Lover Undercover

chapter Fifteen


A good night’s sleep and a full Monday of yoga classes brought Kylie no closer to solving her Trevor quandary. She was still doing battle with herself when she climbed the stairs to her apartment, stopping at the landing to appreciate the last soft gasps of lavender twilight surrendering to night. But when she opened the door, a not-so-soft gasp burst from her lungs.

Candles flickered from strategic points throughout the living room. The sofa and coffee table had been transformed into a cozy dining spot for two, complete with white tablecloth, a centerpiece of long-stemmed red roses, place settings, and more candles. The tangy, spicy aroma of Stacy’s famous lasagna—her sister’s only claim to culinary excellence—wafted from the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled.

Stacy strode through the archway carrying a salad bowl, spotted Kylie, and stopped in her tracks.

“Hi, Ky. Didn’t you get my message?”

Voice mail. Shoot. She needed to check hers more often. “No, I came straight home after my last class. What’s”—she gestured around the room—“all this?”

Stacy continued to the coffee table and set the salad down, then ran a fingertip over one of the velvety blossoms. “I’m fixing dinner for someone.”

Her eyebrows lifted. Stacy didn’t do romantic home-cooked meals. For anyone. Ever. “Someone?”

Stacy straightened and shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “For Ian.” Her gaze dropped to the roses, and a sappy smile curved her lips. “He sent these. Couldn’t you just die?”

Yeah, she could. “They’re beautiful,” she mumbled, still astounded by the notion of her sister getting soft-eyed over a dozen roses.

“Aren’t they? Here, read the card.” Stacy extended her hand, the small card held between her fingers. Kylie took it and read, “Congratulations on the new job. Now the rest of the world will see what entranced me from the moment I met you.”

“Holy smokes, did you…?”

Stacy practically jumped up and down, despite the cast. “Yes! Remember the audition I went on almost a month ago, for the pilot about the Vegas showgirls?”

She didn’t exactly remember, but she nodded her head anyway, already thrilled for her twin.

“I got the part! Can you believe it? I’ll be dancing and acting—it’s like all my career dreams coming true at once!”

She rushed forward and hugged her twin. “That’s wonderful! I knew this would happen for you. I never doubted…oh, my God, what about your leg?”

“Not a problem,” Stacy replied, obviously already having contemplated the question. “Wardrobe and rehearsals don’t start for another eight weeks. That’s plenty of time. I’ll be good as new.”

Kylie sent a quick prayer of thanks to the universe before she sagged onto the sofa. “Fabulous. Excellent. I’m so happy for you. Hey, does this mean you’re quitting Deuces?”

“I think so. I mean, I don’t intend to leave them in the lurch, but…can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Then it hit her. Ian knew about this before her, and Stacy eagerly anticipated a celebratory evening with him. Sometime during the last few days, she’d slipped a notch in her sister’s hierarchy. The realization hurt, but in a strange way, it was also a relief. Keeping her voice neutral, she carefully probed the subject. “I guess you told Ian the good news?”

“He called right after I got off the phone with my agent. I wanted to tell you first, Ky, but I was so excited, I just couldn’t hold back. After I spilled the news he was so genuinely excited and happy for me—not in a superficial ‘flatter her and get in her pants’ kind of way—I couldn’t resist inviting him for dinner. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No,” she answered honestly, “of course not. I’m proud of you, and also glad you decided to give Ian a chance.”

“Good, because he just called and told me he’ll be here in about ten minutes.” Stepping around the table, she headed toward the archway leading to the kitchen. “I need to put the garlic bread in.”

She followed Stacy into the kitchen. The clutter of cooking paraphernalia confirmed her sister had gone all out over the meal. The amazing scents intensified when Stacy opened the oven and slid the tray of garlic bread inside. Her stomach grumbled again—loudly.

“I guess I was supposed to make myself scarce this evening?” The thought of going out made her cringe. She’d showered at the studio after her classes, bundled her hair into a sloppy knot at the back of her head, and changed into a white tank top and loose gray sweats. No makeup whatsoever. Not even a swipe of mascara or a film of lip gloss. Her gym bag hung from one shoulder and her oversize purse from the other. She looked like a bag lady.

“Oh, Ky. I’m sorry. I thought for sure you’d get my message. I told you to call me right away if it would be a problem. When I didn’t hear from you”—she shrugged again—“I figured you’d made plans to grab dinner and a movie with some of the other instructors, or something. Why don’t you join us?”

Third wheel on her sister’s date? Never. “No, no.” Hefting her gym bag higher on her shoulder, she said, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll head down to BJ’s for a few hours. It’s fine.” She backed out of the kitchen. “Say ‘hi’ to Ian for me, and, um, have fun.”

Stacy’s heartfelt “Thanks, Ky. You’re the best!” followed her out of the apartment.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered to herself on the way downstairs. Back in her car, she tried to muster up some enthusiasm for dinner alone at the local sports bar. She didn’t even know what season it was, sports-wise. Maybe there’d be some tennis or basketball games on to help her kill time? Or maybe she’d just get dinner and then drive on up to Sunset and see a movie.

Somehow, during the course of weighing her options, she bypassed BJ’s, crossed Sunset, and worked her way along Laurel Canyon. Without really thinking things through, she found herself parked in front of Trevor’s house. Apparently some appetites trumped others.

Would it be so wrong to indulge the craving? Be like Stacy for once, take what she wanted, and get on with her life. She couldn’t afford more. That much she knew. Allowing herself to fall for Trevor threatened to turn her from a determined, goal-oriented woman to a clinging basket case, completely dependent on him for her happiness and sense of fulfillment.

Stacy’s usual approach to physical intimacy represented her only viable option aside from abstinence. Comparing twenty-three years of abstinence to a couple nights with Trevor, she could say with utter certainty, abstinence sucked.

Lights shone through the windows facing the street, making it easy to see his Yukon in the driveway. While she sat there, debating her next move, a car pulled to the curb behind her and a man wearing a Panda Pagoda uniform stepped out, carrying a large paper bag. She watched his progress up Trevor’s front walkway to the door and sat, holding her breath, as he rang the bell and waited. A few seconds later Trevor appeared, in well-worn jeans and nothing else, looking rough and rumpled and impossibly gorgeous. He took the bag, handed the guy some cash, and then zoomed in on her as if she’d parked in a spotlight. Which she might as well have done, she realized, considering she’d left the car idling with the headlights on.

The Panda Pagoda driver sped away, leaving her alone in front of the house. Her heart thumped away in double time as Trevor sauntered down his walkway and along the sidewalk to where she sat. Unhurried, he walked around to the driver’s side and crouched beside her open window. Her eyes gobbled him up, from his thick, disheveled hair—which looked all the darker thanks to the stark white bandage at his temple—to the gold flecks in his deep brown irises. His lip curved ever so slightly, forming a ghost of a grin. Her body answered with a cascade of tingles starting in her stomach and flowing like mercury to all her erogenous zones. Many, many erogenous zones. Possibly, she was one big erogenous zone.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Self-consciousness doused the tingling a little, but not much. True, she had no explanation for her sudden, uninvited appearance, but he didn’t look upset to see her.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

He stood, reached in her window, and unlocked her door.

“I probably should have called, but I really wasn’t planning…”

He pulled the door open, reached in and killed the engine, and unlatched her seat belt.

“What I mean to say is—” Speech, and thought, became impossible because he leaned in and covered her mouth with his.

The tingling surged, more powerful and concentrated than ever. God, she was predictable. One kiss from Trevor and she turned into a puddle of need. She barely noticed him hauling her out of the front seat and molding her to his body because she was too busy trying to touch every inch of his bare skin—his shoulders, chest, and hard, flat stomach.

Somehow they made it inside his house without falling, which was a good thing, because if they’d gone horizontal at any point during the trip, she felt fairly certain they would have ended up having sex in his front yard. By the time he kicked the door closed, his hands had found their way into her sweats, cupping her backside, splaying his long fingers over her cheeks in a way that made her arch and squirm to bring them lower, closer where the tingling was now concentrated, with an almost painful urgency. When he lifted her so he could grind the hard, thick ridge of his erection against the cleft between her thighs, she moaned into his mouth. Her fingers speared into his hair and held on as the kiss became hotter, wetter, and hungrier.

“Your head?” she gasped, when they broke for air.

“What head?” he asked, diving back into the kiss.

The next thing she knew, her world toppled. She fell into his bed and he followed her down. Pinned between two hundred pounds of hard-packed muscle and a firm mattress, her breath escaped in a rush. “Sorry, I interrupted your dinner,” she managed.

He worked his way from the curve of her neck to her ear with his lips, and in a harsh whisper, said, “You are my dinner.” With that announcement, he pushed her tank top up to her armpits, sprang the front clasp of her sports bra, and feasted on one achingly sensitive breast. Using his hand to plump the flesh, he took her deep into his mouth, and then drew back so his lips slowly contracted around the tight crest. Hips pinned to the mattress, she couldn’t rock against him the way she wanted, and the pressure between her legs intensified. By the time her frustrated groan found its way free, he’d already moved on to the other breast.

“Trevor…” Begging, she arched her back, giving his wonderful, talented mouth full access.

“Time for dessert,” he murmured against her skin, so softly she didn’t at first recognize his words as a warning. The next thing she knew, he yanked her already loose sweats down and off—panties included—and parted her legs. Her gasp turned into a cry when his mouth fastened over her center and his hot tongue laved her in exactly the right spot. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but her hips were completely out of her control. They lifted and pressed, lifted and pressed, awkwardly seeking and retreating from the addictive agony.

It was too much, too fast, and yet still not nearly enough. She wanted him filling her, stretching her, moving inside her. “I want you,” she cried. “Now.”

He raised his head just enough to let his breath tease her wet, quivering flesh. “Not yet. I’m still hungry. You can take a little more.”

No, she couldn’t. If his talented tongue found its target even once more, she’d shatter into a billion pieces. “Oh, God, you have to stop,” she pleaded and, with a burst of energy, tried to roll away from the sweet assault.

He let her roll. When she was belly down on the mattress, he leaned over her and pulled a condom from the nightstand drawer. Then he snaked an arm under her hips, and in one seemingly effortless motion, hauled her knees up under her. The sudden move forced a squeak of surprise from her throat. A rip of foil, the roll of latex, and then he sank into her from behind.

The next sound she heard was her own grateful moan. From this position, his penetration seemed to reach all the way to her soul.

“Okay?” he ground out, holding still, cupping and squeezing her backside with his big hand while her body adjusted to him. She made a small, affirmative sound, and anxious to meet his impending thrust, tried to support her upper body with her arms. Unfortunately, her trembling limbs refused to respond to her mind’s command. Bracing her forehead on her forearms and grasping his pillow was the best she could manage.

It hardly mattered, she realized, when he began to move. He had the situation handled. Pleasure built and tightened with every slap of his body against hers. Soon, she involuntarily punctuated each slap with a greedy cry of pleasure. The depraved sound coming from her own throat might have mortified her, but his low, husky “More” rolled over her shoulder at the same time he set about making it happen with renewed fervor. After that, she clung to the pillow like a shipwreck victim and simply rode out each powerful wave.

When the inescapable tide of the orgasm building inside her swelled to frightening proportions, she moaned, “Trevor, please, I—”

She didn’t get to finish, because at that precise moment, he reached between her legs, slid his thumb over her throbbing center, and said, “Come for me.”

She came. The orgasm broke over her. Inundated her. Took her under. Before she could surface, Trevor suddenly changed his angle and drove into her again, still bracing her from the front, so she was completely at his mercy. Her breath backed up in her throat, her heart thundered in her chest, and her vision blurred.

Helpless, she pressed her face to his pillow to muffle the sounds coming out of her mouth while her body, stretched to capacity and stimulated to a frenzy, clutched and released around him in quick, endless spasms. The contractions rolled through her and into him. She felt him stiffen, heard the almost pained groan that rose up from deep in his chest. Felt the heat of his release flood her and surrendered to her own scream of ecstasy.

…

Trevor eased out of her, savoring every tiny, involuntary flex of her body. Each felt like a little attempt to hold him inside her. A very gratifying whimper interrupted her shallow breaths when he finally slipped free.

He slid his hand from her abdomen to the curve of her hip, then let her go to deal with the condom. Unsupported, she sighed and melted to the mattress. Her stomach rumbled.

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, clearly embarrassed.

Laughing, he swept her hair aside and kissed the warm, soft skin at the base of her neck, then collapsed beside her and hauled up his jeans, which had never made it completely off. “Chinese okay?”

She giggled and turned to face him. “That is, by far, the best offer I’ve had all night.”

“But not the only, I take it?”

Propping her chin in her hand, she aimed an oddly conspiratorial look his way. “Stacy cooked. Lasagna, garlic bread, salad…the works.”

“Wow. I’m flattered you gave up home-cooked lasagna with your sister for Chinese delivery and me.”

Apparently the thought of food invigorated her. She flipped over, sat up, and started righting her clothes. “It wasn’t intended for me, actually. I accidentally walked into something unprecedented. Stacy, surrounded by roses and candlelight, preparing a romantic dinner. For Ian,” she added with a glance toward him. “I didn’t think they’d appreciate a chaperone.”

“Ah.” He swallowed his disappointment and silently called himself every kind of idiot. What had he been hoping for, a heartfelt confession that she just couldn’t stay away? That she’d fallen for him as hard and fast as he for her? Both statements might be true, but iron-willed Kylie would never admit as much to herself, much less him. She’d share her body with him seven ways from Sunday, but was determined to keep her heart to herself. “I guess I’m honored to be your second choice tonight.”

He’d meant to sound flippant, but he could tell by her guilty expression he’d missed his mark. Shit. This was a new experience for him, being the one who wanted a relationship, while the other person adamantly didn’t. As if that wasn’t painful enough, he had to go and advertise his wounds with acerbic comments. She’d never second-guess her decision if he whined and picked at her, and he’d lose all respect for himself in the process. Reaching deep for patience and dignity, he got up, swept her sweats from the floor, and tossed them to her. “Come on. I’ve got an extra pair of chopsticks with your name on them.”

She relaxed and smiled, as he’d intended, and shimmied into her pants—which he’d also intended, but nonetheless regretted a little. Taking her hand, he led her out of the bedroom.

Dinner ended up a comfy, cozy picnic on his living room sofa. Tucked snugly into one corner with her knees drawn up, Kylie peered at him from over the cardboard container of sweet-and-sour veggies she held.

“What?” he asked, and offered her the wanton clasped in his chopsticks.

She lifted her chin and took the crispy dumpling into her mouth. His gut tightened as her lips closed around the morsel. His eyes zoomed in on her throat as she swallowed, and all kinds of erotic visions filled his mind. Hoping to distract himself long enough to let her finish dinner, he cleared his own, suddenly dry throat. “What’s on your mind?”

“I was wondering about your family. You know a lot about my background because of the investigation, but all I know about you is that you’re the oldest of three boys. Are you from here? Does the rest of the McCade clan live nearby?”

Her curiosity struck him as telling. She might claim no interest in a relationship, but yet she wanted to know more about him—who he was, where he came from. He was happy enough to oblige.

“Born and raised in Studio City. My parents still live in the house I grew up in, and I see them every other week or so. My brother Michael currently lives wherever Uncle Sam sees fit to send him. He’s a major with the USMC. My youngest brother, Logan, attends grad school in Connecticut. I guess you’d say we’re a close but far-flung family. Thanks to e-mail and Skype, we stay in touch pretty well. I figure I feel about them the way you feel about Stacy. When they need something, I want to be there for them…and vice versa.”

“Sounds nice. Secure.”

“It is. We get along.” He didn’t miss the wistfulness in her expression. Obviously she and Stacy remained close, but everything he’d learned about her past led him to believe her own upbringing had been a bit bumpier. He wanted to know about her formative years—hell, he wanted to know everything about her—but didn’t want to dampen the moment with difficult memories. Instead, he chose what he assumed would be a less thorny topic.

“Why yoga?”

She stared into her dinner box, smiled, and shrugged. “During high school I worked in the local library and stumbled across some old DVDs they had in the stacks. I checked them out and”—her expression changed to one of wonder—“it was like discovering another world. A world populated with calm, centered people who were focused and kind. Definitely a more evolved place than the judgmental, narrow-minded town Stacy and I grew up in. With yoga, nobody judges. The reward is in the sincerity of the effort, not the proficiency of the result. You do what you can, as you can. Even from those scratched, out-of-date DVDs, I knew I had to learn more.”

“That led you to LA?”

She nodded. “Stacy wanted to dance professionally, and from there, maybe move into acting. I wanted to study yoga, become an instructor. Hopefully own my own studio someday. We both wanted out of Two Trout just as fast and as far as my ancient Honda and seven hundred and fifty bucks could carry us. LA seemed like the place to turn all those wants into reality.”

“And how’s reality shaping up?”

She laughed. “Slowly. Much more slowly than either of us imagined. Stacy used to talk about how, as soon as we got to LA, she’d land a gig with an LA production of a Broadway show, or maybe get a part on a television show.”

“Didn’t quite happen that way, huh?” He kept his voice gentle.

Setting the box down, she shifted to face him, a strangely excited light dancing in her eyes. “Not quite. But she stuck it out and now she’s got a shot at something that could launch her career in a big way.”

At his inquiring glance, she went on. “She’s landed a role on a pilot for a TV series. They start filming in a couple months.”

“Hey, that’s great. Give her a big attagirl from me.” Though genuinely happy for Stacy, he had to admit the prospect of Kylie ending her stint as a stripper pleased him even more. Wrong attitude, considering without at least one Roberts twin dancing at Deuces their chances of catching the killer dwindled significantly, but so be it. “What does it mean for you? Can you retire from Deuces now?”

“Yes, though I’m not sure exactly when. She only got the news today, and we haven’t had a chance to figure out the finances yet.”

While he watched, her eyes clouded and awareness dimmed her happy glow. “Oh, but…the case. You guys still need me to dance—”

“No. We don’t. I want you gone from Deuces. We’ll find another way to track him down. Besides, now that Stacy’s career is looking up, I’m sure you’d like to get back to concentrating on yours. You’ve got all those big dreams.”

She aimed a self-deprecating smile at her knees and shrugged. “I do, but unlike Stacy, I always knew mine would take some time. First I had to get certified as a yoga instructor. Then I had to find an opening at a studio, refine my teaching style, and build a clientele. Eventually, when I have enough of a following and enough collateral to qualify for a small business loan, I hope to open my own studio.”

Small businesses opened every day in LA. Most of them ultimately failed. But she had all the right ingredients to beat the odds, as far as he was concerned—guts, determination, an unstoppable work ethic, a willingness to do what needed to be done. “I have no doubt you’ll succeed.”

“Ha. You’ve never seen me teach a single class. For all you know, I might be a terrible instructor.”

“Even if I watched you teach, I wouldn’t be able to judge your competency as an instructor,” he admitted with a grin. “I’d have nothing to compare it to.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ve never tried yoga?”

“I’m a yoga virgin.”

She jumped to her feet and tugged his hand. “I can’t let you continue through life so unenlightened. Get up. We have to fix this.”

He slowly stood. “Hey, now…there’s a very good reason I hit the gym instead of rolling my rubber mat and heading off to class. You need brute strength, I’m your guy, but I’m not one of those double-jointed human pretzels.”

That earned him a finger in the chest. “Yoga requires lots of strength, you weight-training snob. The practice benefits all skill levels, all capabilities. It’s not about becoming a human pretzel. The practice helps you discover and respect the connection between your mind, body, and spirit.”

“And turning me into a human pretzel facilitates this how?”

She rolled her eyes and led him to the open space between the coffee table and the wall. “Come on. I gave up my actual virginity to you. The least you can do is surrender your yoga virginity to me.”

Interesting argument. One he really couldn’t counter. With a sigh of defeat, he pointed to his temple. “Just remember, I’m injured. Go easy on me.”

“Stop worrying. This will be good for you. Get your chi flowing. Stand straight, with your feet hips distance apart like this, and then, on an inhale, bring hands together over your head, arms extended, keeping your elbows tight.”

He watched as she demonstrated, and then followed her lead. “Piece of cake.”

From there, she led him into sort of a lunge position she called “warrior one,” and then, deepening the lunge, she brought her arms down to shoulder level and extended them straight in front and behind her. “Welcome to warrior two.”

Mimicking the pose, he felt the beginning of a burn in the thigh of his bent leg and the calf of his extended leg. She circled him and inspected his effort. Something about the feel of her eyes on him got his chi flowing—straight between his legs.

With a gentle hand to his bent knee, she instructed, “Try to get this angle to ninety degrees.” While he complied—and the burn intensified—she ran her hands over his shoulders and along his arms, lengthening the extension of the limbs. “How’s that feel?”

“It’s getting a little hard,” he admitted, meaning every bit of the double entendre.

“Good,” she responded, sounding suspiciously breathless. Running her hand down his spine, she silently reminded him to keep his posture straight. “Effort generates reward. But you want to stop short of pain. Think you can hold this pose for a minute, Mr. Brute Strength?”

Testing his legs, he decided the burn was manageable. No worse than a heavy leg circuit at the gym. “Bet I can.”

“Really?” Blond eyebrows arched challengingly. “What do you bet?”

“If I win, you spend the night.”

She looked uncertain, so he allowed his legs to tremble with the “strain” of holding the position. It worked.

“And if I win?”

He shrugged. “Name your prize.”