Bedding The Billionaire (26 page)

Or so Lucy imagined. She couldn't actually hear the lovers, but she
could see everything as if it were happening right there in the dark room of
the apartment she'd rented for the week.

Her camera lens focused on the mole on the left of the man's groin.
Click
.
Moles were good. Just in case the face shots didn't work out, moles or
birthmarks always framed their man beyond doubt. Beyond doubt in the wife's mind,
that is.

Lucy zoomed out to get a photo of the
entire scene. John Mollino, forty-five, Bellerae resident with a trophy wife
and a Golden Retriever he walked every morning—just the dog, not the wife—sat
up and plunged his hands into the bra cups of the woman's teddy. Her breasts
were too large even for his broad palms. She arched her back into him and with
one swift movement, he tore the flimsy fabric from her body with a magician's
flair.
Voila
.

The next few minutes were a blurred frenzy and Lucy doubted she caught
anything on film that the trophy wife would find useful. She packed up her
camera and tripod just as Mollino's rotund body wobbled in climax. Usually she
got aftermath shots as well, but not this time. In fact, not for the last six
months on any job. Photographing cheating husbands as they bonked their latest
bimbo never turned her on anymore.

She didn't know why. Ever since her best friend, Abbey, had left town
to live with her fiancé in Stanton, she'd felt like she was missing out on
something. She had no idea what. Maybe she just missed Abbey. Whatever the
reason, it was getting kind of irritating. Not to mention boring. If she wasn't
careful she'd wind up a dried old prune with nothing to live on but memories of
a misspent but glorious youth.

Lucy picked up her camera bag and tripod and left the apartment,
locking it behind her. She'd been lucky to get access to it for such a short
time, but since the owners were having trouble renting it, they were happy to
get anything.

She slipped the keys into the pocket of her short jacket and slung the
camera bag over one shoulder, the tripod over the other, and entered the lift. She
traveled down the twenty-two floors to the ground. When the doors slid open
with a ding, she stepped out.

And slammed into a brick wall.

Or that's what the man's body felt like. The tall, dark and hot
stranger gripped her shoulders to steady her, holding her at arm's length.

Then he let go.

Damn.

A man like that could hold her all night and she wouldn't mind. Especially
if his presence alone could make her nerve endings hum the way they did now.

"Sorry," she said, "I wasn't watching where I was
going."

"No kidding." His gaze took in her face then grazed down her
body to her spiky black heels, before lazily skimming back up again. It was a
thorough scrutiny and Lucy felt naked beneath its intensity.

She wouldn't mind
getting
naked with him. He was one hell of a
specimen—just what she needed to entice her out of her sexual rut.

She drew herself up to her full height—which brought her eyes
level with a chest to die for—and arched a brow. "I did say
sorry."

He grunted. Great, another Neanderthal. Time for a reality check. Men
who look that good rarely had the brains or personality to maintain her
interest. She sighed.
Been there, done that.

But wow he was gorgeous. At least six foot three with a set of
shoulders and a chest that strained the stitching on the blue cotton shirt. She
took every inch of him in, the way he'd done to her a moment ago, and liked
what she saw. Besides the shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal solid
forearms, he wore black jeans that hugged lean hips and did nothing to hide an
impressive bulge. His jaw sported a five o'clock shadow and his black hair was
cropped short. A thin scar trickled from the corner of his left eye to the top
of his cheekbone. His eyes were black in the dim light of the foyer and his
direct gaze screamed 'mess with me at your own risk'.

Usually she'd give it a shot, bait the scary Neanderthal into showing
her a good time, but not anymore. She wasn't in the mood to play a sexual game
of cat and mouse. Not even with this fantasy man. God only knows why but a
handsome face and great body wasn't enough. Not anymore.

She went to step around him but he moved and blocked her path.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He ignored her question and nodded at her equipment. "Photographer?"
He had a voice that vibrated deep within his chest and slid across her skin.

"So observant! You
must
be a detective." Sarcasm
dripped from every word but she didn't care. Usually it got results, especially
with bullies.

He grunted again. Yep, one step away from
his Neanderthal ancestors. At least in manners, if not in body. Hell no, not in
body. Maybe she could try him on for size. It's not like she wanted to
talk
to the guy or anything, just fool around for a while, get out of this funk. Maybe
he was just what her tired libido needed. A big, strong, dumb man with a
package that promised something special. Who better to end her drought than
another brainless hunk?

She licked her lips as she eyed the muscles
straining under his shirt. Oh yeah, the drought was about to end with a flood.

She gave him an apologetic smile which she hoped came across as flirty
too. She never used to hope these things, she just used to
do
them. "Sorry.
I didn't mean to call you a detective." She winked for good measure.

He glared down at her, disdain carved into his hard features. Her smile
and wink hadn't affected him at all. Usually it had them begging. She was
rustier than she thought.

"You're sorry you called me a detective? Since when is that an
insult?" His top lip curled up into either a snarl or a smile, she
couldn't tell which.

"I was a cop once, briefly. The detectives were my least favorite
rank in the force. Too arrogant."

"Do you have a reason for this bias or is it just based on the
fact that you couldn't make it as a cop?"

Lucy stiffened. What an asshole! Where did this guy get off speaking to
her as if— "Ahhh. I get it. You
are
a detective."

The smirk faded and he reached for her. She
stood her ground and gripped the tripod tighter, ready to swing it if he so
much as touched her with those big hands. He did touch her, on the shoulder as
he reached past and pressed the button for the lift. He smelled faintly of a
woody aftershave. His throat was inches from her lips and she wanted to kiss
him in the hollow just above the sprinkle of hair revealed by his open-necked
shirt. He turned his face to look at her and he drew in a breath as if sucking
her into his lungs, then let it out slowly, flipping the hair behind her ear.

The lift dinged its availability and the moment was gone. He stepped
around her, his arm brushing against her shoulder again, and got in the lift. He
held the doors open.

"What's your name?" he asked with a tilt of his stubbled
chin.

"Lucy." Her voice sounded breathy and she mentally kicked
herself. She was never breathy. Breathy was better suited to women like the one
who'd been giving John Mollino a private lap dance in his secret apartment. "And
yours?"

He gave her another one of those smirks and let go of the doors. "Nick,"
he said as they closed.

Lucy stared at the lift doors for a long time, still reeling from his
powerful presence. He exuded barely contained energy and she had to admit she'd
been taken in by it. She was definitely a sucker for big men with impressive
bulges.

The little light above the lift doors stopped at the twenty-second
floor.
Uh-oh
. She chewed the inside of her lip and spun on her heel. If
he really was a cop, the quicker she got out of there the better. Photographing
people without their consent was grounds for harassment.

Nick. He must be a cop. It would explain his attitude. Cops, especially
detectives, thought they were God's gift to society and women, when usually
they were just a rogue menace to both.

She walked quickly out of the building in case he realized what she'd
been up to and returned to question her. She piled her equipment into her
battered old Honda and jumped into the driver's seat. With a last glance back
at the glass and steel Southbank apartment building, she zoomed through the
back streets to her Richmond home.

An hour later, she sat in front of her electric heater on her living
room floor and studied the photos spread out on the rug. Even before she finished
flipping through them her heart sank. They were useless. Too dark or too
blurry. A few came out okay but didn't show the girlfriend's face—not
enough to satisfy Janet Mollino. The society queen would want absolute proof
before she threw away the profitable investment that was her marriage to the
building magnate.

Lucy swore. She used to be good at her job. Now she'd have to do it all
over again the following night, if Mollino decided to get his rocks off again. It
would be a risk. If Detective Nick were checking out a complaint involving her,
she might find herself in a sticky situation.

Then again, if he were like all the other cops she knew, it wouldn't
take much to persuade him that she was innocent. She might actually enjoy
persuading him. In fact, she was sure she would. Persuading Detective Nick to
let her off without a mark against her file could be exactly what her flagging
libido needed.

Too bad he was an arrogant jerk, but she could make the sacrifice in
the name of justice and her sex life. She smiled. And if that bulge in his
pants were any indication, she'd have a damn fine time in the process.

***

Nick Dante couldn't believe how unlucky he was. He'd expected Lucy
Hudson to remain in the apartment for at least another half hour, but she'd left
before the encore. According to his partner, Dave O'Connor, and the other guys
in his unit, that wasn't like her. She liked to watch. He'd heard she also
liked to participate but not when she was working. That usually came later.

He'd caught the lift to the twenty-second floor because he might as
well check out the apartment she'd used while he was there and because he
couldn't just leave while she was in the vicinity. He didn't want to give
anything away, not until after he'd caught her in the act of spying on his
prime suspect.

He'd enjoyed their little dance in the foyer just now. Lucy definitely
lived up to her reputation as a vixen in a cute little package. Jagged wisps of
blonde hair flipped out at the ends as if caught by a breeze, framing a fine-boned
face with sky-blue eyes and kissable lips. And that body. Tight black pants
stretched over the curve of her thigh and butt, leaving nothing to the
imagination. Every muscle was visible beneath the fabric as she moved with
feline grace. He'd wanted to press his fingers to her hip and feel her
strength, her heat.

When he'd leaned close to press the lift button, the luscious scent of
jasmine and woman sucked him in. He wanted to taste her, lick every inch of
skin and swim in that scent. He'd never be able to smell jasmine again without
thinking of her body. He couldn't taste her, but he could touch her. When he
reached past her, skin brushed skin and a ball of fire ignited at the point of
connection.

Lucy Hudson was heady, intoxicating, and could make a guy grovel with
one teasing glance through those long, curly lashes. No wonder she was so
popular with the guys down at the station with such seductive signals and a
killer body. Especially if she was as indiscriminate as they made out. And he
had no reason to doubt it so far.

He smiled as the lift opened on the twenty-second floor and he stepped
out. For someone who claimed to hate cops, she certainly didn't mind passing
her favors around to them.

His smile vanished. She was hot, but that sort of woman wasn't his
type. Not that he went for the virginal, but he did prefer someone who was a
little more selective. Someone who didn't lust after every other man in his
unit.

He'd had enough of those women.

He inserted the key the leasing agent had given him into the lock and
twisted the doorknob. The apartment was dark and sparsely furnished with only a
couch stretched along a wall and a large armchair facing it. There were no
curtains and he peered out at the apartment building across the street, and
straight at a large breasted woman. She was wiggling into a tight skirt, her
breasts jangling. The man buckling his belt was John Mollino, building magnate.
His suspect.

Nick turned away from the window, disgusted. For the millionth time
since Mollino had complained to the local cops that a woman was spying on him
and his lover, Nick cursed Lucy Hudson. Dave had assured him it was her—and
going by the description and the woman he'd just met, it was—but he'd
wanted to make sure before he warned her off. Now he'd have to wait another
night to catch her in the act. He didn't want anyone to ruin the investigation—his
first since he'd transferred to Morethorn—especially a nosy little PI who
took dirty pictures and had a reputation for enjoying her work too much.

Nick looked across at the other apartment again. It was a great
position for surveillance but the Justice department's funds didn't stretch to
hiring out expensive apartments. Blinds on the windows would definitely make
them invisible. If Lucy had been more careful, Mollino would never have known
she was there.