Heat

Chapter one

They say your life flashes before your eyes when death is imminent. That’s not quite true. It’s a perpetually fast stream of dreams, failures, and fucking what ifs. Or at least, that’s how it was for me.

People call me Mak but my real name is Madison Abigail Kinlock. I’m standing in an underground parking garage in downtown Phoenix with pepper spray pointing at a cheating douchebag.

The temperature is over a hundred degrees, and sweat is dripping down my brow and into my eyes, causing them to burn. The douche, Harry Dandridge, seems to think his bat will one-up my pepper spray. He could be right.

Dandridge wants my camera, along with a piece of my skull, and who can blame him? I followed Harry into the garage and took pictures while a prostitute gave him a blow job in the backseat of his white Lincoln. I would have escaped without incident if I hadn’t decided a close-up dick shot was called for—all in the name of cheating douchebags, of course. Harry was well occupied when a speeding car squealed its tires and Harry opened his eyes. I took a picture at that exact moment, and believe me, it’s a moneymaker. Harry dislodged the prostitute from his dick, tossed her to the cement, and charged from the car with a shiny aluminum bat in hand. For a guy with a pot belly and his willy hanging from his unzipped pants, he moved quickly.

The prostitute picked herself up and ran away on her six-inch platform heels faster than I could run on a pair half that high. I released the camera, letting it swing on the strap around my neck, and pulled the pepper spray. I have a gun on my hip, tucked beneath my shirt, and I’m not exactly happy with my decision regarding pulling the pepper spray when my gun should be in my hand. This shows how much my cop’s instincts have deteriorated since turning in my badge and taking up PI work. Now, I’m in a standoff with a pissed off man who was cut off from his ejaculatory end game and will also be paying out a shit load of money to his soon to be ex-wife.

Drop the bat, Mr. Dandridge, I order.

His snide grin lets me know he has no intention of following my command.

You think I’m afraid of a little pepper spray, you stupid bitch? Hand over the damn camera. His high-pitched voice touches a nerve, and I’m hoping that his bright red face means he’ll stroke out before we reach a less-than-mutual understanding. I ignore the sweat-burn in my eyes and hold the canister steady. It’s in my right hand, which is my strong arm, but my bad shoulder is holding that arm up, and I need Harry to stroke out fairly quickly.

It’s actually a relief when, in my peripheral vision, I notice two black Cadillacs charging through the garage. They come to a sudden halt about twenty feet from me and Harry. Even with their darkly tinted windows, only idiots drive black cars in Phoenix in the summer.

Just saying.

Four huge men, in expensive-looking black suits, wearing dark sunglasses pile out of the cars. Maybe someone is filming an Italian mob movie and we’re in the middle of the shootout scene. The Caddy-dudes have guns, and my world has suddenly gone from sucks-to-be-me to completely fucked. Before becoming a private investigator, I worked three years as a police officer on street patrol and know that even in their perfectly fitted designer suits these men are thugs.

This is where the flash of dreams, failures, and fucking what ifs come in.

I’m the equivalent of a blonde bombshell with brunette hair. I have large breasts, a slender waist, and a round face with huge green eyes surrounded by full, long eyelashes.

As a young teenager, my attributes didn’t stop me from being a tomboy. Over the summer of my fifteenth year, my budding breasts exploded and my new breasts most definitely interfered. The boys themselves put the biggest damper on things. The same ones I played football with during weekend pickup games changed overnight. They made up sexual stories about me and passed them around high school as truth.

Girls and boys alike believed the rumors. I never quite understood why a loner and a bookworm, who minded her own business was made out to be such a slut. Not that I gave it a lot of thought. I was also blessed by being born with a tough outer shell that very little invaded. If you add my couldn’t-care-less attitude to my looks, most considered me a conceited bitch. Again, I didn’t care. I had big dreams on my horizon and nothing would stand in my way.

My looks, for some strange reason, played a part in my grand scheme for life. More than anything, I wanted to be taken seriously. This meant men, would look me in the eye and not at my breasts while speaking to me.

This may not add up to a career in law enforcement for most people, but it did for me. I loved police officers from the time I was a child. I had no fear of them. They stood for integrity and justice, and they made the world a safer place to live in. I saw officers as heroes. I counted the years, and then months, then days until I could put my dream into play. I even took a few criminal justice classes after graduating high school to hold me over. Twenty-one was not the year to celebrate legal drinking. It was the year I finally realized my dream.

Because of my early summer birthday, I attended the police academy at the worst possible time. The Devil’s backyard isn’t as hot as Phoenix, Arizona, in July. Hotter than hell is a fitting description. To realize my dream, I sweat through four and a half sizzling months in hell’s inferno. It paid off. I graduated at the top of my class and even excelled at the physical requirements. There’s no double standard in law enforcement. Men and women take the same tests—physical and academic.

After completing the academy, I lived my dream for three glorious years. Three years of patrolling the streets of Phoenix in a heavy Kevlar vest, a dark blue uniform, and a shining gold badge on my chest.

To be honest, the job had its ups and downs. Sexual harassment, mostly from married cops, being one of the downs. On the up side, the last thing a criminal looked at when my gun, Taser, or pepper spray was pointed in his or her direction was my chest.

Above all, I loved the camaraderie, the sense of family, and the spirit of the brother and sisterhood that wearing blue gave me. I, the tomboy, the loner bookworm—fit in.

My dream literally came to a crashing halt high in the Arizona Mountains on a ski slope.

It was one of my rare weekends off and I headed up north for a day of winter snowboarding. Most people think of Arizona as desert. That’s far from the truth. Arizona has great ski areas set among the high mountain pines. I loved untamed powder and took ridiculous risks because I was twenty-four years old and thought I was invincible. I was also an adrenaline junky who enjoyed getting away from the grind of the streets for a short time and testing my limits. The particular run that ruined my career wasn’t even that difficult to shred. To this day, I’m not sure exactly what happened. The end result was a confrontation with a tree that I didn’t win. I should feel lucky that I’m alive.

The worst damage was a shoulder injury that required multiple surgeries. Pain, surgery, more pain, rehabilitation, surgery. I suffered through this endless cycle for a year. I worked my ass off and did everything the doctors told me to so I could get back on the street. Even so, at one year and two months, holding my gun left my hand shaking. I refused to give up and fooled my orthopedic surgeon into releasing me with a fit-for-duty letter. I took four ibuprofen, amped myself up with two Monster drinks, and went to the firing range to qualify.

That was officially the second-worst day of my life.

Turning in my badge and gun takes first place.

My off-duty injury nets me exactly $165 a month from the police retirement system. Even living with my thermostat on eighty-four, the money doesn’t come close to covering the cost of my monthly electric bill in hundred plus temperatures during a Phoenix summer. I still had to pay rent, utilities and buy food.

I had few options unless I wanted to go back to school and work a minimum wage job while I got a degree. There was only one real solution. Unfortunately, it required me to sink as low on the blue totem pole as any ex-cop can go. I bit the bullet and applied for my PI license.

I’ve been a private investigator for two years now and specialize in everything on the right side of the law. Sometimes the money is less than the minimum wage I turned up my nose at.

Now, here I am, mentally cataloging dreams, failures, and fucking what ifs while staring at four guns.

Thug One nods his dark, closely cropped head. Dandridge is coming with us, he says in a deep voice that one would expect from someone his size.

Harry slowly lowers the bat and takes two steps in my direction. I keep my pepper spray trained on him because he’s still got the bat. The buckets of sweat dripping off Harry’s face are telling and there’s a good chance he might pee his pants any second. His willy is still hanging out and this is not something I care to see.

Harry has the nerve to whisper at me like we’re a team, Get me out of here and there’s ten grand in it for you. He takes another step in my direction. I have no idea why he thinks I can save either of us with a can of pepper spray.

I give a half-eye to Caddy-thug-dudes. Thug One steps closer, his gun turns fully to Harry. Moon wants Dandridge and one way or another, he’s ours.

Well shit. I can’t help feeling sympathy for Harry. Whatever he’s done, he’s pissed off the wrong person. I know who Moon is. If you’re a drug dealer, hooker, illegal gambler, or a cop you know who Moon is. Harry is in a shitload of trouble, and I have a feeling Mrs. Dandridge won’t need to worry about the pre-nup she signed.

Twenty grand, Harry says in desperation. His eyes jump around the garage most likely looking for an escape route that won’t get his ass blown off.

Put down the bat, I tell him in an even voice. He doesn’t hesitate. The bat slides through his fingers and clangs against the cement. Harry inches closer. Now my canister turns toward the men. Thug One gives a slight shake of his head like he can’t believe I’m this stupid. Seriously, I can’t believe it either.

I come back with my own chin nod and add some sheer bravado because it’s all I have. I have no intention of allowing Mr. Dandridge to become part of a cement building foundation. You need to get into your cars and get lost.

I would swear a grin tips the corners of Thug One’s lips. He lifts his left hand and places his palm toward me in a pacifying manner. Moon wants a face-to-face with Dandridge to talk about a personal matter. His lips scrunch together and now I’m sure it’s a grin he’s fighting. "Not, he assures me, as an ingredient for a cement foundation."

I almost believe him. Then why the guns?

He takes another step closer, his hand still raised toward me and his other hand still aiming a gun at Harry. You don’t bring muscle to a bat fight.

Well, there you have it because Thug One has a solid point, along with plenty of muscle. You don’t bring pepper spray to a gun fight either, and I’ve just been put in my place. The dumbest thing I’ve done since acquiring my PI license is pulling pepper spray on Dandridge. I blink rapidly so I can see through a drop of sweat that’s just entered my right eye. If that’s the case, you won’t mind if I tag along? I have no intention of tagging along, I’m just trying to get a better read on the situation.

Before Thug One replies, Harry yells, Stupid bitch, and tackles me. I go down and my head connects with a concrete bumper-guard.

The world goes black.

Chapter two

The throb wakes me and the last thing I want is to open my eyes. Maybe someone set off explosives in my brain. I can hear the soft whir of a ceiling fan while the cool air cascades over me. My head actually thumps to the whir. While I’m contemplating opening my eyes, I use my other senses to give me a clue about what’s happened.

I’m not in my own bed. Mine has a lumpy mattress. The bed I’m lying on is firm and comfortable. The ceiling fan in my bedroom twirls with a loud, steady hum. This one is finely balanced and it’s only the generated wind that makes noise.

Like a remembered nightmare, I suddenly recall Dandridge’s hairy dick, a silver bat, and several men with guns. My eyes pop open. The room, thankfully, has muted light, though I still squint as I look around. I give a small scream when I see a man sitting in a large chair in the shadowed corner of the room. He’s watching me. My head objects to the scream, so I slam my jaw shut, roll to my side, and cover my face with my forearm. A soft moan caused by the pain escapes my throat. The man doesn’t make a sound. It’s a minute or two before I can peel my eyes open again.

He’s still there.

His arms are stretched along the armrests of the chair and his fingers wrapped over the ends. I can tell he’s tall because I can’t see the back of the chair behind the top of his shoulders and head. His legs are long and clad in suit pants similar to the ones the thugs wore. They must keep Thugs-R-Us in business.

Miss Kinlock. His smooth whiskey voice fills the room.

Who… I croak and try again, Who are you and where am I? A sudden ache travels behind my head and I wince.

Lift up. His voice startles me because it’s directly in my ear. I never heard him move. His hand slides beneath the pillow under my head and he helps me sit up slightly. The cool rim of a glass meets my lips. I have something here for pain, but take a drink of water first.

He smells good—in a musky, delicious cologne and man kind of way. It’s such a stupid thing to think about when my last memories are of Dandridge’s dick and thugs with guns. I take a sip of water and then have two pills slipped between my lips. There’s this strange jolt of pleasure at his touch. It throws me off balance, more than a blow to the head has, and like an idiot, I swallow. I have no idea what kind of pills I’ve just taken. My brain is quite slow on the uptake, and I decide if I swallowed illegal drugs, I’ll live with the consequences as long as they take away my damn headache.

I inhale slowly and open my eyes just in time to see the man lean his hip into the mattress and sit beside me. The sheet covering me stops just below my breasts, and his movement pulls it down a bit farther. He doesn’t so much as sneak a peek at my breasts. I’m impressed.

You are? I ask in a low voice that doesn’t distress my brain too much.

He has such an intense look of concentration on his face. I feel like a puzzle he’s attempting to put together. He moves a section of my hair off my cheek. His eyes follow the movement of his hand and I think he’s actually surprised at what he’s done. Call me Moon.

Damn. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I’m in a bad situation. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. It’s the shadows of the room and the damage to my brain cells. Or, at least that’s the story I’m feeding myself. I’ve seen countless pictures of him. He’s usually escorting some woman to a ritzy fund-raising event, though he somehow manages to turn his face from the cameras. If not a public appearance, the pictures are taken with a telephoto lens trying to catch him in illegal activity.

His low voice fills the room when he says, I’m turning on the light to check the dilation of your eyes. He speaks in clipped, precise English. No heavy accent, but there’s something not quite American English about his voice. I grab his hand to stop him as he reaches for the lamp beside the bed. It feels like lightning meeting a body of water. The sizzling current skims across my flesh. When I glance up, I see he’s focused on our hands too. Even without the light, my white skin is offset by his darkness. I wonder if he felt the same jolt I did. The thought is silly; I must have imagined it. I relax my fingers and pull my hand away. He looks up and our eyes meet. His expression is impossible to identify. He gives nothing away. It’s as if the air is heavy and it’s pressing against my chest making it difficult to breathe.

This man is deadly and dangerous. Every part of me knows it.

I’m startled when his rough fingers slide across my neck and over my jaw. Talk about electrical currents. I’m frozen by his touch and yet I want to jump up and run from the room screaming. His fingers stop at the source of my pain and I flinch.

An Awwwe escapes me. He lifts his hand away and gently lets me rest back against the pillows.

Do you know what day it is? he asks.

A bit of my apprehension recedes. You don’t make a cement pillar out of someone after asking them questions that determine the extent of brain trauma.

Wednesday? It comes out as a question.

The date?

I need to think about it for a moment. Fourth of July was last Saturday. July eighth. This time it’s not a question. I’m gaining my bearings. My eyes are also adjusting to the shadows and I can make out more of Moon’s features.

No pictures do him justice. He looks like a dark version of an Italian mob boss. I can’t help but remember the bits and pieces that came through about him while I was an officer. He’s of mixed heritage—African American and Mexican National. Seeing him up close and personal makes me wonder more about his heritage because he’s fucking gorgeous.

I took notice of him while I was a cop due to the way he leads his life. His criminal empire encompasses all of Arizona and extends to the border towns within Mexico. His list of criminal activities is extensive. He’s also accepted within the echelon of the rich and famous. From athletes to movie stars to musicians, he’s part of their world. It’s his money and good looks. Of that, I have no doubt.

He intrigued me from the first time I heard the rumored stories about him. His private life is very private so I’ve never been sure what to believe and what to throw in the trash. The story told is that Moon’s American father was a plastic surgeon who died in South America while providing facial reconstruction to children in need. It’s also rumored that Moon’s criminal career began after he sought revenge against the rebels who killed his father. Somehow Moon manages to stay ten steps in front of the feds. Mix in his philanthropy with the poor and you have a modern day Robin Hood who kills, sells female flesh, keeps the illegal drug and gun supply-train running, and also takes excellent care of the people who support his criminal activity. Law enforcement hates him, and I’ve never been exactly fond of the legend he’s created.

So why is my body responding to his touch, his voice, and his damn scent? My headache should keep these thoughts at bay, but the rush of heat that has flooded my veins, the flutter low in my belly, and the sudden awareness between my legs are not a good sign.

Why am I here? I ask while trying to control my rapid breathing. It’s most likely not the best question. With my throbbing head and over-active libido, intelligence is a luxury.

His fingers twine in my hair without the slightest pull on my scalp. We both stare at his fingers as my hair slides across his skin. My men weren’t sure what to do with you. They went for Dandridge and apparently you stepped in the way. He speaks offhandedly like he’s unaccustomed to being questioned.

Shit, Dandridge. Is he alive?

Dandridge?

Maybe you shouldn’t answer that so once I’m able to walk, you’ll be more amiable to allowing me to leave. My words are rushed. My nervousness skyrockets. I hope he thinks I’m joking.

His gaze moves back to mine and he doesn’t ease my mind with so much as a grin.

Gomez will drive you home as soon as I’m assured your concussion doesn’t require a physician. He continues holding my hair, which I find very odd. Dandridge is in a bit of pain, but he’ll survive.

I’m not sure what to make of this. Will he be leaving with me?

Moon’s intensity increases and his fingers tug a bit on my hair. I don’t breathe. He’s been dropped at his car, and if he can’t drive himself home, he’ll call a cab.

You hurt him? I need tape over my mouth. I’m asking too many questions.

Moon’s voice turns hard. Dandridge hurt one of the girls. He got off lucky.

Dandridge’s wife, Penny, told me to be careful because her husband gets a little heavy-handed when mad. If Harry’s still breathing, I can live with him getting his ass beat. I think.

My camera?

He takes his time answering each question. He’s so focused on me that it makes me very uncomfortable. On the dresser, he says as he nods across the room. Your pictures of Dandridge are worth a small fortune. Without giving me time to stop him, he releases my hair, leans over, and turns on the light.

It blinds me. I bury my head into the pillows. Why did you do that? I whine, my fear entirely forgotten.

He doesn’t speak. His fingers thread into my hair again after he moves the pillow away from my face. His thumb slides over my temple in a slow circle that feels heavenly. The soothing touch makes me want to purr. My sexual awareness increases tenfold. It’s a moment or two before I’m willing to risk opening my eyes. When I do, Moon’s sinful gaze is locked on mine.

Holy fuck.

He has deep, intense blue eyes with shards of silver that are accented by his mocha skin. He’s literally Dwayne Johnson gorgeous with a tumbler of blue eyes thrown in to make a woman’s panties combust. I don’t know how to explain what happens as I fall into his eyes. Not fall—dive. My insides turn to slush. It’s like I’ve inhaled a narcotic that causes psychosis. I can’t seem to stop staring or get my bearings. With a solid blink, I jerk myself from the blue sea and absorb the rest of him.

He’s wearing a white, button-down shirt with the cuffs hanging loose. The top three buttons at his neck are undone displaying a bit of his chest and flawless skin. The material of the shirt stretches over his heavily muscled biceps and forearms and across his equally defined torso. He untangles his fingers from my hair and rests his hand beside my hip. His other hand is on his knee. His fingers are long and powerful. A heavy gold ring with a large black stone is on the ring finger of his right hand. A simple gold band circles his thumb. His left hand is bare. I’ve never been fond of men wearing jewelry, but on Moon, it makes a statement. I’m just not sure what that statement actually is.

He allows my appraisal and I still don’t get a smile or even a leer that says, I know you like what you see. My gaze moves to his lips. They’re full and lush—totally kissable lips, and there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t want those lips on her. A small scar about a half-inch long is at the corner of his lower lip. It does nothing to diminish his attractiveness. It actually does the opposite and adds a dangerous, bad boy, all-man quality.

Have dinner with me, he murmurs. The question startles me.

The Moon-induced fog clears slightly from my brain. I’m a cop, I say, and immediately I know I should have said retired or former. Retired, I add on stupidly.

His lips press a little more firmly together, subtly changing his expression. I know exactly who you are, Miss Kinlock. My name on his lips sounds incredible which is