Dangerous (14 page)

Then, while she was still seeing stars, he pulled off her pants. As he slid over her, she pulled his jeans over his hips, tugged his length free, then rubbed his swollen tip along her clit until he took over.

She gasped as he drove into her, then raised her legs and hooked them together behind his back. His mouth found hers, his tongue thrusting in the same rhythm as his body. Grasping his buttocks, she urged him faster and deeper, and when he finally came, she came with him.

They held each other, panting, finished undressing each other, somehow landing on the floor, laughing and kissing and touching. He licked her stomach up through the valley between her breasts. Then he nipped at her already hardened tips.

Raising his head, he locked gazes with her as he took her hand and guided it down between her thighs. “You do it. I want to watch.”

Heat seared her through and through as she began to pleasure herself, the pleasure coming mostly from his expression as he watched. Ready to come again, she made mewling sounds and reached for him.

“Not yet. Come for me first. Make it really good and really long and really loud.”

It didn't take much doing. His urging her sent her over the edge. She cried out and arched as she came long and hard, wailing from the pleasure, then came again the moment he slid inside her. He rolled and she landed on top and started the dance all over again. He took her hand and pulled it to his mouth, where he licked her juices from the fleshy tips, one finger at a time.

“Delicious,” he murmured. “I can't get enough of you.”

Then, as she slowly tortured him, he slid his hand between them and made her come again.

Angel parked in the alley, up against her garage with the garbage cans shielding him. Just in case. It was the middle of the night, but this was a big, restless city and someone might be around to see if he double-parked in front of her place. No street parking tonight. No surprise.

And no lock on the back gate.

Good. He let himself into the yard and took a thorough look around. A deck spanned the width of the house. There was a door and a couple of windows on either side. A big tree whose branches draped over the deck would shelter him from inquisitive eyes. He silently crept across the yard, then eased himself up the stairs without making a noise.

He checked one of the windows. A kitchen, sink light on. Noises filtered to him. No barking. Voices. Not talking. Making sounds. Familiar grunts and groans. His cock stirred in response as he crossed past the door to the window on the other side.

Soft light illuminated the room. Illuminated them. He could see her clearly, just as he'd imagined her. On her back naked, red hair spread out around her, mounds of pretty flesh bobbing as she was being fucked. Only he wasn't the one doing the fucking. Even so, his cock grew hard. Insistent that it needed release.

Just as he felt all those times he'd watched his mother open herself with one man after another, even with the bastard who hadn't been fussy about who he fucked or who he beat—mother or son. Didn't matter to the pervert. And she'd known about it and hadn't done anything to stop it from happening over and over. She'd said they had to keep him happy, since he was the one paying all the bills.

One of these days, he was going to catch up to that creep and pay him back for the things he'd done in ways that would make him cry out for mercy.

But in the meantime, watching the couple writhing with lust, he took the other guy's measure and decided he wasn't going to go in and try to replace him.

Instead, he stood in the shadows and watched.

He unzipped his pants, took his penis in hand, and pretended he was there, giving Detective Camille Martell what she so obviously wanted. He was breathing hard, and there was a ringing in his ears, but he somehow held on. It was only after she arched and cried out and her partner joined her with a growled shout that he clenched his jaw so he wouldn't make a sound as he let himself ride the pleasure and left his signature on her house and deck.

Knowing he could go another round in a few minutes, he waited to see what kind of entertainment value they would provide him. But when the man turned toward the windows as he headed for the door leading to the rest of the house, it was shock time.

First he saw the familiar dragon tattoo covering the man's back. Then his face.

What the fuck!

It was Drago Nance.

It was time to wake up.

Camille checked the clock. Nearly noon. She couldn't believe she'd let a good part of the day slip by. She couldn't believe she'd spent the last twelve hours in bed and assorted other places around her house with Drago Nance. They'd even initiated the kitchen after raiding the fridge at four in the morning.

Starting to get out of bed, she was stopped by a firm grip on her ankle. Her heart thudded as she twisted around.

“Good morning.” He arched an eyebrow at her and, with a knowing smile, swept his gaze over her nude body.

“By the time we get out of here, it'll be afternoon.”

Avoiding looking at him too closely, she fought her instant physical response and gave her leg a sharp tug. His expression surprised, he let go. Did he actually think she was going to have sex with him again when they needed to be on the case? Now that she had her mind back where it belonged, she slid away from him and the bed, gathered fresh clothing, and headed for the bathroom.

Her appearance in the mirror shocked her. She appeared disheveled but sated and relaxed, the very picture of a woman who'd been well satisfied. The last time she'd looked like this—the
only
time she'd ever looked like such a sensual creature—had been the last time she'd been with Drago.

Camille shook her head and filled the basin. How could she let herself get distracted like that? One night. That's all it had been. She'd been weakened by emotion at Noreen's running from them. Now the flood of emotion had dissipated and she could concentrate on the search for Sandy. She splashed her face with warm water and used a scrub on her skin, as if she could wash away the proof of her foolishness.

The image in the mirror didn't change.

And while the shower refreshed her, it didn't wash away the memories of the things she had done with Drago the night before. Memories that would undoubtedly haunt her. Part of her wondered if she would ever learn from her mistakes. The other part wondered if it had been a mistake or a new beginning. Feeling the same way about Drago that she had when she'd left that hotel room—as if she'd found something special, something she couldn't have imagined existed—she realized she wanted this to be a new beginning, wanted him.

When she opened the bathroom door, Drago was standing there, still nude, arm over the lintel, as if he were waiting in line to use it. “Done?” he asked, the single word loaded with multiple meaning.

Staring at the soft cleft in his chin, not daring to meet his gaze directly, she wondered if she was dreaming or if there could be something more between them. She still had her doubts. “Can I get by?”

He moved slightly, giving her an opening, but forcing body contact when she slid by him. “You might find this difficult to believe, but I don't exactly trust you, either.”

She froze. “Me?” Then turned around to face him rather surprised he chose to bring this up now. “I'm one of the good guys.”

“Right. A cop.”

So there it was, out on the table. They both had a trust issue.

“Your own brother was a cop for more than ten years.”

“Doesn't mean I trust him, either.”

She'd known there was something off between Drago and Justus, but she hadn't been able to figure it out. “What do you have against cops?”

“Having to do their job for them. For starters.”

She shook her head. “I don't get it.”

“No, because you were raised in a nice, safe suburb. Humboldt Park has always been gang territory. When I was growing up, the neighborhood was a lot worse than it is now.”

“You expect the police to what? Magically make the gangs disappear?”

Gangs in big cities were the new organized crime. Drugs. Prostitution. Dogfights. Gambling. And many gangbangers were underage, so they had to be treated differently from adult offenders, tried differently, unless murder was involved. And when gang leaders were arrested and convicted, they simply ran their crews from their prison cells.

Drago shook his head. “I knew you wouldn't understand.”

With that he entered the bathroom and closed the door in her face.

Well, wasn't this great. Having sex had made her jumpy and him irritable. A not-so-promising start to the day.

Hearing the shower go on, Camille figured she had enough time to check her email, so she headed for her desk in the living room where they'd plugged in her laptop.

What had Drago meant by
having to do their job for them
? Camille wasn't sure she really wanted to know. And why had he chosen now to say something that was sure to rile her? Was he having doubts about what had just happened between them?

Clearing her mind of negativity, she turned on her laptop and started checking her email. Mostly junk ads. Nothing that couldn't wait. But before she could put the laptop in hibernate, an IM sprang up. Her heart lurched and her breath caught in her throat.

Angel!

She quickly read:
You and your boyfriend put on a good show for me last night.

What did he mean by that? He must have found her through Sandy. Had he been outside, peering through her windows? Her skin crawled at the thought that the pervert might have been watching her and Drago have sex.

A ping alerted her to an addition to the message:
Now I'm inspired to give you a great show…click on the photo icon.

She stared at it for a moment, fear freezing her. What had he done to Sandy?

And then she clicked and found out.

The photo of the fourteen-year-old was like a punch to the gut. She cried out and Drago came running, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

“What happened?”

“Look for yourself.”

He leaned over her, but his nearness didn't have any effect on her. She was ice cold inside as she stared at the photo of the girl.

Sandy gazed at the camera out of vacant-looking eyes. Her face was recognizable. Her hair was not.

It had been dyed a deep, bright red.

Giving her something in common with Angel's other victims.

Drago couldn't believe the change in Camille as they entered Hog Heaven Saloon to see Titus. She'd gone all hard and deep and dark, barely speaking. It wasn't him or their disagreement. Seeing what Angel had done to Sandy, making the girl look more like his victims, realizing he'd done it to taunt her, had been more than the black-and-white focused cop could take.

Plus, Angel knew where to find her.

Or he had. Insisting she was staying at his apartment until they caught him, Drago had gotten her to pack a bag and bring it and her car to his place. On the way there, she'd downloaded an IM program to her smartphone. Just in case the bastard tried to contact her again. Plus she'd called Jackson, who would arrange night surveillance on her home in case the bastard came back.

Camille had a piece tucked into a holster beneath her blouse. It seemed she'd had a backup handgun stashed away all along but had chosen not to carry until now. Apparently she'd been trying to stick to the rules of her forced leave, but now had given that up. Knowing that dark place she'd gone to intimately himself, he believed that if Angel were in front of her right now, Camille would do her best to end him with that weapon.

He couldn't let that happen. She didn't have his experience with vigilante justice. And even with his violent past, he'd never actually killed anyone. If she turned her back on her beliefs, it would destroy her.

It was early enough that the biker bar was fairly empty. One guy staring into his beer, two at the pool table, another playing an electronic game.

The bartender nodded at him. “Drago! What can I get you?”

“Nothing to drink. Is Titus around?”

“In his office.”

Drago put a hand across Camille's back, but she shrugged it away without saying anything. She stayed a step ahead of him until they reached the end of the bar. Then she waited for him to open the door that would lead them to the inner office.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine. You don't have to worry about me.”

“What if I
want
to?”

Her eyes looked vulnerable for a second before she reclaimed the invisible barrier between them. He'd expected her to struggle with herself over what had happened between them last night. He hadn't expected this.

Telling himself not to take it personally
—this was about Angel and Sandy, not about him—he opened the door and indicated she should step through. He followed directly behind her. They crossed the storeroom stacked with boxes of beer and hard liquor to an open doorway. Since Titus was expecting them, he walked right in.

“Drago. You made it.”

“Titus. This is Camille Martell.”

The biker nodded at her. “The pretty police lady.”

“Homicide detective,” she corrected him.

“Pretty homicide detective, then.” He indicated the chairs across from his desk. “Sit.”

Drago took a seat. Camille looked like she wanted to say no, but after a slight hesitation, did the same.

“So what did you find out that you wanted to meet in person?” Drago asked.

“Rumor has it that Angel is local, just like you suspected. No one knows his identity, but apparently there has been a lot of speculation since the first woman was murdered.”

“What kind of speculation?”

“That his identity is being protected by a gang.”

“Like I said, we came to that conclusion when Noreen told us about the tats. Do you have something more specific?”

“I have
someone
more specific.” Titus stroked his braided beard. “I just don't know how you would feel about talking to him.”

Camille finally spoke. “Who is it? I don't have any prejudice here. I'll talk to anyone if it means it'll help save the girl.”

“LeRoy Walker.”

Drago nearly choked on that. “I see what you mean.”

“I don't,” Camille said. “Tell me.”

“I assume you're familiar with the Insane Brotherhood,” Drago said.

“A black gang with territory in the Garfield Park area.”

“Right.
That
LeRoy Walker. Their leader.”

She glared at Titus. “Are you crazy? You think the notorious leader of a gang is going to voluntarily tell a cop anything?”

Titus shrugged. “It's the only new lead I have. But you ask me, it sounds like a good one.”

“How do I find him?” Drago asked.

“The Brotherhood took over a vacant building in East Garfield.” Titus scribbled something on a small pad of paper, then ripped the top sheet off and handed it to Drago. “Chances are you'll find him there.”

Standing, Drago took a look at the address, stuffed it into his pocket, and shook Titus's hand. “Thanks.”

“No thanks necessary. Glad to do it. I'll keep my network working on it.”

Camille said nothing. Not until they left the bar and got into his car. “Where are we going?”

“You're going home. To my place,” he clarified.

“No.”

“You already said LeRoy wouldn't talk to you.”

“I said he wouldn't tell a cop anything. Then I won't be a cop.”

She took her hair out of the clasp and ran her hand through it so that it looked wild. After unbuttoning enough of her blouse so he could see her cleavage and the lace decorating her bra, she swiped on a deep red lipstick.

“Well?”

He didn't like it, didn't want to see her put herself out there like this to scum. “You look like arm candy.” But he obviously wouldn't have a choice. “Can you fake it?”

“Oh, lover boy, I can do anything for you.”

She flashed her lashes at him, but Drago wasn't feeling the love. The whole scenario reeked of subterfuge. He sensed the darkness below her surface as if it were a tangible thing. Then again, he didn't think anyone knew Camille as well as he did. No doubt she could fake it and make others believe. He didn't want to take her, but if he tried to leave her behind, she would probably manage to follow him as she had before. And then, who knew what kind of trouble she might get herself into without him to protect her?

He used his code on a touch pad that opened his modified glove compartment and held out his hand. “Your piece.”

“Why would you want me to leave it in the car?” She eyed the glove compartment, where he kept his own gun. “Oh, I see. So you
do
carry.”

“I'm a private investigator. Of course I have a gun.” Half of the good citizens of Chicago were probably armed since the law preventing them from being armed had been overturned. “I only carry it in dangerous situations.”

“You don't think this is going to be dangerous?”

“Get serious. LeRoy's lieutenants aren't going to let us get anywhere near him if we're carrying. They will check.” And he would have to hold himself back from ripping off the head of anyone touching her.