J. Kenner - Heated

“Because you were a goddamn cop who had slid into my bed and I wanted— wanted —you to be afraid.”

My mouth was bone dry as he took a step closer, and I moved back until I was pressed up against the wall, his body only a hairsbreadth from mine, and I was bathed in the heat of his fury.

“I wanted to make you wonder,” he continued, his voice low and harsh and deadly. “Wonder if you’d made a mistake playing me. Make you wonder if maybe I was the kind of man who could hurt a woman.”

“Are you?”

I saw his hand rise as fury marred his face. And then, before I had time to react, to do anything, he lashed out. I winced, but he wasn’t aiming the blow at me. Instead, he punched the wall behind me, setting it to shake and rattling the sconces that lined the hallway.

“I’m not,” he said, his low, even voice a stark contrast to the man who’d just exploded in front of me. “Last night, I thought I was pushing a cop. A bitch cop who’d stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong and was afraid that maybe, just maybe, she’d fucked with the wrong man.”

He reached out, as if to stroke my cheek, but I flinched, and he paused, then slowly withdrew. “When I realized that it wasn’t me you were scared of but your memories, I wanted to kick myself. I never meant—” He drew in a breath. “I never meant to hurt you that way.”

“I believe you.” It was true. Whatever else was between us, that fundamental point was true.

He met my eyes, his full of disappointment, and then he released me. I debated running, realized I couldn’t get past him, so I decided to stay and let this play out. Besides, I wanted to know what more he had to say.

For a moment he just stood there. Then he moved across the hall and leaned against the doorjamb. Gone was the earlier fury and the regret. Instead, he looked relaxed and calm and perfectly in control.

“What is it you think you know about me, Sloane?”

I debated how to answer, then decided that some truth was the best approach. “Not much. Not much that’s concrete, anyway.”

“Tell me.”

“I know you were given immunity for Mann Act violations,” I said, watching his face carefully.

His expression didn’t change at all. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Especially when you consider that the immunity deal was confidential.”

I shrugged. “If you know I’m a cop, you probably know that my dad was in the FBI. I have a lot resources.” All true, and yet all deception. But it kept Kevin’s name out of it. I might be pissed at him for pulling me into his vendetta against Evan Black, but I wasn’t about to let Tyler know that an FBI agent still had eyes on him.

“What else?” he demanded.

“Nothing specific,” I admitted. “You three play it close to the vest. There are rumors, speculation. Word is you bump dirty against all sorts of shit. Smuggling, illegal gambling, fraud. As far as I can tell, no one has any solid evidence.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“No.” I caught myself taking a step toward him, and stopped. “I’m an Indianapolis homicide detective,” I said reasonably. “You really believe I’m here to find out if you’re smuggling cigarettes?”

I waited for him to reply, but he simply stayed silent, watching me. “How?” I finally asked.

He cocked his head in question.

“How did you know I was a cop?”

“You’re not dealing with idiots, Detective. Or with men who ignore their assets.”

I let his words sink in, then remembered the sign in the reception area at Destiny that plainly announced that the premises were under twenty-four-hour video surveillance.

“Remote video feed,” I said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his smart phone. “I can play back the footage on my laptop, my phone. Like I said, it’s important for me to keep an eye on the place.”

“Thousands of people must cross in front of your cameras. Why notice me?”

“You intrigued me on two counts.” He winced a little, then ran his thumb over the rising bruise on his knuckles. “One, I liked the way you looked. For another, we don’t get many walk-in applicants. Those things combined to catch my eye.”

“And you learned I was a cop? How?”

“Hardly tricky. Like I said, you caught my eye. And I find it useful to have as much information about people as I can. So I had a buddy lift your prints from your application. After that, it was no trouble at all. Sloane Watson, on medical leave from the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. And that,” he added with a nod toward my hip, “wasn’t from a mugging.”

He waited, obviously expecting me to tell him what happened.

I stayed silent.

His shoulder lifted almost infinitesimally. “I told you I don’t trust easy. I meant it.”

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to process all he’d told me while at the same time figuring out my next move.

My goddamn prints. It had never occurred to me that they’d run the prints of someone applying for a waitress position. And it had never occurred to me that Tyler would watch the security feed when he was out of town.

Two mistakes, and knowing they were out there—that they were on me—only riled my temper more. “You knew, and yet you brought me to your room, stripped me, fucked me?” I thought about the couch, the waiter. About the way the erotic thrill had ripped through me, like some intimate new secret that he’d shared with me.

“You played me,” I said, my voice low but trembling with anger. “You fucking played me.”

“Hell yes, I played you. I already told you. I pulled you in, step by step. I had every intention of using you and being done with you.”

He moved away from the door, taking a single step toward me. “Nothing but one big con—or at least that’s the way I planned it. Because nobody plays those kinds of games with me. Not and gets away with it.”

“Well, hooray on you,” I said. “You win. Happy?”

“Not really, no.”

“Yeah? Well, good.” I tried to make the words sound cavalier and uncaring. But dammit, I did care. And now that my fear was gone and the anger was settling, I felt hollow and lost.

Goddamn me for letting myself get twisted around by this guy—this fucking asshole who didn’t want a goddamn thing except to use me. And I’d gone and let myself believe that part of it was real. His talk of trust and passion. Of feeling that connection.

I’d let myself forget that he was a grifter at heart, and who better to see your weak spots than a con who manipulated emotions to make a fast buck?

Well, fuck him.

I started to turn away, but he took my chin. “No,” he said, his voice soft yet firm. “I know what you’re thinking, and no. I pushed you because I thought you were a cop. But when you ran—when I went after you—it was because I wanted the woman.”

“Please,” I said, as a brutal wave of exhaustion swept over me. “Please, will you just let me leave?”

He said nothing for so long I thought he was going to simply ignore the question. “Is that what you want?” he finally asked.

Is that what I want ?

Wasn’t that a loaded question? I wanted to start over. I wanted him to be squeaky clean. I wanted to not be a cop.

Except, I didn’t. Not really. I liked who I was. And—though I would admit it only to myself, and even then only in the smallest, darkest parts—I also like who Tyler was. Would he be the same man if he’d grown up all corn fed and innocent with a homecoming king crown on his head? I didn’t think so.

But it didn’t matter, because this was the end. There was nothing between us now but memories, and now even those were tainted, tinged with the bloodred stain of deceit.