen asleep in the lounger? Rounding the corner, she was hit by the smoky aroma of whiskey and the gulping snores her father only emitted when he’d been drinking.

Sure enough, beside the lounger, an empty quart of Wild Turkey gleamed evilly in the gray flicker of World Wide Wrestling on TV.

Not again. Not after all these years. Chloe’s heart sank. She had miserable memories of him like this. She’d hated when he drank, hated helping him to bed, seeing him so weak and sad and helpless. Something was wrong, just as she’d suspected.

Going closer, she noticed how much older and frailer he seemed, his hair a wispy gray, his face drawn and wind-burned. He was only forty-five. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest.

Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, she promised the sleeping man. She touched his thin shoulder. “Dad?”

“What? Huh?” He jerked upright, eyes wide. “Oh, Chloe. It’s you. So late.” He groaned, rubbed his face and dropped back to the headrest, staring up at the ceiling.

“What is it, Dad? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, his eyes telling a different story. “Everything’s…fine.”

“Not exactly.” She held the liquor bottle before him.

“It was a mistake. I slipped.” His mouth went grim.

“You had a reason. Tell me what happened.”

“I can handle it. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Tell me what it is and we’ll fix it together.”

He stared at her, swallowing hard, his fingers picking at the fabric of the armrest. “It’s just something with Sal, that’s all. I will handle it.”

“Sal Minetti?” Sal was Enzo’s nephew. He was bad news and his friends were even worse. Enzo complained about him a lot.

“I’ll work it out. Don’t give it a thought.” Her dad reached for her hand, but his was trembling.

“Tell me what happened, Dad,” she said levelly.

Tears slid from his eyes and he shook his head slowly back and forth, the way he used to when he’d lost too much at the track or had to be picked up from a bar, too drunk to drive. He was ashamed, tortured by his failure.

He’d never been drunk at work or spent grocery or rent money, but they’d also never had spare cash and Chloe had become expert at creating arty looks with thrift-store buys.

He’d assuage his guilt with ridiculous extravagances—a fancy boom box, a giant stuffed giraffe, a top-of-the-line mountain bike. He tried. He loved them. He just had…limits.

“Talk to me.”

“Sal asked me to drive for him,” he said shakily. “He and his buddies, Carlo and Leo, wanted to go to this strip mall in Glendale. So, no problem, I drive ’em. They’re quiet, which should tip me off…” He swallowed again and eyed the ceiling.

“So they tell me to pull around back, they need to talk to a guy, and they get out with backpacks. Next thing I know they’re running to the car, backpacks jammed. They robbed a jewelry store. They had some guy fox the security system and I dunno what all, but it’s not on the up-and-up. That I know.”

“You didn’t get caught, right? So you’re okay?”

He shook his head, miserable. “No, but they want me to keep driving. ‘Special assignments,’ Sal calls it.”

“You have to tell him you can’t do it.”

“You don’t say no to these guys.”

“They can get somebody else, Dad.”

“But, see, that’s it….” He swallowed hard, as if gathering courage. “See, Sal helped me out with a shortfall. If I do this, I’m covered.”

“More gambling?”

“An investment idea went south.”

Anger stabbed at her. Why was her father so vulnerable to something-for-nothing schemes? At least it hadn’t been illegal gambling. She fought to focus on the problem at hand.

“We have to talk to Enzo, Dad. He’ll stop Sal.”

“Absolutely not.” He lunged forward, his eyes wide. “If Enzo finds out, I don’t want to know what Sal might do, who he might hurt.”

Sal had threatened them? She couldn’t imagine. He didn’t seem violent, but she only saw him flirting at the bar. Her father looked petrified. Maybe someone above Sal was the danger.

“Then the police,” she said. “If Sal’s doing crime, he should be arrested.” What about Riley? Her heart leaped with hope. Riley would help her. He’d been so kind and generous.

“Not with my record.”

“It was a few days in county for drunk and disorderly. And in Chicago, they conned you as much as they did, those business owners, who were crooks, too.”

“It’s enough, trust me. Cops only care about the rules.”

“We’ll get an attorney to protect you.”

“With what money? No. Just let it ride for now. I told you I’ll handle it. I will.”

“This won’t just go away.” She lifted the bottle again. “And this makes things worse.”

“I know. I lost my strength. I had so much hope, see, and I wanted you to be proud. It was for your school. I wanted to surprise you on your birthday. Instead I screwed up again.” His eyes were red and desperate.

“Just don’t drink, Dad. That’s the gift I want from you. And use good sense. No quick deals, no easy money. Think before you jump. If it looks too good to be true, it is too good to be true.” She was babbling the same advice she always gave and he somehow failed to heed, but she had to do something with her frustration. “It’ll be all right, Dad. I know it will.”

First, she’d talk to Riley. Thank God she’d met him. He wasn’t a hard-ass like the highway patrolman who gave her a speeding ticket outside Blythe. That guy hadn’t cracked a smile when she’d asked if his day was going better than hers. He just lectured her like she was an idiot and slapped the ticket into her palm. Riley would be sympathetic.

Maybe all he had to do was put out the word and this could go away. It felt strange to ask for a favor from a man she’d only known naked, but when it came to family, you did what you had to do. That was something the old Chloe knew cold.

THE DOORBELL WOKE RILEY. Seven o’clock, according to his clock. Who could it be? He’d told Max and the squad he intended to sleep all weekend as a reward for solving the Sanchez case.

Climbing out of bed, he noticed gray light through the window and the drip of water. More spring rain. A good thing, since it had to hold them through the broiling Arizona summer. But hearing it made him want to curl under the covers for a morning snooze. With Chloe.

Too bad she hadn’t stayed. Not his typical response. He liked waking up alone and peaceful. But the sex hadn’t been typical and neither had the woman.

He’d have made her breakfast. Oatmeal anyway, but he’d have made it special. Didn’t he have a banana? Then some leisurely sack time, after which they could read the paper from the terrace, watch the quail boss their newborn chicks around, smell that great wet-desert smell. Someone had explained it was only creosote and dust, but to him it smelled healthy and pure and made him glad to be alive.

Idle clattered to the door as Riley stepped into jersey shorts and fished out a T-shirt.

The doorbell rang again and Idle barked. “Hang on,” Riley shouted. Where’s the fire? He wanted to sink back into bed and conjure up Chloe’s moves and cries. She’d intrigued him, charged him up, made him feel new.

Leave it alone. He couldn’t see her again, not with what he was doing at Enzo’s—gathering leads, watching who ate with whom and what they said to each other, then passing it on to the Phoenix FBI’s Task Force on Organized Crime. They considered him a resource and often picked his brain.

Besides, he liked things simple and Chloe was not a simple girl—taking care of her family the way she’d described told him that. Last night was a one-time deal. She clearly wanted it that way. Much better. No complications. No disappointment. One hot memory to call up when needed.

At the door, Idle whined and quivered, waiting for him to open it. He never acted this way, not even for Max.

“Settle down,” he said, leaning to the peephole.

He was startled to see Chloe standing there, chewing her lip, wet hair plastered to her cheeks, holding a rain-peppered sack with purple flowers sticking out. What the hell? She’d brought him groceries? And flowers?

Idle whined again. “You smelled her, huh? Like spring.” He grinned as he threw open the door.

“I’m back,” she said with a shy smile. The wet-desert smell billowed in with her own scent, filling his head. They stood staring at each other, her eyes flitting here and there, his doing the same. Damn, she was pretty.

And nervous, he noticed. Hmm.

Idle squealed with delight.

“Hello, buddy.” She leaned down to pat him with her free hand. “I brought breakfast,” she said, looking up at him.

“You didn’t need to—”

“I wanted to,” she said, then ducked her gaze. “The kitchen is this way?” She set off, not waiting for a reply.

He followed and watched her put down the sack and take out the flowerpot. “Just for color,” she said, blushing pink, then hurried to empty the sack of eggs, glass containers with herbs and oil, a bottle of maple syrup, sliced ham, mushrooms and a waffle iron. “I figured you like a hearty breakfast, so I thought Belgian waffles with ham crisps. The batter’s ready. I just need twenty minutes to bake the crisps. That okay?”

She was babbling to cover her tension.

“I can wait.” He moved closer. Was she embarrassed about returning?

“Good.” From the bottom of the sack, she lifted a white chef’s apron. When she looped it over her neck, her hands shook. Something was wrong.

He tied her strings, then turned her to face him. “How come you’re all of a sudden my personal chef?”

“I wanted to make up for leaving so fast.” But her face went pink and her eyes flicked up and left, signifying a fib. She reminded him of a suspect with something to hide or confess.

“What’s wrong, Chloe?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” She blinked, flushed full red, and stepped away from his hands.

“You’re red and trembling and you won’t look me in the eye. What’s up?”

“Okay.” She sagged, sheepish. “I do need your advice.”

“My advice? About what?”

She studied him. “Maybe we should talk after breakfast.”

Uh-oh. “Breakfast can wait. What advice do you need? And why me?”

“I, um, noticed your photo. You’re a police officer, right?”

“Detective,” he corrected, dreading what came next. Maybe she just needed a speeding ticket fixed. Not that he would do it, but he wanted it to be simple and small, something that wouldn’t make his sleeping with her an even worse idea than it already was.

“That means you investigate crimes, right? That’s great.”

Uh-oh. “Let’s sit down.” He led her to his couch and sat beside her. Noticing her goose bumps and damp hair, he wrapped the throw his squad mate’s wife had made for him around her shoulders.

She didn’t seem to notice. She just looked at him, her big green eyes muddy with worry.

“Exactly what crime are we talking about?”

“Okay…” She took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “Say someone got dragged into a robbery—just driving the car, with no knowledge of any theft—how much trouble would that person be in? And could they get out of it by talking to the police?”

“You mean how would they be charged? That depends….” The familiar hum started in his brain as he got ready to sort lies from truth, meaningless details from crime-solving gold.

“On what?”

“Who’s involved, their prior arrests, the seriousness of the crime, what the D.A. wants. Just tell me what happened.”

She stiffened at his tone. Too terse. He took her hands and softened his voice. “Just talk to me, Chloe. I can’t help you if I don’t know the whole story.”

“Maybe I can go hypothetical? So it doesn’t get official?” Her lower lip quivered. He’d scared her and she didn’t trust him. Why would she? They’d been different people last night, both of them, lost in lust. This morning, he was a detective and she was either an informant, an accessory or, worse, a suspect.