Dangerous Boys and Their Toy, Page 2

  need your witness for court.” He hesitated, looked away. “You’re one of the few friends I’ve got. I don’t want some chick getting in the way of that.”

  Cam turned to Thorn, and he knew shock was all over his face. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  His stare turned glacial. “Don’t try to interpret my emotions, pussy.”

  That was like asking Cam not to breathe. He probably knew them better than Thorn himself did. Then again, Cam had four sisters. If he hadn’t learned to think emotionally, he would never have survived to adulthood.

  “Whatever, asshole,” he said. “I think we wait twenty-fours, then see if Lawton shows up. If not, I’ll pull out my badge and pay his pretty little mistress a visit.”

  * * * * *

  Brenna Sheridan saw nothing but red.

  Rearing back, she eyed the big punching bag dangling from the ceiling, the tight grip of the boxing gloves around her wrists a familiar bite. She swung, putting every bit of her fury and frustration into the punch. Her fist connected with a satisfying thud, and the red bag dipped and swung. The impact of the blow shot fire up her arm. With clenched teeth, she grunted, but Brenna refused to feel pain. She’d been at this for an hour, and she wasn’t done.

  Leaning back on her right leg, she kicked her left out to the bag, connecting with a vicious jolt that sent a punishing thud echoing through the room and a thrill of satisfaction zinging through her.

  Sweat poured down her temples, between her breasts, down her back, dampening her white tank and black spandex shorts. Tendrils of hair floated near her face, having escaped the haphazard clip she’d shoved them into. With a toss of her head, they disappeared, leaving her free to step forward and punch out with another hard jab at the offending bag.

  She pretended instead it was Curtis Lawton’s head.

  Rude, insensitive, downright stupid… Then again, he’d been that way for years. She shouldn’t be at all surprised. He’d come around—but in his time, his way. He always did.

  Brenna danced around the bag, balancing on the balls of her feet, before she lashed out with a fierce right kick. Because of him, she didn’t trust men, didn’t know how to really be herself when she was with them. She’d let him get in her head and mess with her mind. Stupid! And last night… Damn, by the pool with the stars twinkling, a glass of wine relaxing her body, she’d still been unable to come! And the source of her problems? Gone. Would a phone call hurt the man? He’d kept her at arm’s length in Texas forever. He’d occasionally sent birthday gifts and actually called last Christmas. Nothing else. So she’d come to him here in Arizona. She’d been here all of fifteen minutes, and what did he do? Disappear.

  Bastard.

  This morning, the reason for his behavior had become crystal clear. She’d read the morning paper, and dear Curtis’ name was plastered all over the front pages with lurid headlines: Local man to turn evidence in slavery ring.

  Brenna had read on in shock. What the hell had he gotten himself into? According to the article, he’d helped smuggle young Mexican men and women into the U.S., then forcing them to work for a pittance in everything from sweatshops to underground bordellos. The whole thing turned her stomach.

  After ensconcing her in this pretty little house in the middle of nowhere, he’d vanished, so it wasn’t like she could ask him any questions. He’d merely given her some warnings that made no sense—go nowhere, trust no one, say nothing. Then he’d gone.

  Breathing hard, Brenna jerked her arm back and thrust it forward again, landing another solid strike directly on the heavy red bag. Her shoulder ached and her body trembled from the exertion but it felt good. Even if it didn’t do much to calm her mind.

  What in the hell was she going to do about Curtis?

  A loud, impatient pounding on the little bungalow’s front door snapped Brenna’s head around. She hesitated, her breathing harsh. If Curtis had returned, he would have just barged in.

  That meant a stranger knew she was here. Out in the remote mountains of this austere desert, it wasn’t as if she had any neighbors welcoming her to the area with a plate of cookies. Whoever hammered on the door with a rough fist definitely wasn’t female or here for a friendly chat.

  Too bad for them she was in a foul mood and had no intent to let anyone screw with her.

  Drawing off her boxing gloves as more impatient raps on the door resounded through the place, Brenna darted down the hall and searched the French Provincial nightstand in the sumptuous bedroom until she found what she was looking for. Ah, a Beretta. Lovely semiautomatic favored by military and law enforcement. Curtis did love his guns.

  This ought to deter her uninvited guest.

  With a smile and the gun clutched tightly in her fist, Brenna sauntered to the front door.

  Chapter Two

  Brenna yanked the door open, the Beretta firmly gripped in one hand. Bad attitude, as only a Texas girl raised with macho alpha male cousins can conjure, was stamped all over her face. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Leather-wearing goons with jagged scars on their faces, maybe? Nothing, though, could have prepared her for the man who stood under the dim porch light, badge in hand.

  Tall. So striking she couldn’t breathe for fully thirty seconds. Wow! Six-two…six-three. He towered way, way above her. Hair a silky, unrelieved black that looked as if it had been cut short once, months ago, then left to hang loose to brush his collar and tangle across his wide forehead. Bronzed skin covered the landscape of an angular face, complete with a sharp jaw, a sensually sculpted mouth, and killer cheekbones bequeathed to him by some Apache ancestor. Eyes a swirl of mysterious colors, like whiskey with chocolate made smoky by a hint of sin lurking just under his calm façade.

  Dear Lord, had she ever seen a more gorgeous man?

  Shoulders nearly as wide as the doorframe stretched a tight gray t-shirt to the brim with muscles that bulged and rippled, despite the fact he did nothing more than breathe. Without conscious thought, her gaze strayed lower, over ridged abdominal muscles that even clothing couldn’t conceal. And lower…to an impressive bulge nestled in clinging jeans that had faded in the most intriguing places. Forcing her gaze down again, she took in scuffed black western boots.

  This guy gave the motto “Ride `em, cowboy” a whole new meaning.

  He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Cameron Martinez of the Tucson Police Department.”

  Detective, not just a beat cop. With what Curtis was into, it was a miracle they hadn’t sent Border Patrol, INS, FBI, and a slew of other government agencies. But no, just the one absolutely amazing, beyond drool-worthy hunk.

  “Would you mind putting the gun down?” he asked, his voice soft and forceful at once.

  Oh, Lord! She’d been so busy gawking at the man, she’d forgotten she was pointing a weapon at him.

  With an awkward smile, Brenna reached around and placed the Beretta on the small table against the wall on her left—but still within reach. “Out here all alone, a girl can’t be too careful. How can I help you, Detective?”

  Brenna tried to play it cool. Tried like crazy. Hard to seem calm with a trembling voice, damn it. He was going to ask her questions. And she wasn’t a good liar. If she screwed this up, what the hell would happen to Curtis? Of course, if he did half of what he was accused of doing, he deserved to do hard time, but she needed his help before someone sent him behind bars. After last night, she knew she needed help real bad.

  Besides, Curtis had told her not to trust anybody, even the police. For all she knew, Detective Martinez was a dirty cop.

  Her unexpected visitor simply sent her a questioning glance, then changed the subject. “Can I come in and ask you a few questions?”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  She was stalling. Damn it, a story, some story—a believable one to throw him off track. She needed one now. No one would believe what Curtis told her to say…

  “Not at all,” he soothed.

  “Um, as you can see, I’m in no shape for visitors.” She looked down at her own sweaty garments and grimaced. “Maybe later?”

  Great first impression. Pointing a gun at the man while looking—and smelling—her worst. Now she had to choose between putting him off or lying about a criminal. She doubted there’d be any first dates in their future.

  “It won’t take long, ma’am. Or I don’t mind waiting if you want to clean up first.”

  And let him look around Curtis’ little hideaway while she showered? Not a good idea.

  “Well, if it won’t take long, now is fine.” She stepped back to admit him.

  Now what? Brenna blew out a deep breath, her mind racing. Calm. Yes, she had to stay calm. Or Mr. Tall, Dark and Unsettling would pick her apart in twenty words or less.

  She led him to the small living room at the front of the house and perched on the edge of a chair. He chose the sofa across the room and stared at her with those unusual swirling eyes, giving away nothing of his thoughts.

  Intense. Quiet. Perfect descriptions of him. “Gotta watch out for the quiet ones,” Aunt Jeanne had always said. Looking at the detective, Brenna suddenly understood why and couldn’t have agreed more.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” She stalled again.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Brenna, please. When you say ma’am, I start looking for my aunt.”

  A corner of his mouth tipped up. And what a mouth! She’d been so mesmerized by his eyes earlier, she’d barely acknowledged the wide mouth that looked oh-so capable of sin.

  “Brenna.”

  His deep, smooth voice gave her shivers. How would his whisper sound in her ear as he was thrusting deep inside her?

  No. He was here to ask questions, not seduce her. She should be coming up with a believable story, not fantasizing.

  “Last name?” he asked.

  “Sheridan.”

  “You live here?”

  “I’d planned to visit, stay awhile. But I’m from Texas originally.”

  That smile on his lips crept up a little farther. His eyes warmed. “I gathered that from your sweet southern accent.”

  Brenna tried not to blush under the weight of his gaze. Impossible. His stare centered on her, not exactly sexual…but not purely professional either. Especially when his gaze dipped for just a moment from her face to her breasts. Shit! She was wearing a thin white tank top, damp with sweat, and no bra. Knowing those enigmatic eyes of his were trained on her breasts hardened her nipples. Brenna didn’t have to look down to know that they stabbed the front of her shirt, impossible to miss, and that he was getting an eyeful. From the subtle appreciation in his gaze, he liked what he saw. But to confirm, she lowered her lashes—and looked at the front of his jeans. Holy cow! Up straight, beyond hard. And his size…he’d crossed the line from impressive to imposing.

  So the good detective realized she was female. That gave her an idea.

  “Southern accent?” She batted her lashes at him. “I don’t hear it. Everyone I know sounds like me.”

  He laughed, discreetly drawing his gaze back to her face. But his stare remained heavy, as if she was a puzzle he needed to solve. As if he knew just enough about her to intrigue him.

  “Who are you visiting?”

  “Curious?” she asked in soft challenge, shooting him a flirtatious gaze. “Why is that?”

  “Not because I’m flirting, Brenna.” His expression turned neutral. “It’s my job.”

  Yes, his job. Of course. Well, she’d apparently failed in the subtle department. Being too obvious in her attempt to distract him from questioning her—not good. She held in a sigh. Well, lacking a better idea, there was always Curtis’ story…

  “I’m visiting Curtis Lawton. This is his place. But you knew that, Detective.”

  He acknowledged that truth with a nod. “What is your relationship with him?”

  “I’m his mistress but I think you knew that too.”

  The detective paused, pondering his next words. “Lawton is much older than you.”

  “And much wealthier.”

  His jaw clenched. His biceps hardened and bulged with tension. But his eyes betrayed nothing. “How did you meet?”

  “Mutual acquaintance. How is this relevant?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “At the moment? No.”

  “Do you have a way to reach him?”

  “No. He…drops in when the mood strikes him.”

  “You don’t even have a cell phone number? An email address?”

  “I’m not his secretary. And I’m not in love with him. I’m merely a convenience for him. He comes by when he wants to take advantage of that fact.”

  He paused, mouth pressed into a thin line. For some reason, her answer pissed him off. Interesting…

  “You’re a beautiful woman who could do better.”

  Wow, talk about a change in tactics. Now what? She could usually think of a flippant answer, but not when his stare heated up and fastened on her. Not when his scorching gaze caressed her mouth, drifted down her jaw then returned for a long, unabashed stare at the hard tips of her breasts poking her tank top. His stare only made them harder. Brenna sucked in a breath.

  “I’m interested in someone…good.”

  Sure, he would take that to mean Curtis, but she’d love to explore that possibility with the good detective. He looked very, very good, with all that amazing appeal and equipment. Maybe with him she could climax. She could just imagine him without a stitch of clothes walking toward her, all hard body and stiff cock, tall and demanding in that silent way of his.

  Oh, just the thought was making her wet.

  He crossed his arms over his massive chest. His gaze turned laser-sharp, unwavering. Nerves danced in her belly, arousal danced lower.

  “I see,” he answered in a slow drawl. “I just never thought of his predilection as good, and you don’t look like you’d be into that.”

  Oh, hell. What else was Curtis into that she didn’t know about? “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”

  “Fair enough.” He shrugged. “On a purely personal note, since you’re into his scene, what does he do that turns you on? I’m curious. Can you describe it?”

  His face remained blank, but something about the way he delivered the question challenged Brenna. Shit! He was toying with her, playing a game of cat and mouse. Now he was springing the trap. Clearly, he knew something about Curtis’ life that she didn’t. This cover story Curtis had suggested was a stupid one, and she’d known that from the get-go.

  Brenna stood and sent him a frosty glare. “That question is a little too personal, Detective.”

  He unfolded his well-muscled body from the sofa and stood, then crossed her room until he stood right in front of her. “C’mon, we’re adults. Tell me what you like about the things he does to your body.”

  Not a clue. She didn’t even want to think about what Curtis did. “E—everything.”

  “Hmm. That right?”

  The detective sent her a long, measured glance. He didn’t say a word, but Brenna feared he didn’t believe her.

  Close. He was too close. So close she couldn’t think of anything to say that would convince him, not without knowing Curtis’ “scene”. So close, she could smell the musky, summer-rain scent of his body. Clean and but complicated—a lot like she suspected the man himself was.

  She swallowed, caught in his dark stare. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”

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