Bound by Moonlight (18 page)

LaRoche chuckled. “Where’s your little female, Savoie? Haven’t seen her with you for a while.”

“She’s undercover with her partner.”

“Oh.”

It was just a twitch of the lips, but Max’s gaze bore in with suspicious intensity. “What?”

“It’s just that one of the day crew said he saw a new girl at the Sweat Shop that reminded him of your lady.”

Max’s brows lowered. “The Sweat Shop. Is that some gym?”

LaRoche choked down a laugh. “Don’t you ever get out, Savoie? It’s a club. A dance club.”

She was out at a dance club with Alain Babineau. Very casually, he asked, “Was this girl with anyone?”

“She wasn’t a patron. She was working. Maybe Charlotte’s pulling down a little cash on the side by moonlighting. I’m sure she has the . . . stamina for it.”

Max swiftly snapped up his coat. “Where is this place?”

Looking sorry he’d enjoyed a snicker at Max’s expense, LaRoche put a hand on his shoulder to press
him back into his chair. “It’s too late tonight. Finish your drink, then go home. Get some sleep. I’m sure he was wrong.”

T
HE
S
WEAT
S
HOP
.

Appropriately named.

Max stood inside the dark doorway, nose crinkling at the strong scents of human exertion, smoke, and lust, glossed over by stylishly placed neon and mirrors. Behind his dark glasses his gaze swept the large room, noting a center stage that L-ed into a narrow isthmus off to one side sporting a half dozen poles imbedded in a lighted bar. Big booths offering private stages ran the length of one wall, and the rest of the floor was covered with small tables.

“Not a gym,” LaRoche commented from behind him, “though you must admit there’s some quality athletics going on.”

Max said nothing. He was afraid the others would see his shock.

It was a strip club.

He’d never been in such a place. Jimmy was a straightforward mobster, too conservative to dabble in fleshly vices on a blatant scale. Legere’s own needs had been met in more discreet establishments. For Max, there was only one female he’d ever wanted to see naked. Though he briefly admired the agility of the young ladies plying their poles, they offered no more distraction than a big-screen TV showing tennis or golf. He had no interest in skin-baring athletics unless it involved him and Charlotte.

What did interest him was the sight of Alain Babineau
ringside at the center stage. He looked like a pimp with his slicked-back hair dyed black, and wearing a silky patterned shirt half buttoned. Tina would have had a heart attack.

As Max started across the room flanked by his Shifter entourage, the detective’s idle gaze touched on him, and stayed in surprise. His mouth moved in a silent
Oh, fuck!

Max nodded for his men to clear the next stage-side table so he could sit down. The quartet of businessmen took one look at the glowering black-clad tough guys and couldn’t scramble away fast enough. The second they sat down, a waitress was there dealing out coasters with deference. She was just a kid, probably still shy her driver’s license, tarted up in a tiny black satin skirt, red sequined tube top with platform shoes to match, and enough makeup to touch up a cathedral ceiling.

“Evening gentlemen. I’m Candy. What can I get you?”

Since he didn’t know what name Cee Cee was using, Max couldn’t ask for her, so he ordered a water and glanced around while his men named their preferences. He didn’t see her, but could sense her nearby.

He settled back in his seat, simmering as he imagined how she’d look in one of those glittery tops. He was a little uneasy about how she’d react to seeing him there, hardly inconspicuous with his dangerous companions. He gave another quick look at Babineau, who appeared frozen in his chair. As the center stage cleared for a new performer, he continued to scan the waitstaff for Charlotte.

The hard-pumping beat of Mötley Crüe’s “Girls,
Girls, Girls” revved up, accompanied by a roar as a Harley motorcycle muscled its way onto the platform. Max’s gaze flicked up to its tall, redheaded rider, who wore a helmet with a mirrored half visor and black leather chaps and bolero, both edged in long whips of red fringe. His glance paused as she swung off the monstrous bike, balancing on ice-pick-sharp stilettos, her backside bare of all but the thin silver chain of a G-string. And as he was greeted by all that smooth skin, his jaw began to drop.

She spun in a swirl of fringe into her routine, working the edge of the stage, prancing, sinking low to shake her rump in the face of patrons who leaped up to tuck bills in her G-string, then whirling and strutting away. She still wore the helmet, shielding everything but the wet slick of her lips as she untied her skimpy vest and shook it down her arms.

Black leather strings were attached to silver disks that barely covered the tips of her breasts. As she circled the vest above her head, she saw him. The motion faltered for only an instant, then the leather went flying.

Right into Jacques LaRoche’s face.

Hips swinging, shoulders rocking to the infectious beat of the music, she sashayed to the edge of the stage. Without looking away from her, Max passed a fifty to LaRoche, who teased her down into a crouch to let him thread the folded bill under the tie at the side of her right breast. She leaned forward to press a bright red lip print onto the top of his gleaming head.

Then she turned to Max, remaining in the crouch, her palms on the stage, her body rippling as she edged toward him, reaching out to remove his sunglasses,
then flipping up her visor. Their gazes locked. Then she put on his Ray-Bans and backed away with a tempting wiggle.

Max’s stony expression broke into a wide grin.

On her feet once more, she worked her way around the motorcycle as if it was a lover before sinuously sliding her leg over the wide seat and waking its bad-boy rumble. She put out her hand, pointing to Max and curling her fingers to beckon him from his seat.

He’d hopped up onto the stage before the bouncers caught his movement. Cee Cee waved them back as she handed him his sunglasses, then flipped her visor down as Max got on the seat behind her. And she carried him off the stage, heading straight for the wide-open delivery door leading to the alley.

Cee Cee drove them down a couple of blocks, turning into another shadowed alley to cut the engine. She was shaking. And it wasn’t the chill night air or the vibration from the Harley. It was Max—the press of his thighs trapping her between them, the heat of his arms curled around her bare waist.

Deciding the best defense was a quick offensive, she got up on her knees and pivoted around so they were face-to-face.

“What the hell are you doing here, Savoie?”

He pulled her helmet and his sunglasses off. She heard them hit the stones before he yanked her to him, slamming her mouth onto his. Then she heard nothing but the roar of her blood and her wild, wanting moan.

They took greedily with hard, urgent gulps, tasting, sucking, mad for each other. Her hands were in
his hair, tangling, kneading. Her knee slipped over his thigh so she could lean into him and rock against the massive proof of how much he’d missed her. Wanted her.

His hands were hot and rough, caressing, squeezing the endless temptation of skin offered by her arching body. With her legs spread wide, there was next to nothing to stop him from thrusting his fingers into her wet heat, driving her relentlessly to a fast, rocketing release that made her tremble and pant raggedly against his throat.

“Where are you staying?” His voice had the same deep throaty growl as the Harley’s powerful engine.

“You can’t be here, Savoie,” she protested weakly. Then he was kissing her again, swamping her senses with waves of pleasure. And she heard herself groaning, “Don’t stop. Oh, baby, don’t stop,” until she was dizzy, until she had to clutch his face between her palms to push him away so she could gaze raptly into his eyes. “When I saw you sitting there, my heart almost jumped out of my chest.”

“It’s not like there was a lot of fabric there to hold it in,
sha.
”

A laugh burbled out. She kissed him, sinking into the sweet luxury of his mouth, then they were groping each other with reckless abandon. Finally, she tore herself away.

“I have to get back. Max, I have to get back.”

“I need you, Charlotte,” he whispered as his lips brushed over her temple. “I have to be with you. Let me be with you.”

She was kneading the lapels of his raincoat, nudging
her face against the frantic pulse in his neck. “I want you, too. So much I can hardly breathe.”

“Where?” he repeated impatiently.

The name of her motel was on her lips when reality crashed the party, and she drew a deep breath of reason.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He touched his lips to hers. “For what?”

“Thank you for coming here.”

“I haven’t yet, but I plan to. Soon.”

“But not tonight, Max.” At his frown, she explained, “I’m on a case. Every move I make is under surveillance.”

“Those were some awfully tempting moves,
sha
.”

His tone was still pleasant, but the cooling in his eyes had her cautious.

“Something else on your mind, Savoie?”

“Why haven’t you called me?”

Defensive irritation snapped into place over the stab of guilt. “I’m in the middle of an investigation here. Busy.”

“No place for your phone in your wardrobe?”

She tried a quick flanking maneuver. “It’s my job, Max. If you can’t handle the fact that other men are looking at me—”

“Do they get to touch you?”

“No.”

“Do you touch them?”

“No.”

“Then I have no problem with them looking.” His voice lowered to a spicy mix of desire, pride, and possessiveness. “Because I know you belong to me. I’d
expect any breathing male with a pulse to thoroughly enjoy the show. As long as that’s all they enjoy.”

His hands began to move once again, coaxing her resistance to drop as he pulled her in tight. His passion for her steamed from him like fresh rain off hot pavement. The burning need to give in to everything he wanted, everything they both wanted, threatened incineration, and she took a mental step back to maintain her control.

“This isn’t going to happen, Max. Not here, not now. Not while I’m on the clock.”

She turned away from him and started the big bike, its roar drowning out any argument. An argument she didn’t want to have with him, because she was afraid she couldn’t hold her own against it.

She drove them back to the club and parked the bike in the alley. As they reached the back door, Max spun her up against it, caging her between his forearms. He lowered himself slowly to take her on a quick, reckless ride with his lips until she was breathless. But her mood was still all business.

“Don’t come back here, Max. I can’t have you complicating things.”

“Is that what I’m doing, Detective? What if I just want to help you out while I help myself to you?”

She caught his hands and pressed them away. “No. You’re too well-known.
Listen
to me, Max. I can’t have you ruin all the man-hours we’ve spent—”

“I have been listening, Detective. And I don’t like what I’m hearing. “

“What have you been hearing?” she challenged, glancing at the door then back at him impatiently. She
was going to be missed, and they couldn’t be found together.

“Nothing.”

That got her full attention, and she felt a prickle of alarm. “What do you want to hear?”

“How ’bout, ‘Heya, Max. Just sitting in this crappy motel room missing you, wishing I was home sharing a meal, a conversation, a bed with you.’ That’s all. That’s all I wanted to hear.”

“I was going to call you.” It sounded lame and too damned after the fact even to her.

“Why didn’t you? ‘Hey, Max. I’m not shot up full of holes somewhere in an alley. I’ve been too busy playing house with my partner for it to occur to me that you might be worrying.’”

Her temper flamed hot, burning guilt to ashes. “Is this about Babineau? Were you spying on me? Is that why you’re here?”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have time for this, Max. I can’t put a case on hold to soothe your ego.”

He abruptly stepped back, his expression still. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

He pulled open the door to let her slip inside to go to her dressing room, then followed more slowly. LaRoche and his compatriots were waiting and fell in wordlessly behind him to form an aggressive front as he strode through the backstage area toward the main floor. Then the hint of something faint and sweet stroked over him like an icy touch.

He paused to murmur briefly in Babineau’s ear, then was gone in a swirl of his long black coat.

When Cee Cee joined her partner, preparing for an awkward explanation, she found him tense and all business.

“He was here. Just a minute ago.”

Cee Cee frowned. He clearly didn’t mean Max. “Who?”

“Our man.”

The killer.

C
EE
C
EE SWEPT
the room with a quick glance, her senses on high alert. While she and Max were playing kissy face, the killer had been here, within reach.

Babineau gripped her elbow and pulled her down into the seat next to him before she drew any attention. Like that wouldn’t happen. She still had on her club face, a black mask painted around her eyes like a Maori tattoo—so bold, no one looking would remember the woman beneath it. Those same dark forked flames covered the scars on one shoulder and slid down to mid biceps. With the red wig and scarlet lips, she looked like some deadly black magic princess. She’d changed into a short denim skirt and plunge-front beige top that didn’t conceal the lacy fuchsia bra she wore under it. Another reason for none of the patrons to recall her features.

She turned to him, a fire of excitement in her eyes. “How do you know he was here?”

“Savoie said something about a sweet smell. He said you’d know.”