- -
- 100%
- +
“I did. And I booked the move-in for eight, knowing your lazy ass wouldn’t be here on time.” I shoot him a smug grin. “So you’re early.”
“She got you there.” Max chuckles and heads to the back of the van. “I’ll start getting these boxes out now and we can load them straight onto the flatbed.”
“I’ll help.”
I resist the urge to join in and speed up the process. Hannah Anderson is a hands-on person who can lift a box with the best of them. However, Hannah Essex is worried about her manicure. I glare at the pearly pink polish I applied last night. I’d toyed with the idea of fake nails to compensate for my terrible nail-biting habit, but I have to draw the line somewhere. The last thing I need is a nail flying off while I’m chasing a perp.
“Mrs. Essex?”
For a second the name doesn’t register, but then my brain kicks into gear and I smile at the man and woman approaching me. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Welcome to 21 Love Street.” The woman is older—late sixties, maybe seventies—with a genuine smile and a neatly pressed uniform of white shirt and grey slacks. “I’m Irma and this is my colleague Dante. Looks like you’re all ready to move in. I understand you’ve already picked up your keys and access cards.”
“Yes.” I stick my hand out to shake Irma’s and then turn my smile to Dante, who’s about my age. “Nice to meet you both.”
“Dante will set the elevator to freight mode and make sure you get up to your level okay,” Irma says. “Let us know if you have any questions at all.”
I give my thanks and wait while Owen and Max finish unloading our boxes onto the flatbed trolley. Owen is wearing a pair of fitted jeans and a simple V-neck grey jumper that sits close to his body. A heavy silver watch decorates one wrist. The neat, casual outfit is at odds with Owen’s overlong dirty-blond hair, which seems to be permanently two weeks overdue for a haircut. The thick strands kink and curl at the back of his neck. At one point in my much younger, much stupider years I’d fantasised about running my hands through it, about kissing his full-lipped, smart-ass mouth.
“She can hardly keep her eyes off me.” Owen looks smug as hell and I realise I’ve been caught staring.
“Newlyweds?” Dante asks with a knowing smile. I want to punch them both.
“We’re so very in love.” Owen walks toward me with that careless rolling-hip gait that makes women adore him. I can’t walk away. Can’t break character. “Isn’t that right?”
“It sure is.” I tip my face up to his, aiming for a loving look while hoping he can hear the obscenities I’m screaming at him in my mind. As he lowers his lips, I turn my face so the kiss catches my cheek. Nice try, Fletcher. “And I’m also madly in love with this apartment. Are we ready to go up?”
Owen chuckles. “My wife, the drill sergeant.”
“Tell me about it,” Dante says as he leads us through the loading bay into the building via a room where recycled waste is kept. I make note of my surroundings, mentally jotting down details about building access points. “I’ve been married for two years now. My wife is about to have our first baby.”
“That’s sweet.” I try to sound like I mean it. But my mind is on the job…well, it should be. And it should definitely not be occupied with the enticing way Owen’s butt looks in those fitted jeans.
Dante leads us to a bay of elevators, one of which is open and protected with heavy-duty fabric. “You’re good to go. Shouldn’t take more than three or four trips, by the looks of it. I have to stay in the loading bay to make sure we don’t end up with any traffic jams, so I’ll see you when you come back down for the next load.”
Max, Owen and I squeeze into the elevator with the trolley and boxes. The door slides shut.
“The whole team is taking bets on who strangles who first,” Max says as we rise up to the top floor. “Money’s on Anderson, ten to one.”
“Ten to one?” Owen’s lip curls in disgust. “Traitors.”
“It’s better odds than you deserve,” I mutter, my thumb rubbing over the ring on my left hand. I can’t stop touching the damn thing. It’s driving me nuts.
The other thing driving me nuts is the smell of soap on Owen’s skin—creamy and warm, like sandalwood with a hint of vanilla. I don’t remember him smelling that good in our academy days. Though, to be fair, I don’t know if many guys in their early twenties shower as often as they should.
I should not be thinking about what Owen looks like in the shower.
The glowing green numbers count up to level six. I really need to get a hold on my imagination—because this assignment is going to be difficult enough without giving him any indication that I still harbour an attraction to him. And I don’t. He’s awful and childish and irreverent and not the kind of guy I would ever marry because I like serious men who do…serious things.
Ugh. I’m no good at lying, even in my head. I train my eyes on the glowing numbers. Maybe if I don’t look at Owen, I won’t get affected by whatever hot guy voodoo he’s using to mess with my head.
When we reach our destination, the elevator opens with a cheerful ping.
“Apartment 601.” I exit with more speed than is necessary. As I march toward the front door, I dig the key out of my bag. “Home sweet home.”
The apartment is bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived, including my family home that housed five of us. Even though we’re only six floors up, we have a lovely view of South Melbourne made even prettier by the buttery morning light. The apartment itself has been staged by someone who knows the fine line between style and comfort, and there’s a mix of textures—light, warm woods and soft grey fabric and faded gold metals—that make me feel instantly at ease. The neutral tones are brought to life with a few pops of colour, including a vibrant sunflower yellow chair and a canvas splashed with shades of teal and lavender.
“This’ll do,” Owen says as he walks in. Max follows with the trolley. “Not really my style, but it looks like we have money.”
No kidding. I spot a Herman Miller Eames chair in the corner of the room, and it looks like the real deal. Those things cost more than what I paid for my first car. I dated a guy once—very briefly—who owned one of those chairs. Talked about it like the damn thing was his child.
“I’ll get the next load of boxes,” Max says. “And I’ll make conversation with the concierge guy, see if I pick up anything interesting.”
Owen nods. “Good idea.”
The second the door swings shut behind Max, my body is alight with awareness. The tingling sensation of being watched is an itch beneath my skin. At one point, I’d craved this with all my being—a moment alone with Owen.
“We’ll have to make sure we don’t damage any of this furniture,” I say in a desperate attempt to keep my mind where it belongs—on work. “Budget won’t accommodate eight grand for a chair.”
“And how do you think we’re going to damage the furniture, huh?” Owen walks up beside me, and I feel his presence right down to my toes.
“Not like that.” I don’t need to spell out that sex isn’t part of playing man and wife for this job. Owen might be a larrikin, but he’s not an asshole. In fact, the one time he had the chance to take advantage of our situation—the time I asked him to—he declined due to “personal ethics” and I never quite got over the humiliation. Even thinking about it now makes my stomach churn. “But I do remember one young recruit who managed to break both a dining chair and a bed frame in one evening.”
“Harmless fun.” He slings an arm around my shoulders and I force myself not to lean into him. “It’s been a long time, Anderson. I missed you while I was in New York.”
I snort. “I didn’t think about you once.”
“Liar.” He laughs and his delicious scent fills my nostrils again. Damn it. How does he smell so freaking good? “You ready to take the bad guys down?”
“Absolutely.” This time my response is genuine. I love my job and I’m damn good at it. “They won’t even know what hit them.”
CHAPTER THREE
Owen
IT TAKES LESS than a day for us to argue about every little thing—our approach for gaining the trust of the people in the building, where to set up discreet surveillance…what flavour pizza we should get for dinner. She wanted Hawaiian. Gross. Pineapple does not belong on pizza.
We compromise and get Thai food instead.
“We should be talking to people already,” Hannah argues. Her dark hair started the day floating around her face, brushing the tops of her shoulders, but now it’s pulled back into a messy little knot. “You think they want to pay us for sitting around? That might be how things work in your cushy world, but we’re wasting taxpayers’ dollars right now.”
“Sorry, I was under the impression you were a detective senior constable, not the chief commissioner.” I spear a piece of duck and make sure I get some coconut rice on my fork, as well. Damn, it’s good. “And cushy, my ass. My job keeps me fit as a fiddle, and don’t think I didn’t notice you staring earlier.”
When some women blush, it’s like a delicate pink flush over their cheeks. Hannah’s blush goes everywhere—over her cheeks and nose, down her neck and under the edge of her simple black T-shirt. But my favourite bit is how it colours the tips of her ears.
“I have to stare. It’s not often I see a class-A idiot in the flesh,” she snaps.
The defensive comeback bounces right off me—I’ve been called worse. No-hoper. Slacker. Troublemaker. I saw my eleventh-grade science teacher in my first month of being a constable and her eyes almost popped out of her head. To say most people didn’t expect me to do much with my life is an understatement.
Have you done much with your life? Really?
I promptly ignore that inconvenient thought and file it away where it belongs: in the corner of my mind marked “shit not to think about.”
“You’ve got such a way with words, Anderson.”
“It’s Hannah, remember? You can’t mess that up.” Her cheeks return to their usual colour as she tucks into her Pad Thai. “Now, back to work. We’ve got to get out and talk to people.”
“Have you ever met a newlywed couple who wanted to become BFFs with their new neighbours the second they got married? No, they want to fuck like animals and not leave their apartment.”
She rolls her eyes. “You would think that. How many times have you been married?”
“Zero. But if I did get married, I wouldn’t make hanging out with the neighbours my first priority.” I reach for my Coke. “However, I do agree we can’t sit in here all night.”
“Then what?”
“We go for a romantic evening walk in the garden.”
She looks at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “A romantic walk?”
“It will give us a chance to scope out the property, look for anything out of the ordinary and find some surveillance points.”
“And then we can talk to anyone we come across?”
I sigh. “We don’t need to talk to them yet. It’s not a good idea to come across too eager.”
“Is this some weird guy logic?” She narrows her eyes. “Like needing to wait three weeks before you call a girl after a date?”
I raise a brow. “If he’s waiting three weeks, he’s not interested.”
She stabs at her dinner like she’s trying to make sure it’s dead. Either that, or she’s imagining it’s me. “I’m talking hypothetically.”
I would usually take the opportunity to stir her up some more, but for some reason I don’t want to talk about Anderson’s dating life. It makes me feel a little stabby myself, so I move the conversation on. “If we come on too strong, we might tip them off. We need to seem interesting, so they come to us.”
“And by ‘seem interesting’ what you really mean is ‘seem rich,’ right? We need to make ourselves a target.”
“Exactly. And it needs to be subtle. We can’t look like we’re trying to get anyone’s attention.”
She makes a sound of frustration that’s music to my ears. Winding her up is way too easy. “So we have to attract attention without looking like we want it, and we have to avoid talking to people so they want to talk to us? Doesn’t that seem a little counterintuitive?”
“No, it seems like the right way to do things. Trust me, I know how these guys work. Last time—”
“Yes, last time you brought down a crime ring almost single-handedly. I remember the bragging.” She shakes her head and scoops up a pile of noodles with her fork. “Why did you move to New York, anyway? It seemed like you were on the rise, and then suddenly I hear you’ve taken off.”
Speaking of things to file under “shit not to think about…”
“I’m a free spirit, baby.” I use the smile that comes naturally to me—the one that’s been convincing people for years that I don’t give a crap about anything. “I go wherever the whim takes me.”
She shakes her head and concentrates on her meal. In the silence, I watch her. I liked Anderson the second we crossed paths in our first week at the academy. She’s smart—if a little traditional in her approach to things—and she’s calm in a crisis. I’ve seen her outrun some of the fittest men I know to take down a bad guy. I’ve seen her talk herself out of dangerous situations and I’ve seen her stick up for some of the most vulnerable people in the communities we serve. Despite my teasing, I respect her a hell of a lot. She deserves to be a detective.
And I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Who’s staring now?” She smirks at me with a self-satisfied expression that’s a flashing cape to a bull.
“You have a little something…” I lean forward to point at an imaginary spot on her cheek and when she moves I flick her nose with my finger.
“You’re such a child,” she says, rolling her eyes. But that doesn’t stop her dabbing at the imaginary spot with a napkin. “Fine, let’s try it your way tonight. Romantic walk in the garden…but we might want to bring a bucket in case I need to puke from the pressure of pretending to be attracted to you.”
“Who’s the child now?” I mutter, stacking the empty containers and stifling the grin that wants to burst forth. If I’m going to be back in Australia, then at least I have some fun to distract me from the growing list of things I don’t want to think about.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hannah
THERE’S A SURPRISING amount of garden space out the back of 21 Love Street, considering we’re in South Melbourne. From what I’ve read on the building, this used to be a big warehouse lot that was rezoned to accommodate residential construction. The original building was torn down, but instead of filling the space with a huge apartment tower, they went for quality over quantity. It makes for a nice change from the other massive towers popping up all over the city, which are slowly blotting out the light in increasingly cluttered streets.
There’s a shared barbeque area with tables and chairs adorned with striped cushions. A curved path leads to a communal vegetable garden already budding with zucchini and thick bushes of thyme and mint. I take a moment to crouch down and breathe in the enticing scent. A lemon tree fills one corner, bursting with yellow fruit. Several lemons lie on the ground, half-consumed by some creature who must have stumbled across the bounty.
That’s when I notice a small single-door gate next to the tree. Between the darkness of the evening sky and the fullness of the lemon tree, it’s somewhat concealed.
“See that?” I turn to Owen. “It would be pretty easy to slip in and out here at night without being seen.”
The sky isn’t too dark yet—but soon it will be. There aren’t many lights in the garden, beyond the barbeque area and the entrance to the building that houses the indoor swimming pool. This part of the yard is shadowy and private.
“I’m assuming it’s locked,” Owen says, taking a closer inspection. “There’s a latch and a padlock, so it’s not accessible with the key cards.”
“That means it’s not for resident use. What’s behind it?”
Owen jumps up and wraps his hands over the edge of the fence, hoisting himself up. I suck in a breath at the sight of his muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his jumper. He’s always been fit, but the last few years have filled his body out in a way that sets off a warm burn in my stomach. He’s broader in the shoulders, fuller in the arms, rounder in the butt. But his waist is still sharply defined in that delightful V shape that tells me he hits the gym regularly.
“An alleyway,” he confirms and I nod, hoping he hasn’t caught me looking again. “We’ll take a look down there tomorrow, see if there’s any evidence of people hanging around.”
“So there’s four ways into the property that I’ve seen—front entrance, car park, loading bay and this door.” I tick the options off my fingers. “I doubt they’re hauling bags of jewels and cash in and out via the front door. If we’re talking about the kind of money that Ridgeway mentioned…they’re not sneaking that through in a gym bag.”
“And the car park has as much surveillance as the front entrance. There’s cameras all over,” Owen adds. “In the loading dock, too. This might be a hand-off point.”
We know jewels are coming into this building thanks to a diamond cuff that had been fitted with a tracker. Unfortunately, the person who’d stolen the cuff from the small exhibit where it was being shown as “bait” had done a good job skirting the surveillance cameras. After that, the trail went cold.
The current estimation is that the thieves lift the items and bring them to 21 Love Street where a jeweller strips the gems out. Then the gems are sold either individually or in lots and residual metal from the settings and chains is sold to a gold buyer who melts it down.
By that method, there are no pieces of evidence floating around which might provide a trail back to the operation. It’s smart. And while it might not provide the same kind of cash as other criminal activities—such as drug production or trafficking—it’s a good place for would-be criminals to cut their teeth. The larger worry was that the Romano crime family had a new figurehead. This case wasn’t simply about stopping theft. It was about gathering information so we could go after the bigger problem. But there wouldn’t be budget for a task force unless we could prove that the Romano crime family was back in action.
“Someone’s watching us,” Owen says quietly.
The words cause goose bumps to ripple over my skin as my brain switches to high-alert. It’s like the air has dropped a few degrees, and suddenly I’m conscious of every little detail around me—the whisper-quiet sound of footsteps on grass, the scent of cigarette smoke coiling into the air, the shifting shadows of the lemon tree as a breeze causes the leaves to shudder in the wind.
“Kiss me,” he says.
“What?” I resist the urge to turn and look at whatever he can see behind me.
Owen’s fingers encircle my wrist and he pulls me closer, further into the dark shadow of the lemon tree. “We’re a newlywed couple out for a romantic stroll…so let’s look romantic.”
Shit. I have no idea what he can see and I hate being the one in a vulnerable position. But protecting the cover always comes first—before my comfort zone, before my own desires. Only now, the cover and my desires converge, and I wind my arms around Owen’s neck. He takes a step back and hits the fence, allowing me to pin him there.
We don’t have to kiss, not really. Holding my head close to his would have been enough to maintain our position as horny newlyweds, but my lips part before I can logic my way out of doing what I’ve dreamed of since I was a fresh-faced academy trainee. I press my mouth to his and his fingers tighten at my waist, pulling me closer. His lips are firm and his grip is confident and his tongue slides along mine in a way that makes my knees buckle. God, he tastes even better than he smells—like earth and man and a hint of spice. Delicious.
My fingers drive through his hair, fisting the lengths so I can hold myself upright. I don’t protest as his hands slide down my back and cup my ass, because there’s not a single cell in my body that doesn’t want this. I’ve kissed a few guys before—some of them weren’t bad. One or two were good kissers.
But Owen is a master. He kneads me in a rhythmic way that makes my sex throb, like he’s simulating the tempo of fucking. But it’s the moment he yanks me up an inch and jams me firmly against him that takes my breath away. He’s hard as a rock and his jeans do nothing to conceal the thick, curved length of his cock as it digs into my belly. That isn’t part of our undercover script.
Because kisses can be faked and affections can be feigned, but a hard-on tells me that maybe I’m not the only one who’s super into this right now. And that’s a terrifying thought, because it’s easy for me to hate Owen for rejecting me all those years ago. For teasing me about my crush on him. It’s easy for me to write him off as someone who’s totally wrong for me.
But unfortunately, I’ve never stopped lusting over Owen Fletcher. Now the floodgates have been opened and I have to live with him as man and wife. Screwing your co-worker isn’t exactly a great career move.
But something tells me that I’ll be going to bed with this kiss on my mind every damn night until we either crack this case, or until I give in to the feelings that have been haunting me for the past decade. Right now, as I writhe against him, I’m not sure which option I prefer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Owen
HANNAH FEELS LIKE heaven in my hands, but she kisses like the devil. Dark and sinful and so tempting my mere mortal brain has no hope of withstanding her. When I pulled her toward me, I hadn’t expected her to respond with such enthusiasm. The kiss was a legitimate action to maintain cover and within the boundaries of our work.
The wood in my jeans was not.
I’d been prepared to keep my hands at ten and two—high school dance style—until the second she’d rubbed against me, purring like a kitten and taking a lit match to my decency. The sound coming from her mouth scrambles my brain, making me think of long sweaty nights and the feeling of thighs clamping down on my head. My fantasy woman always has dark hair and dark eyes, and it didn’t occur to me until right now that Anderson could be that woman. She has been that woman…more times than I will ever admit.
But Anderson is a family woman. A heart-and-soul kind of woman. A forever woman. And that means we’ll never be anything more than friends.
Her lips work against mine, her tongue sliding into my mouth as she presses herself against me. Grinding. I’m pinned to the fence, my body temperature skyrocketing. I want nothing more than to spin her around so I can use the fence to brace her back while I drag her legs up and encourage her to lock her heels behind my back.
But this is work. And this kiss is veering into the space where one of us is taking advantage of the situation—only I don’t know who.
“He’s gone.” I whisper against her lips. It’s dark outside and I can’t see the details of her expression, but I feel the effects of the kiss in the puffiness of her lips. In the quickness of her breath.
“Well,” she says shakily. “That’s a relief.”
“Yeah, I got the impression you thoroughly hated that.” The teasing comes easily, naturally. It’s like breathing for me. Like walking.
But what I really want is to tell her that she’s got me hot and bothered. That I’ll have to scrub this memory from my mind if I have any hope of keeping my focus on the case. But my focus is no better than a crystal glass thrown against a brick wall. It’s thousands of irreparable glittering shards. I want to punish that sweet mouth of hers and haul her over my shoulder so I can take her straight to my bed.
“What now?” she asks.