Julie Kenner - Undercover Lovers

“Bold?” Tori swallowed, half afraid she was tempting fate by asking, and half afraid that she wasn’t.

“Bold enough to do this.” His arm slipped around her waist, and he pulled her close. The loofah ended up pressed tight between them, and he shifted against it, his chuckle soft against her ear. “Hang on to that, sweetheart. Maybe later we can find an interesting use for it.”

“I can think of a few,” she said. Tori heard her own voice, soft and sultry, and the sound pulled her back to reality. Closing her eyes, she backed away. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I want to, but I can’t.”

He pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Yes, babe, you can.” He dropped the shirt, now soaked, to the floor of the tub. “Sex camp, remember? Intimacy. Young lovers with an amazing sex life looking to spice it up.”

“I think I already proved that we can fake it just fine.”

He unbuttoned his shorts, then started to tug at the zipper. “Is that what you do? Fake it?”

She bit back a smile, determined not to give in. “I’ve faked it once or twice.”

The shorts came off, dropping into the tub with a wet splat. “Not with me you haven’t….”

Also available

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J. KENNERhas always loved stories—reading them, watching them on television and on the silver screen, and making them up herself. She studied film before attending law school, but knew that her real vocation lay in writing the kind of books she loves to read. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters and several cats.

To Richard and Shelley. Congrats!

And thanks for “buying every one of them.”

Love you guys!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

CARTER SINCLAIR shifted in the leather chair and pushed his shoulder-length hair out of his face. Damn, but he longed for a haircut and a shower. For three harrowing years he’d been knee-deep in murderous, sleazebag scum, and he was nearing the end of his rope. Just hours ago, he’d been pulled off of his current undercover gig, and he could only hope the reason was the change of assignment he’d put in for.

Across from him, Assistant Director Evan Kincaid put down the phone, then flipped open a manila file folder on his desk. Carter recognized his personnel file. Hell, he’d seen it enough recently.

Kincaid peered at him over the rims of his half glasses, a portrait of the President and the FBI seal on the wall behind him. “I understand you’re looking for a new assignment.”

“Yes, sir. I’d like a permanent assignment to a field office. I’m hoping to go in as the special agent in charge.”

“Why?”

“It’s all there in my file, sir.”

Kincaid leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Humor me.”

Carter suppressed a snort. He’d been through a whole battery of psych exams, and still he had to prove himself. “I’m looking for a change in lifestyle, sir. Chasing drug dealers doesn’t hold the appeal it once did.”

“Understandable. You’ve been deep undercover for a long time.”

Carter sat up a little straighter as Kincaid continued to flip through his file. After four requests for a transfer, that wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. When he’d left the Waxahachie, Texas, police department to join the Bureau, he’d longed for the chance to hunt down the criminals that preyed on ordinary folks. He’d gotten the chance, and he’d helped put away more hardened criminals than he had fingers and toes to count.

But now Carter was just plain tired. Emotionally, physically. Hell, he was so tired his fingernails ached. He either needed a new assignment or a new job. But Carter loved the Bureau, and that’s why he’d spent the last two months trying to push through this request.

He cleared his throat, and Kincaid looked up from the folder. “Does that mean the Bureau’s going to facilitate my request?” Carter asked.

Kincaid pushed back from his desk. “That depends on you.”

“Sir?”

“Have you been following the news? Celebrity blackmail?”

Carter nodded, not sure where this was going. “I’ve heard a bit about it. Some big-shot Hollywood director. A Wall Street tycoon. And a Congressman, I think.”

In truth, he’d have to have been on Mars to have missed the news. Some scumbag was selling sexual secrets. Reputations were being ruined, deals destroyed, and key political players were suddenly bending to the will of unseen blackmailers.

“They’re just the tip of the iceberg,” Kincaid said. “The high-profile victims. The ones who are willing to go public instead of succumbing to the perp who’s trying to put the pressure on. And,” Kincaid continued, “that’s why the FBI’s getting involved.”

“A case?” Carter asked, sitting up even straighter.

Kincaid nodded, then grabbed the top folder off of his in box. He pulled out a thick report and rifled through the pages. “Our information suggests that there are quite a few more victims out there—ordinary folks with a lot to lose who haven’t contacted us or their local police yet.” Kincaid put the report in the folder and slid the whole thing across the desk toward Carter.

That made sense. Carter reached for the folder and skimmed the summary stapled to the full report. Some agent holed up in a cubicle somewhere had done an excellent job of tracking down loose ends. The author had discovered a link between all the known victims—sometime within the last two years, all the victims had visited a resort just north of Santa Barbara, California. A rather interesting resort, from the looks of it. Called the Kama Resort, the place was run by a sex therapist with a call-in radio show that Carter had heard once or twice.

“It’s a sex camp,” he said, setting the file on the desk.

“More or less, yes.” Kincaid reached for the folder and returned it to its proper stack. “According to the brochure, it caters to couples who are hoping to…” He broke off, looking slightly uncomfortable as his hand twisted in the air in search of the proper word. “…to improve their, uh, intimacy. ”

Amused, Carter kicked back, stretching his long legs out until the toes of his loafers grazed the polished wood. “Like I said, a sex camp.”

“Yes, well, there you have it.”

“Does the Bureau suspect the owner?”

“Interesting question. We checked him out, and he seems clean.” Kincaid leaned back in his chair. “But at this point we just don’t know. It could be him, a staff member, a frequent guest. Hell, there might be no connection to the resort at all. The background of the extortion victims could just be a coincidence.”