A Touch Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 2) Read online

  If they were related. And I needed to line up the dots to figure that out. And to do that, I needed to look at our suspects all in one room. See how they interacted. See who looked at who. Drop in a pertinent question or observation, and watch which one unravelled first.

  I handed the dress to Damon and slipped out of my bra. He didn’t do anything as obvious as lick his lips, but his eyes did darken, the lids lowering ever so slightly. And something electrifying settled on the air. I lifted my gaze up to his and held it. I’m not sure why, but I seemed to see challenge there more and more often lately. But unlike the challenge he’d shown me over the past few days, daring me to sweep his missing sister under the rug and ignore the implications of her lifestyle and how it could relate to my case, this was heated.

  A challenge we simply did not have time to explore.

  I took the dress from his reluctant fingers and stepped into it, willing my hips to not have expanded too much in the past six to eight years. The dress slid over my waist with a rush of silk and relief, but before I could raise it to cover my breasts, Damon was there.

  Hands holding me steady above my hips, stopping the dress from rising higher. Hot breath washing over a pebbled nipple, his eyes flicking up to mine as he slipped out his tongue and wrapped his lips around my already hardened peak. He sucked hard, eliciting an unexpected groan. And then my hips were pulled firmly against his own, trapping me with his body and hands, as his mouth devoured my breast, sending shock waves of deliciousness through my body, pooling between my legs.

  He moved on to the neglected nipple, offering kisses and nibbles and then that powerful suck that seemed to be tied to the centre of me. Making my back arch and my hips grind and my breath rush out in little noisy pants. He hummed his pleasure against my skin. Sucking, biting, licking. And then when he was sure he’d brought me closer to the edge than anyone had ever managed with just his tongue and teeth and lips, he stepped back and left me swaying, waiting for me to catch my breath and cover my breasts.

  He offered a carefree shrug of his shoulders, then straighted his jacket, and played with his cufflinks, as though he hadn’t just had his lips to my breasts and made me gush.

  I pulled the dress up, giving him an amused look, and then turned for him to zip me up.

  His fingers were hot and I could feel their rough tips as he dragged the zipper up slowly, drawing the moment out, sealing me away from his touch and sight, leaving me somewhat suitably presentable for a black tie event.

  I still needed to redo my make-up, maybe throw a brush through my hair. But right then, looking presentable was the last thing on my mind.

  The zip finished its torturous journey up my back. The dress felt too restrictive. I had filled out a little since I was in my early twenties. To be expected. I had a hell of a lot more muscle mass now days. I made a move to turn around and face him. Considering a kiss. A nip. Hell, I would have taken one more look from those dark and hungry eyes, I was so desperate for him.

  But I didn’t make it. Damon’s hard hand landed in the middle of my back and he pushed me forward the few steps it took until I faced the wall by the wardrobe door. Excitement unfurled inside my stomach, my heart sped up, my breaths shallowed. I felt a fine sheen of sweat grace my skin.

  “Hands shoulder width apart,” he whispered in my ear. “Spread your legs.”

  I laughed. How could I not? Was he about to strip search me?

  “I’m not being funny,” he murmured, running a hand down my side, following the contours of the dress, letting me know the outfit left nothing to the imagination. It fit like a second skin. It might have been in the most brilliant shade of crystalline blue, made of luxurious and decadent silk material, but its shape was all me.

  “Beautiful,” he rasped behind me, after I’d placed my hands on the wall and spread my legs like he’d demanded. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the dress, to my figure as he stroked it through the material, or to my position.

  “Not a word,” he murmured, his lips trailing over my exposed shoulder. “Not a sound. Can you do that?”

  “Why?”

  “Can you do it?” Of course I could, so I just nodded my head.

  This was the new Damon. The one I hadn’t met when we’d dated all those months ago. The one I was introduced to in the past few weeks.

  The one I feared I’d lost just this morning.

  The edges of my dress were brought up slowly, both his hands fisting the material, bunching it up, heedless of creases, as he drew his knuckles across the outside of my legs. My underwear clad rear was exposed in short measure, and then he moved the fabric of the dress to one hand and slid his fingertip down the edge of my knickers.

  He’d never complained about the perfunctory underwear I wore. But in this dress I suddenly felt exposed. I was not raised in the same world as Damon and his sister. I was not used to fine things or expensive tastes. He had them. I knew. But he managed to hide them behind his HEAT job and his love of fire engines and big SUVs.

  Damon was male through and through, but that didn’t mean he lacked taste.

  “It would be a shame,” he said as I heard the sound of his belt coming undone. “Not to celebrate you in a spectacular dress.”

  “Damon, we don’t have time.”

  His zip came down, then a firm hand gripped my waist, pulling my butt back towards him. He ground his erection against my rear, making me suck in a ragged breath.

  “Quiet,” he growled. “I’ll talk. You listen.”

  I nodded, falling into the sensation of his cock as it slid between my thighs, right in the cotton covered groove of my sex. I could feel the material getting damper. I could feel every ridge through the flimsy fabric that seemed too much right then.

  “First,” Damon whispered, pulling my underwear aside, not bothering to remove it, “I’m going to finger you, coat my hand in your juices. Make you come from my touch alone.”

  I nodded my head, letting it fall forward, hanging between my shoulders as I leaned my hands against the wall. In that strange release of all control I’d found myself doing lately whilst in bed with Damon, I simply followed his directives eagerly. I wondered briefly, if that made me submissive. If Mrs Gordon behaved like this with her husband behind closed doors. Shoes off, of course.

  I suppressed a smile as Damon’s broad finger slipped down the wet crease between my legs. And then groaned loud as he dipped two digits inside, using his thumb to rub tiny circles over my clit.

  Submissive or not, Damon knew how to get me to forget. To live in just his touch, the deep rumble of his voice in my ear. To cut off work, life, Carl, and just feel. Damon knew how to set me free and all it took was handing over a part of me I’d never given to another soul before.

  “Then,” he went on, fingers pumping, thumb swirling, orgasm quickly approaching, “I’m going to make you suck my fingers as I slide my dick inside where they’ve just been.”

  I jolted, surprised at his hungry tone, at his crude words. But not surprised at the response they elicited from me. My lips parted, my back bowed, my hands fisted on the wall, and with eyes closed I came around his fingers, riding the hard thrusts and firm sweep of his thumb, moaning load and long into the heated air of the room.

  “Fuck,” he breathed against my shoulder. Then laid a kiss on my skin and slipped his hand out from between my legs.

  Then fingers were at my lips, wet and tasting of me, and before I could close my mouth, catch my breath, the broad tip of his erection was entering me from behind, at the exact same time as his fingers claimed my mouth.

  Fuck! I exploded. The sound coming from my mouth, lips wrapped firmly around his fingers, was animalistic. He rocked into me with such force my breasts hit the wall. One hand held my hip steady, hard fingers bruising skin, the other hooked over my lower jaw, turning my head to the side, fingers still between my lips.

  His eyes met mine as he rocked and pumped and fucked me in my spare bedroom. He didn’t look away once. In that second,
he owned me. Completely. In that second, I wasn’t a police detective. I wasn’t the daughter of a cop. I wasn’t the woman who pulled a gun on a suspect and read him his rights.

  I wasn’t the girl who pined after her mentor and then let him walk away from justice because she was weak.

  I was his. And I was free. Powerful. Full. Feeling, loving, living.

  And not thinking of another fucking thing than just this.

  Chapter 27

  “You can deny anything to anyone, Sport. But you can’t deny the truth to yourself.”

  We were late. The banquet would have already started. Wheeling and dealing and political ladder climbing all over a five course luncheon, with light entertainment on the side, had to be well underway. Cheques were no doubt being written, handshakes given, deals struck. In the end it would be debatable who would benefit the most from an event like this. It raised awareness, sure, but it was stuck in the quagmire of someone else’s cogs.

  And we were late.

  “I’m not going to apologise,” Damon announced, as he manoeuvred the car into the Civic multi-storied parking garage. “That’s the best midday fuck we’ve had yet.” As though he had every intention of repeating it and bettering it.

  I doubted he could. I still had tingles between my thighs from that last orgasm, when he’d moved his fingers from between my lips and dragged them wet and hot and slippery down my throat to cup a breast. His breath had been ragged, exertion and arousal making it difficult to consume enough air. He’d groaned into my shoulder as his hips rocked and his cock pounded and his release felt hard and hot and everywhere.

  In short, he’d been magnificent. And then he’d pulled out, replaced my pathetic underwear and slightly crumpled skirt, and spun me around to kiss the ever loving crap out of me. The kiss had lasted as long as the sex. And had been almost as orgasmic.

  But now we were here. To work. And all thoughts of hot, powerful, take-no-prisoners fucking was out. We had to focus.

  “Arriving late isn’t such a bad thing,” I said, as I put my cellphone to my ear, having seen I had a waiting voice-mail message. I’d forgotten about it. Like I’d forgotten about Carl and what I had done. Again. Which had been Damon’s intention, I was sure. Well, that and fucking me while I was in a dress. “It’ll give the appearance of relaxation, which is hardly what you’d associate with police business.”

  Damon parked the car and as the voice-mail played the engine quieted enough for me to hear my caller’s breaths.

  Female. Definitely. And she was scared. The breaths short and shallow. The hitched gasps high and desperate. I know fear. I’ve felt it, seen it, witnessed it in others. I know it as well as I know myself. This woman, this silent caller, was petrified.

  And I suddenly wished I’d pushed her, pressed for more. Because if this was who I now suspected it to be, I might be too late to help.

  “What is it?” Damon asked, as I played the message a second time, trying to determine background noises and anything that might tell me where she was calling from.

  No words. Not even a voice to be sure. But my stomach twisted and my heart thumped and a sick feeling settled inside my gut.

  Damn it. Why hadn’t I put two and two together?

  There wasn’t enough to go on. Barely a sound coming from her lips. I shut the phone off and stared at it in my hand, as it rested on my pale blue dress skirt.

  “Lara?”

  How did I tell him? How did I tell him I’d been receiving anonymous phone calls from his missing sister for over a week? How did I admit to my lover that I had let him down? Drastically.

  “Lara, love. You’re worrying me.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said in a fit of understated treachery that he would surely see through in a second flat. “Just Cawfield being a dick.”

  And now I’d lied. Not just omitted or overlooked. But outright lied.

  “Come on,” I said, reaching for my door and receiving a growl for me to wait while Damon scrambled out of his. I sat there, as he made his way around the hood of the truck and grasped my door handle, and wondered just how much worse this day was going to get.

  We needed to be in the banquet, questioning and observing our suspects. I had my orders. I had to make this happen. And if it was tied into Carole Michaels then all the better. But as Damon helped me from the vehicle, an intense but concerned look in his eyes when they met mine, I knew I hadn’t fooled him. And I knew it was me who had been a fool.

  I couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not here.

  But I would.

  You can deny anything to anyone, Sport. But you can’t deny the truth to yourself.

  I felt wretched as we made our way to the Town Hall. I felt duplicitous and evil. Using Damon for my own needs as we moved through the arched entranceway to the neo-Baroque styled building, the clock tower casting a shadow over our path. As we moved out of the sunlight and under the arched ceilings of the hall, and made our way towards the ‘Auckland City Supports the EMS’ event, I wondered what that made me.

  A cop just doing her job? Or a heartless woman playing with the trust of a good man. He deserved to know about his sister. To know my suspicions, which were just that. Suspicions. But my gut knew. So I did too. My silent caller had been his sister, which meant as of midday today she’d been alive.

  I looked up at Damon as he handed over the invitation to someone on the door. He’d want to know. I’d want to know if I was in his position.

  And then we were through the door, entering a large room with sweeping, curved ceilings and stone arches and deep set eaves, moulded and decorated in ornate plasterwork. Deep red velvet curtains trailed along the floor, shutting off windows, but they could just as easily be hiding secret pockets. Liaison appropriate settings out of sight, but not completely out of earshot. It reminded me of the Irreverent Inferno cavern. The opulence and grandeur, pared back by cream stucco and an echoing stud height.

  My eyes scanned the tables, a series of round white cloths surrounded by ten gilt framed chairs. Third course was underway. Cutlery scraping, crystal glasses clinking, conversation a low hum to the string quartet sitting under a spotlight on a far away stage. The dresses were bright. Pale was not in this season. But the men all matched. Dinner suits and black bow ties, no lounge suits or business suits here.

  Small arrangements of white flowers topped the centre of each table, their perfume mixing on the air with more artificial ones. Laughter, polite and raucous, the odd black humour joke announcing just what sort of clientele was in attendance here.

  I spotted the Marcrofts first, sitting at a table together with other businessmen and their wives at a guess. Someone at that table would be from an Emergency Service. No point putting all the wallets in one place and all the beggars in another. The goal would be to impress and hopefully when the gentlemen and their wives left they’d be a little lighter in the pocket.

  I wondered who we’d be seated with, but the Marcrofts’ table was full, which ruled them out. My father I found next, as we were guided through the room to our table. His eyes met mine, a small smattering of surprise there, then vanished. He didn’t raise a glass in greeting. He didn’t even smile. The conversation at the table drew his attention before we’d taken another step.

  Our guide came to stop at a table with two empty chairs. Luck seemed to be in our favour.

  I took my seat, answered greetings from those around the table, while Damon apologised for our late arrival. And then turned and smiled at David Gordon. His returning expression was not as welcoming. I could hardly blame him, but understanding was all the empathy he’d get.

  “Mr and Mrs Gordon, how lovely to see you here,” I said, accepting a glass of wine from the waiter.

  “Detective Keen,” Mr Gordon replied. “And is this another partner?”

  The man liked to take control of the conversation. Just like he took control of his wife behind closed doors?

  “This is HEAT Chief Investigator Damon Michaels,” I announced. “Damo
n this is David Gordon and his wife, Gloria.”

  I smiled at Mrs Gordon, who offered a plastic smile in return. There was no warmth there. But no chill either. It just was. She took a large gulp from her wine, the only indication she was uncomfortable.

  “HEAT?” Gordon asked. “Now there’s a worthwhile occupation.”

  And so went the next few minutes. David Gordon steered the conversation around to topics appropriate for a gala event, and avoided all other extraneous subject matter. Not that I tried to pull the rug out from under his feet. I let him go for it, secure in his control of the situation, while I watched Mrs Gordon drink more and more wine until I was sure she was quite tipsy.

  “How are you, Mrs Gordon?” I said, leaning over the table and lowering my voice. David Gordon paused in his recitation of fire regulations for large department stores, but Damon pounced, drawing him back in.

  “I..I’m fine. Thank you,” Mrs Gordon replied, sipping from the second glass of wine I’d seen her with since we’d arrived. I was betting she’d had at least one more before we’d got here, though.

  “I’m so sorry about the other day, Mrs Gordon,” I said, taking a bite from the rather disappointingly small meal in front of me. When had I last eaten?

  “The other day?”

  “When I was at your house.”

  David Gordon stopped talking mid-sentence and turned angry blue eyes to meet mine.

  “Now, come, come, Detective,” he announced, in a voice loud enough to carry. “We’re not here to discuss work.”

  Damon laughed. Several others around the table, and from nearby ones as well, joined in.

  “I’m afraid, David,” Damon exclaimed good naturedly, “that you may well have attended the wrong event. If not the Emergency Services then what shall we discuss? Politics? Gambling?”

  All levity left Gordon’s face, making me realise he’d been at least attempting to keep things light until then.

  “Perhaps politics would be better,” he said pointedly, voice level and somehow still a command. “Such as the politics of public service appointments. Your position, I believe, is one such appointment, is it not?”