About the Authors

STEFANIE LONDON is the USA TODAY bestselling author of contemporary romances and romantic comedies. After sneaking several English Lit subjects into her ‘very practical’ business degree, Stefanie worked in the corporate world. But it wasn’t long before she became bored with writing emails for executives and turned her attention to romance fiction. Stefanie’s books have been called ‘genuinely entertaining and memorable’ by Booklist, and her writing praised as ‘elegant, descriptive and delectable’ by RT Book Reviews. Originally from Australia, she now lives in Toronto with her very own hero, and is currently in the process of doing her best to travel the world. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, lipstick, romance novels and anything zombie-related. For more information on Stefanie and her books check out her website at stefanie-london.com.

J. MARGOT CRITCH currently lives in St John’s, Newfoundland, with her husband Brian and their two little buddies Simon and Chibs. She spends equal amounts of time writing, listening to Jimmy Buffett’s music and looking out at the ocean—all the while trying to decide if she wants coffee or a margarita.

Faking It & Forbidden Sins

Stefanie London and J. Margot Critch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90109-7

FAKING IT & FORBIDDEN SINS

Faking It © 2019 Stefanie Little Forbidden Sins © 2019 J. Margot Critch

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Faking It

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Forbidden Sins

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

About the Publisher

Faking It

Stefanie London

From USA TODAY bestselling author Stefanie London comes the first book in her scorching-hot miniseries Close Quarters! Security expert Owen Fletcher and Detective Hannah Anderson are going undercover…as husband and wife. Their marriage may be fake, but the attraction burning between them is dangerously real!

Owen Fletcher is the most irritating man I’ve ever met…and the hottest fantasy I’ve never forgotten. I haven’t seen him since he left the police force to work as a security expert in New York, but now he’s back in Melbourne to help my department break up a ring of jewel thieves. The catch? We’re going undercover as husband and wife.

Getting up close and personal with Owen is messing with my professional focus. I should definitely not be dreaming about running my hands through Owen’s hair and kissing his smart-ass mouth. But there’s a solution: a no-strings affair to get him out of my system. For one night, I’ll take charge of my own pleasure and invite Owen to explore the red-hot chemistry that’s threatening to combust at any moment…

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

To all the readers who emailed me asking why Owen

never got his happy-ever-after…

This book is for you. xx

CHAPTER ONE

Owen

I KNOW IT’S going to make me seem like a cruel bastard, but there isn’t much in this world that pleases me more than getting the drop on someone. The element of surprise is my catnip. I love the moment my target realises they’ve been duped. Maybe it’s because nobody ever expected a thing from me.

Who actually thinks the class clown will amount to something? No one.

So yeah, I like it when the tables are turned. Especially when my target comes in a five-foot-two-inch package filled to the brim with bristling indignation.

“No.” Miss Indignation shakes her head, a frizzy brown ponytail slapping her ears like she’s a puppy shaking off the water from an unwanted bath. “Can’t we pretend to be brother and sister?”

“I’m not sure which part of this meeting you misinterpreted as a negotiation, Anderson.” My old boss, Gary Smythe, raises a bushy silver eyebrow. “This is your first assignment as a detective. I thought you’d be champing at the bit.”

Hannah Anderson, now known as Detective Senior Constable Anderson, straightens her shoulders. “Yes, sir, and I’m very grateful for the opportunity—”

“Then I suggest you quit shaking your head like you’re trying to dislodge something.”

I snort and stifle the noise with a cough. Neither one of them buys it. We’re sitting in a meeting room at the Victoria Police headquarters. It feels strange to be back. I’d never planned on returning to Australia, let alone to my old job. But that’s life, right? The second you think you’ve got your shit together, fate punches you in the nuts.

“Yes, sir.” Hannah looks like she’s about to erupt. She clutches her coffee cup in a way that tells me she’s trying to mentally crush my skull.

Nice try, Anderson.

“Not exactly the warm welcome I was hoping for,” I chime in, returning her fiery glare with a cocky grin. If there’s one thing that makes Anderson blow her stack, it’s people who take life less seriously than she does.

Spoiler alert: that’s literally everyone.

“Shut up, Fletcher.” Gary takes a sip of his cappuccino. He’s drinking out of a mug that says “I like big busts and I cannot lie” with a picture of a pair of handcuffs beneath it. A white line of milk foam caps his Ned Flanders–style moustache. “If you want someone to fawn over you, then pay your grandmother a visit.”

“Will do, sir.”

Anderson rolls her eyes. If it’s not completely obvious at this point, she kind of hates me. Well, hate might be a strong word although she has said it before. It’s a weird kind of hate. The kind that feels prickly and cold but is really a front for a gooey centre of white-hot attraction. Yeah, she has the hots for me and she hates herself for it.

So I’m scoring another point in the bastard category, but that pleases me very much.

“We’re going undercover,” I say, leaning forward against the table and not even trying to hide my glee. “As man and wife.”

I swear she somehow manages to tell me to go fuck myself with her eyes. “Right.”

“We thought we’d put this to bed before you left.” Gary frowns.

He told me the pertinent details before I submitted my leave at Cobalt & Dane, the security company I work for in New York City. A folder with everything required for this undercover gig—ID for my new identity, keys and an access card for the apartment I’m going to call home for the next month, and surveillance info that’s been collected to date—is already in my backpack.

This is an evidence-gathering mission, in the hopes of convincing the higher-ups to put together a task force. And I’m going to enjoy the heck out of being cooped up with Anderson.

“So did I, Boss.” The name comes out of habit. Gary Smythe will always be “Boss” to me.

We’d cracked the old case before I left for New York. But organised crime is a tricky beast. You think you’ve cut off the snake’s head and suddenly it grows back. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that greed is unrelenting.

“It looks like one of the relatives took over the family business,” Gary continues. “We suspect they’re running the operation out of an apartment complex in South Melbourne. We’ve secured an apartment for you. You’ll move in on Monday morning and make friends with the neighbours.”

Easy as pie. I love making friends.

But I suspect Anderson might have trouble with that. Friendliness isn’t her strong suit.

“I want you two to get reacquainted. Finish your coffees and figure your shit out.” Gary pushes up from his seat, his belly straining against his navy uniform shirt. Today he’s in office dress—proper trousers instead of the tactical ones, and a black tie at his neck. Probably had a meeting with the big boss. “See if you can keep from killing each other.”

“Our reputation precedes us,” I say as Gary exits the meeting room, leaving me alone with my soon-to-be fake-wife.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Anderson corrects me. “Mine is nice and quiet. The way I prefer it.”

“Always so argumentative.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. Unlike her, I’m not dressed in uniform since I’m here as a consultant.

They might be able to drag me back for a case, but I’m not signing any long-term contracts. I’ll do this job as a favour for my old boss. I like the guy. I don’t like the life I left behind. Too many demons. The second this job is over I’m getting my ass back to New York.

“Look, this is my first assignment as a detective,” she says, nailing me with her wide brown eyes. “And I know you have a penchant for wreaking havoc, but I will not let you screw this up. You might have left this life behind, but this job is important to me.”

Anderson is all spit and polish, just as I remember. Perfectly pressed shirt and slacks, neat ponytail. She’s clearly catching up on paperwork before her big move into a detective’s role. I bet she stayed up late last night shining her shoes.

“Message received, Anderson. No tomfoolery.”

“You should start calling me Hannah. Get into the habit so my surname doesn’t slip out in front of anyone while we’re on the job.” She sticks her thumb into her mouth to chew on a nail, but then thinks better of it and folds her hands in front of her. Outside the meeting room, people wander back and forth—some in uniform and others in civilian dress. “I wanted to keep our first names the same. Make it easier to remember. Although I still don’t see why we can’t be brother and sister. It seems ludicrous that anyone would think I’d marry you.”

“Oh yeah, speaking of which…” I dig my hand into my pocket and pull out a worn velvet box. Anderson’s eyes widen as I flip it open, showing her the old, ornate ring nestled inside.

The ring is legit. It belonged to my mother and since I’m never, ever getting married I’m pleased to use it for something. It wasn’t her engagement ring—that one lives with my grandmother. But my mother loved jewellery enough to have a personal jeweller on retainer when she was alive, so I wasn’t short on options for this fake proposal.

Fun fact: I don’t need to work. My parents were rich. Like, travel around the world on a private jet rich. Like fly in a bunch of diamonds straight from Antwerp rich.

Not that I want anything to do with the money. It’s been sitting in a bank account for the last fifteen years while my financial adviser plays with cryptocurrency like he’s got a great big pile of Monopoly money in front of him. I told him to pick the riskiest ones and not even think twice if he lost the lot. He didn’t, not by a long shot.

And for this job, I’m going to have to embrace the upper-crust lifestyle.

“You’ve got to start wearing this,” I say.

Anderson blinks. “This is not how the fairy tales led me to believe a proposal would happen.”

The gold band cradles an interesting stone in a smoky shade that’s somewhere between brown and grey, which is nicer than it sounds. It’s surrounded by tiny white diamonds that glimmer under the artificial lighting.

The ring is unusual and pretty, like Anderson.

“I guess I’m not doing it right.” Clearing my throat, I slide off my chair and drop down to one knee. “Detective Senior Constable Hannah Anderson, will you—”

“Fletcher!” she squeaks, and several people outside the meeting room snap their heads in our direction. She gives me a shove and I fall to one side, laughing and landing on my palm. She snatches the ring box out of my other hand and shoves it into her pocket. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“What? I thought I was being nice.”

She shakes her head as though I’m the biggest idiot this side of the Yarra. Which, to be fair, might be true. “Couldn’t you find one of those gumball machines and get me some crappy little trinket? I’m going to freak out wearing this.” She pats her hand over the pocket containing my mother’s ring. “This is…real.”

“Yeah, it is. Topaz or some shit. And we’re going to be tracking a band of jewellery thieves. Ever think of that? Might be good to have a sparkly conversation starter.”

Her expression tells me it was a good call but there’s no way in hell she’ll say it aloud. Anderson—sorry, Hannah—doesn’t like to admit when other people are right.

“We should meet early on Monday morning. I’ve arranged for Ridgeway to drive a van with some boxes to the apartment building.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Nothing much. Files and stuff. But we have to look like we’re moving in.”

I grin. “It’s a new adventure for us. Newlyweds getting their first place together. You’ll have to practice looking excited.”

“I don’t know if I have it in me,” she drawls. Then she stands. Even with me sitting and her standing, she doesn’t have much height on me. What did I call her back then? Pocket Rocket. “Monday morning. Seven a.m.”

“Seven?” I groan. “Who moves into a house that early?”

“People who are excited to be living together.” She picks up her coffee cup. I’m already imagining how strange it’s going to be to see my mother’s ring on her finger. For some reason, it doesn’t repulse me as much as it should. “Don’t be late.”

“Seven a.m. it is, my darling wife.”

She rolls her eyes again and I contemplate warning her that the wind might change. But this time I hold my tongue. I’ll have many hours ahead of me to drive her nuts. Gotta take the perks of the job wherever they come. I pull the file out of my backpack and scan the summary page containing the key details of our assignment. Seven a.m. at 21 Love Street, South Melbourne.

Love Street? Sounds like the perfect place for a fake marriage.

CHAPTER TWO

Hannah

OWEN’S LATE. I’M shocked…not.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to ignore the strange feeling of the ring on my left hand. The big stone chafes me, reminding me constantly that it’s there. It’s irritating. Like the man who gave it to me.

It’s also insanely beautiful and makes me feel like a princess, but I’m not telling a soul that little piece of information.

“Have you got a coping strategy in place?” Max Ridgeway leans against the small van parked in the loading dock of the place that will be my home until this assignment is over.

21 Love Street is the kind of place I would never actually live. It’s one of those “boutique” apartment complexes—only six stories in height, with a grand foyer and all the trimmings. It’s not meant for people like me, people who grew up with a family crammed into a house without enough bathrooms to go around. Sure, this place isn’t the most expensive building in the city…but it’s well beyond my means. And we’re going to be living in one of the penthouse suites.

So yeah, you could say I was feeling a little out of my element. And that was before my “husband” arrived.

“A coping strategy?” I ask.

“To avoid homicide.”

I laugh in spite of the strange churning in my stomach. “No. I need one, though. Any tips?”

Max adjusts the dark cap covering his thick brown hair. He’s dressed in plain clothes, like me. Civilian-wear. Old jeans and a hoodie. Blundstones. He skipped his morning shave, too. Now he looks like a furniture removalist instead of a cop.

“Don’t take things too seriously.” He winks. “That’ll only give him fuel.”

Max gets along with both of us. He’s good at his job and I respect him a lot. His wife, Rose, gave birth to their daughter, Ruby, about six months ago. Now he spends most of his free time at home with his adorable family, so I don’t see him as much as I used to.

He was in Manhattan for a while, when he met Rose, working with Owen in the private security field. They’re pretty tight. Have been since we were all in the academy together in our early twenties. But I don’t hold that against Max. He didn’t have anything to do with “the diary incident.”

I check my watch. “Owen is going to be late to his own funeral one day.”

“You’ve got the wife act down pat.” Max’s eyes sparkle. “Although I hope you’re not planning to accelerate his funeral.”

“Ha,” I say drily. “That’s entirely up to him.”

A cool wind whips past me, ruffling my hair. Today I left it down and it feels like the first time in forever that I’ve ditched my standard scraped-back style. But it’s all part of the act. Anything to help me get into character. For the foreseeable future, I am not Hannah Anderson. I am not the only girl in a family of rough-and-tumble boys. I am not awkward and shy and trying so hard not to let other people see it.

Last night, I sat down with all my files and a cup of tea to work on my story, so that when I arrived at 21 Love Street, I would be Hannah Essex. Lady of leisure, newlywed, a woman obsessed with shiny, material things. A pretty magpie.

My polar opposite.

I wonder if my boss is screwing with me, pushing me into the deep end to see if I sink or swim. I could think of a dozen other female officers who would be way more convincing than me. Who are prettier and look like they could belong in this world.

Meanwhile I burned my thumb while straightening my hair this morning so I’d look like Owen’s wife, instead of his poodle.

“Party people.” Owen announces himself with a whoop, sans apology for his tardiness—as expected—and slaps a hand down on Max’s back. When he leans in as if to kiss me, I place a hand on his chest to stop him getting too close. “That’s a chilly greeting.”

I chide myself. He’s right, of course. We have to be in character now, even if I want to strangle him with my scarf. “The concierge manager is due to meet us in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Owen looks at his watch. “I thought you said seven a.m.”

“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.

I want to stay in this bubble forever—me and her. That kiss. The feel of her subtle curves against me. “We take the show back to the apartment.”

“What?” she squeaks, stepping back suddenly. No longer covered in the shadows of the tree, the moonlight bounces off her face—off her wide eyes and lush mouth. I bet the tips of her ears are bright red.

“We’re newlyweds who’ve gotten distracted by a kiss and now we’re heading back home to finish what we started.” I grin and step forward, causing her to back up. “Do you have a problem with that, darling wife?”

She rolls her eyes and turns, heading back across the garden. In a few strides, I catch up to her and sling an arm around her shoulders. I’m surprised to find a smirk on her lips. “I think if anyone thoroughly enjoyed that kiss, it was you, by the way,” she says.

Our footsteps fall in time. “What powers of deduction did you use to figure that out?”

“You’re going to make me say it?” She shakes her head. There’s more light overhead now as we approach the barbeque area and her ears are definitely pink. “It was pretty bloody obvious.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a group spilling out of the building and into the shared barbeque area. There are three men dressed in casual attire, laughing and carrying food. Two of the men look to be brothers and all appear to be in their early thirties.

“You’re new.” One of the brothers points a pair of tongs in our direction. The others wave and set themselves up around the barbeque. “Level six, right?”

“Word travels fast.” I stick my hand out. “Owen. This is my wife, Hannah.”

The W-word rolls off my tongue far too easily and it stirs something uncomfortable in my gut.

“Dom.” The guy is built like a bear and has a grip to match. “That’s my brother, Rowan, and our mate Matt.”

“We moved in today,” Hannah says, her smile a little too wide. I reach for her hand and squeeze—hoping it looks more loving and less like the warning it is. Rule number one of being undercover, never offer more information than you need to. “This morning, actually. We’ve been unpacking all day.”

She’s nervous. Hannah is like a fountain when she’s nervous, which normally I am all about. But now is not the time for verbal diarrhea. I squeeze her hand again.

“It’s a great building.” Dom nods. “Ro and I moved in about two years ago.”

If it’s true, it doesn’t really seem to fit the timeline, since the activity only started up within the last six months…but that’s a big if. Could be part of their cover story. I’ll get my hands on the building management documents and corroborate that information.

My eyes drift to the two men firing up the barbeque. They’re laughing and joking. Matt is dressed in all black and he could very well have been the shadowy figure who interrupted us in the garden.

“How did you all meet?” I ask.

“Matt went to high school with us. He’s a chef.”

Rowan looks up from the barbeque and grins. He has a cavalier air about him, like he’s a bit of a joker. “You wouldn’t know it with the way he butchered this meat. Looks like it was done with a hacksaw.”

“I can’t work magic with shitty tools,” Matt grumbles. Unlike Rowan and Dom, he’s fair-haired and has sharp grey eyes.

“What do you do?” Hannah asks, looking up at Dom.

“Ro and I run the family business, an art gallery.”

I have to actively conceal my surprise. Dom looks more like a bricklayer than the owner of a gallery—though admittedly, I know as much about art as I do about bricklaying. Zip.

“I run all the events,” Rowan says, wandering over and handing his brother a beer. “Deal with the temperamental artists and mingle with the buyers.”

In other words, he’s a professional party boy. Could be a good cover, getting to mix and mingle with all the big players in Melbourne and making connections. Maybe he scopes out the targets.

“And I make sure my brother doesn’t blow all our profit on champagne and canapés.” Dom grins. “You should come and visit us sometime. I’m sure we have something perfect for your new apartment.”

“That would be lovely.” Hannah brings her hand to her chest, so the stones on her engagement ring wink in the light. The gesture is subtle—authentic—which is why it’s perfect. I watch Rowan and Dom carefully, noting the way their eyes drift down to Hannah’s hand. “We were saying today that we’d like something special for the bedroom. Our old pieces don’t feel quite right anymore.”

That’s my girl. She’s finding her feet in the role now, which I know to be far from her real “true blue Aussie” life. I’ve met her family—her dad was a sergeant before he retired. Nice bloke. For some reason, watching Hannah in action brings back the surge of attraction I’ve been trying so hard to keep under wraps. What can I say? Capability gets me hot.

“Isn’t that right, Owen?” She looks up at me with those luminous brown eyes and I wonder how in the fuck I am going to get to sleep tonight.

“Yes, dear.” I say it with just enough of a patronising tone that I get a chuckle from Rowan. It makes me feel like a class-A dick, but it’s part of the act. Still, I can practically hear my grandmother scolding me. “Whatever you’d like.”

“We’ve got an opening for a new artist later this week. Why don’t you join us?” Rowan looks back to where Matt is throwing the steaks onto the grill. The sound of searing meat hisses into the night air. “I’ll put an invite into your mailbox.”

“We’re number six-oh-one,” Hannah clarifies, looping her arm through mine. “It’s nice to meet you. Enjoy your barbeque.”

The men turn their attention to their dinner and Hannah leads me inside the building.

“What do you think?” she asks as we’re in the elevator.

“Not much to go on, but the gallery thing is unexpected. They don’t seem the type.”

“Agreed.” She bobs her head. “And I know what I’m doing, okay? You don’t have to freak out every time I open my mouth.”

“You seemed a little nervous.”

“I wasn’t.”

I would call bullshit, but I cut her some slack. Hannah’s nerves only ever come from wanting to do a good job. This position means everything to her. She told me week one of our academy training that she was going to make detective by thirty-five and she’s a couple years ahead of schedule.

It’s a tough job and competitive to even get the opportunity. She’s probably thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

“If I seemed nervous it was more likely revulsion,” she adds. But her clipped tone is all bark and no bite. “From kissing you, I mean.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Anderson,” I reply. “So long as you look the part when we have an audience, that’s all that matters.”

The way she kissed me is playing on my mind, however. It wasn’t the kind of kiss I expected, and she could easily have kept it low-key. Faked it.

But that wasn’t faking it, for either one of us.

I’ll have to do my best to ignore the burning chemistry and hope she’ll do the same. Because I have a feeling if Hannah asked me to fuck her senseless tonight, I’d have a really hard time remembering why it’s a bad idea.

CHAPTER SIX

Hannah

DAY TWO OF my fake marriage and I’m already questioning why I didn’t put up more of a fight when Max suggested bringing Owen back for this operation. I should have nipped it in the bud. But oh no, I had to go and think the golden boy’s shine might have worn off with absence. Mistake number one.

Mistake number two was not pushing the brother-and-sister undercover plan harder. But like any good public servant, I fell into line.

Mistake number three was kissing him. Well, kissing is kind of a soft description. I basically dry humped him against the fence.

Cringing, I shake my head. Last night I acted out of line—unprofessional. Owen made it clear years ago that he wasn’t interested and yet I threw myself at him the first chance I got. Pathetic. He’s probably having a good laugh about it.

But what about the fact that he was hard enough to drill holes?

Natural physical response. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Pick a reason.

It’s like the universe has designed the perfect situation to test me. This morning I burned my toast while getting lost in my imagination. Getting lost in a fantasy starring him. How am I supposed to do my job when I can’t even make a bloody piece of toast without screwing it up?

Ugh, don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing…

“Whatcha thinking about?” Owen walks into the kitchen, a pair of tracksuit pants riding low on his hips and a white T-shirt clinging to every muscle in his chest. His blond hair is damp, which makes his blue eyes even brighter.

It’s borderline disgusting how attractive he is.

“I’m thinking about the case.” I busy myself by putting the dishes away from our dinner last night. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Amusement dances in his voice. “By the way, this arrived. I noticed it when I came back from my run this morning.”

He’s holding a crisp white envelope in the kind of paper that usually signifies something fancy—weddings, galas, charity balls.

He grabs a knife and slips it under the seal at the back, slicing the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper. It’s grey and industrial-looking, with rough edges and an asymmetrical shape but the fancy gold-and-white font screams money.

“A personal invitation from Galleria D’Arte to join Dominic and Rowan Lively in presentation of artist Celina Yang.” Owen looks up. “It’s a cocktail party tomorrow night.”

A cocktail party. Great. Unfortunately, the work budget doesn’t extend to fancy wardrobe purchases, and I’m pretty sure Owen doesn’t own a tux. Or is a tux more black tie than cocktail? I have no earthly idea.

“What should I wear?” I bring my thumb up to my lips, ready to bite down until I remember that I need to look the part. No more biting my nails.

“Cocktail dress?” Owen supplies less-than-helpfully.

“I don’t own any.” I have one dress that might pass at a nice restaurant since it’s black and simple. The last time I wore it was to a funeral. And if it passed muster at a funeral, does that mean it’s no good for a cocktail party?

Damn it. When it comes to outrunning the bad guys and clipping on handcuffs or diffusing a tense situation, I’m at the top of my game. But I don’t do parties and dresses and high heels. How am I going to convince anyone that I’m a trophy wife?

“You go. I’ll pretend to be sick,” I mutter.

“Do we need to go shopping?” Owen places the invitation on the kitchen counter and leans his forearms against the sleek marble. “We can get you something to wear.”

“That’s not an appropriate use of the budget and you know it.” Maybe I can slap on some fake leaves and pretend to be a potted plant, Scooby-Doo style.

“Don’t worry about the budget.”

I sigh. “Of course I worry about the budget. There are more important things to spend that money on and I can’t be seen taking advantage of the situation to fill out my wardrobe.”

“I’ll cover you.” When I raise a brow, Owen shrugs in that careless way of his. “I’m a consultant and I have expenses. No big deal.”

“I’ll pay you back,” I say. The thought of him footing the bill for a dress feels totally and utterly wrong, but if I’m being honest my five-year-old Target dress isn’t going to cut it for an upper-crust gallery event.

“Stop worrying about the money.” He turns and heads toward the spare room, which he’s graciously taken so I can have the master suite with the more private bathroom. “Go grab your things.”

We catch the tram to Collins Street, where the designer shops sit like glittering beacons of unattainable style. The only time I come to the “Paris End”—aka the section with all the fancy stores—is to have the odd drink with friends. But Owen whisks me into the Gucci store like he’s done it a thousand times before.

We bypass the shoes and bags and head into the quieter part with the clothing. “This is excessive,” I say under my breath. “Can’t we go to Myer?”

Department stores are a little more my speed. And I’m already wondering what kind of payment plan I’ll need to buy a dress here. I love my job, but it isn’t for the thickly padded pay cheque.

“You need to grab everybody’s attention. We’re drawing them to us, remember?”

We walk into a room with huge screens playing footage from a runway show. The models are wearing strange, avant-garde creations and they all look terribly unhappy. Biting down on my lip, I glance around the store.

I walk over to a simple dress in emerald green with a ruffle draping from one shoulder all the way to the hem. It’s not my style, but it looks like something my undercover alter ego might wear. But when I glance at the price tag, I almost faint.

“We need to leave,” I say under my breath as a well-heeled sales assistant approaches us. “Please.”

“Hannah, it’s fine.” Owen touches my arm like we really are a married couple and that only makes my stomach swish harder. I’m going to send myself into life-long debt for a cocktail dress.

“Can I help you?” The woman has a cool confidence that I immediately envy. But maybe I could learn a few things from her to help bolster my persona.

“My wife is looking for a cocktail dress,” Owen says when I remain stubbornly quiet. “We’ve got an important event to attend.”

The woman’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing my size and shape. Her fingers drift over a rack of clothing, and she pushes the hangers to one side to reveal a hot pink monstrosity that looks like some cruel fashion joke. When she notes my expression, she immediately moves to another rack.

“What kind of an event?”

“A gallery exhibition.” I can barely find my voice. I hate feeling so out of my depth, and over such a stupid thing, too. I’ve had a gun pointed directly at my face and yet I’m scared of a few metres of silk?

“Ah, so you might want something artistic.” She taps a well-manicured finger to her chin. “How daring are you?”

Not very. Not even a little bit. “Uh, I’m probably more classic than daring.”

“She’s very daring,” Owen says, his gaze scorching me from the inside out. “My wife doesn’t see it in herself, but I do. She’s got a spark like nobody else.”

Does he really see that in me? Or is it part of the doting husband act?

My head and heart have been a jumbled mess ever since Owen set foot back in Australia. I thought I’d gotten over it all—over the desperate desire and humiliation. Over the way he’d looked at me, with clear eyes while mine were glassy with champagne, as he’d told me that he wouldn’t sleep with me because he valued our friendship. The humiliation had burned me to ash, and it made his act now all the more painful to swallow.

Because despite the time that had passed, I still wanted it to be real.

The woman’s face lights up as she pulls another garment from the rack. It appears to be a blazer made of reflective black material. “Is there a pair of pants to go with that?” I ask.

She ushers me to a changing room. “It’s a dress made to look like a blazer. It’s classic and daring, to suit both what you see and what your husband sees.”

When she closes the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror. Even with the flattering gold tones of the change room and the specially engineered lighting, I don’t love what I see. I’d never call myself ugly, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.

But now I wonder if I’m a bit…boring. Unsophisticated.

“How’s it going in there?” Owen’s honey-smooth voice jolts me out of my negative thought spiral and I shuck my jeans.

“This is my worst nightmare,” I admit. Somehow, without having to face him, it’s a little easier to be honest. “I can’t afford anything in here and I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”

The silence stretches on for a beat more than is comfortable.

“Firstly, the dress is my treat. And secondly…” The lock rattles lightly and I can tell he’s leaned against the door. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”

I raise a brow at my reflection. It’s the most un-Owen-like thing he could have said. I’m down to my bra and undies now, and pulling the blazer/dress thing off the hanger. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I notice it’s covered entirely in glimmering beads.

“You deserve to be where you are because you work harder than anyone else. Because you’re smarter than anyone else. Maybe more people should be like you, rather than you trying to be like someone else.”

The statement warms my heart, kindling an old fire. I can’t help the goofy grin that stretches my lips as I slip into the dress. The sales assistant was right—it is the perfect mix of classic and daring. The long sleeves and padded shoulders give a structured, powerful vibe and the short hemline and plunging neck are sexy as all get-out. But the fact is I am a girl playing dress-up. Because I would never wear this dress, and I would never be with a guy like Owen who flits from one thing to the next, always chasing a new whim.

I like him. I always have. But I need to remember what I told myself all those years ago—it’s a good thing he rejected me. Because a guy like him would chew me up and spit me out. I need to find a relationship where I’m an equal partner, where the other person is invested as much as I am. And unfortunately, I’m always more invested than the other person.

When I open the change room door, Owen’s eyes widen. “Wow.”

He’s looking at me like it’s the first time he’s seen me. But I don’t want to have my She’s All That moment right now. Because this transformation is a lie—like the ring on my finger and the apartment we’re sharing. I’m never going to be the “after” picture in some “ugly duckling to swan” advertisement.

I’m not sure I want to be, either.

“Thanks.” I swallow my awkwardness. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in leggings tonight.”

I refuse to let his reaction affect me. If there’s any attraction here, it’s not because of who I really am. I can’t afford the delusion that there will ever be anything between us…no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Owen

BY THE THIRD DAY of living at 21 Love Street, we’ve met a number of our neighbours in passing. Hannah ignored my suggestion to let them come to us, and I have to admit she’s playing the role of social butterfly well.

We’ve met a communications manager and her investment banker fiancé from level one. A quiet schoolteacher named Ava and her friend Emery, who live in the apartments next to Rowan and Dominic on level five. I’m thinking they could be a good source of information on the brothers’ activities. And Matt the chef lives on level three. We haven’t seen anyone on level six—I suspect the other penthouse might be owned by someone who travels a lot. There are also two young families on the first floor, and an older woman on level three who seems to keep to herself but gave a friendly wave in the mailroom as I pretended to inspect our mailbox.

Nothing suspicious yet. Based on what we have, I feel Dom, Rowan and Matt are worth looking into further. Which is why Hannah and I are waiting outside L’Arte Galleria in a line to have our tickets checked by a beefy guy in a black suit.

“This place is fancy,” Hannah whispers. She’s hanging on to my arm and has a black trench coat covering her new dress. That dress has been on my mind all day. “I bet they have Swarovski-encrusted toilets.”

I snort and make a poor attempt of covering it with a cough. We step forward in the line and she’s careful to keep her balance on a pair of pencil-thin stilettos that I bought to go with her dress. They have a mirror-like silver finish and they’re doing amazing things for her legs. Hannah had argued that they were impractical and that she wouldn’t be able to chase after anyone in them—but tonight we’re gathering information. No running required.

“Tickets?” The beefy guy has a nose that looks like it’s been on the losing side of a few fistfights and he’s built like a brick wall. Is that OTT for a gallery? I’m not sure.

Hannah hands our invite over and the beefcake scans a small barcode on the back of it. “Mr. and Mrs. Essex, welcome.”

Interesting. I don’t remember giving our surname to Dom when we spoke in front of the barbeque, but he obviously got it somehow. I press my hand to the small of Hannah’s back and we’re ushered into the cloakroom area. It’s chilly out tonight—rainy and damp in that typical Melbourne early spring way—and so we offload our outerwear. I try not to stare as Hannah shrugs out of her coat, revealing her long, lean legs and a scandalous triangle of chest. The bare skin contrasting with long sleeves looks edgy and sexy. She’s put on a little makeup and fluffed out her hair, so that it falls in shiny brown waves to her shoulders. I don’t quite understand why she made that comment about being a little girl playing dress-up yesterday, because she looks every bit the perfect Mrs. Hannah Essex to me.

“Shall we?” I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it. There’s that blush again, tinting her cheeks and neck and the tips of her ears.

“Stop looking at me like that.” The words are spoken low, for my ears only.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re a wolf who’s gone weeks without a fresh kill.” Her hand slips into mine. “And I’m a big, dumb deer who’s stumbled into your path.”

I pull her close to me as we weave through a large, modern archway which opens into the gallery’s main room. The exhibition is…not quite what I expected. Sculptures dot the room, abstract shapes that somehow manage to look erotic—like bodies entwined—without actually resembling anything at all.

The lighting is low, except for a few strategically placed red spotlights which give the room an almost club-like atmosphere. Electronic music plays over the speakers, but not so loud that it inhibits conversation. There are waiters circling the room, wearing blood-red tuxedo jackets and carrying trays of pink-tinted sparkling wine.

Hannah cocks her head. “This is different to what I thought it would be. Although, to be fair, my experience with galleries is limited to that one time I went to NGV on a high school excursion.”

“Same.”

Even living in New York hadn’t tempted me into the local pastime of spending hours staring at things my brain isn’t creative enough to process. I’m more of a hands-on guy. This is a bit…cerebral.

“They’re kind of sexy.” Hannah steps closer to the sculpture nearest us. She leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowed and a cute little wrinkle in her nose. “Is that weird?”

“It’s not weird at all.” A woman appears beside us, her dark hair shaved on one side and reaching down to her shoulders on the other. “This collection is about capturing the feeling of oneness that two people experience in love and lust.”

“This is your work?” Hannah straightens and puts on a smile.

“Yes, I’m Celina Yang.” She extends her hand and Hannah accepts it.

“Hannah Essex, nice to meet you. The pieces are very…thought-provoking.”

“Thank you.” Celina smiles. She’s a striking woman, barely more than five feet two and wearing flat shoes. She’s dressed in red to match the theme of the event—a dress that looks as avant-garde as her work. Two large diamonds glitter in her ears. “I take a lot of inspiration from my own relationships.”

“Looks like you have some good relationships,” Hannah comments. Then she looks up, as if the comment had slipped accidentally. “I mean…the sculptures are beautiful.”

That’s my Hannah. Smooth as sandpaper.

Celina laughs. “Being comfortable with one’s sexuality is a very pure thing, despite what society might lead you to believe. Sex is when we are at our truest and most vulnerable.”

I watch Hannah inspecting the sculpture. This one is two pieces of twisted material—a shiny black that’s so glossy it looks like there’s a fine layer of ice over it, and a matte, velvety black.

“You can touch it,” Celina says. “This is meant to be an interactive exhibit.”

For some reason Hannah’s eyes flick to mine as her hand comes slowly—hesitantly—down to the sculpture. At first she brushes her fingertips over the sweeping curve of the matte black material, but then—as if enjoying the feeling—she presses her palm flat over it and moves it along in one smooth but firm stroke.

This shouldn’t turn me on. It’s a sculpture that looks like nothing. An adult version of Play-Doh. But watching her hand move, growing bolder with Celina’s encouragement, has all the blood in my body rushing south. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Try it.” Hannah holds her hand out to me, tempting like the devil herself.

I step forward and allow Hannah to take my hand. The sculpture is strangely soft beneath my fingertips. As I glide my hands back and forth, it changes from smooth to rough.

“It feels so strange,” Hannah says.

“It shows the dual-edge of a toxic relationship,” Celina says. “The very thing that can feel good and comforting, can become painful when turned on us.”

I watch as her eyes drift across the room. There’s a man standing by himself, his long figure encased in a black suit. He’s fair-haired and when he turns, I recognise Matt instantly.

“Some people are no good for you, even if you want them to be.” Her hand toys with one of her earrings, the large clear stone looking almost pinkish from the red spotlight above. “But it looks as though you two don’t have that problem at all.”

“We have our ups and downs,” Hannah says, winking at me. “Right now, I’d say we’re up.”

Who is this woman? The Hannah I know is prickly and has a tongue that could slice bone. But now she’s soft and flirty. It’s part of her act, of course—Hannah Essex rather than Hannah Anderson.

“Well, you should think about getting one of the sculptures for your bedroom. Never helps to inject the room with more sensuality.” Celina smiles and her hand drops away from her earring. “If you’re interested, I can help you pick one that will be a good fit.”

“Thank you. We’ll definitely consider it,” I say.

Celina moves on to the next cluster of people. The room is moderately full, but there’s still plenty of space to move around. I notice more people interacting with the sculptures now—touching and getting close. Hannah sticks by my side as we drift on to the next piece—it’s a harder and more aggressive shape made of gold and silver. The two pieces of metal bow away from each other before coming back to twist into a small spire at the top.

This time Hannah doesn’t hesitate to reach out and touch it. “Do you think it’s true what she said?”

“About what?”

“That sex is when we are at our truest and most vulnerable?” Her eyes don’t meet mine and I wonder what game she’s playing—is this about our cover…or something more?

My memory drifts back to the night she propositioned me. We’d graduated from the academy and there was a huge house party—one last hurrah before we were all scattered across the state. Many new constables work in rural areas for a period of time, finding their feet and helping communities that don’t have much police coverage. Hannah had never been a big drinker, so the champagne had hit her hard. She’d been falling all over me, giggling with her cheeks and ears pink and hair mussed and eyes wild.

I’d never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life.

Don’t you want to kiss me? she’d asked. I’ve seen you look at me and I never knew if it meant anything but I hoped it did. I’m not supposed to like you because you’re dangerous for a girl like me…but I do.

Dangerous. The funniest thing about it was that if anyone was dangerous in that scenario, it was her. Because she was smart and beautiful and courageous and so kickass it made me want to burst. But I’d been with a girl like that before—where I’d loved as hard as my teenage heart knew how. The day I’d lost it all I’d broken into so many pieces no one knew how to put me back together.

“Owen?” Hannah cocked her head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I guess it’s true.” I shrug. “I’m not sure I would say it’s a vulnerable thing, though.”

It never was for me…not after the first time. These days, sex is blowing off steam and scratching an itch. It’s fun and enjoyable, but it’s never about vulnerability. In fact, being vulnerable is the thing I avoid most in life. Because getting close to someone has never worked out well for me in the past—I’ve lost a mother and father and a brother and a grandfather and the girl I loved.

That’s a whole lot of loss for one heart to handle.

“Yeah, me either.” She looks as though she’s seriously considering Celina’s words. “Sometimes it’s just about fun, right?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hannah

GOD, WHAT AM I saying? This whole event has my head mixed up. I’m wearing a revealing dress, touching erotic sculptures and talking about sex with my colleague. This is not who I am.

I should have my eye on the prize. I should be hunting out Dom and Rowan and trying to figure out if they’re part of the jewellery theft ring we’re supposed to be tracking down. But it’s like I’ve inhaled some kind of drug and my brain is in a lusty pink fog.

The way he looks at me, with those intense blue eyes, makes the rest of the room evaporate. I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life—to climb the ladder at work, to have the respect of my father and brothers, to one day have a family of my own. But I’ve never wanted another man as much as I want Owen right now. The years have grown my desire for him, making it stronger and more unwieldy.

He encircles my wrist with his fingers and tugs me closer, as any husband in love with his wife might do. I tilt my face up, trying to read him. But Owen’s poker face is world class. He’s a master joker, a friend to all…and known by none.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

The heat from his body melts me and I pull my hand away from his grip and press it to his chest. His mother’s ring glimmers. “Making conversation.”

I’m not, though. I’m dancing around something I know I shouldn’t be doing. A suggestion which has occupied me with increasing strength from the very second we were left alone in our apartment at 21 Love Street.

“It’s not a smart conversation,” he says.

“Because you’re going to reject me again?” I don’t know why I’m setting myself up for this.

“I should.”

Should. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no, either. “Because we work together?”

Owen’s lips lift into a smile. “That should be the reason you keep your hands to yourself. I’ve got no interest in rejoining the force.”

“Then why?”

“Because you don’t want casual sex.”

His assumption that he knows me so well—regardless of how accurate the statement is—annoys me. Okay, fine, so maybe I already know sex with him wouldn’t be casual even if it was a one-time only deal. So what? I’m a grown woman and I know how to deal with the consequences of my actions.

“That’s my decision to make,” I reply. “And I haven’t voiced what I want, so I’m not sure why you think it’s your place to tell me.”

We’re close now. So close that if we swayed it would look like we were slow-dancing. The people around us might assume the intimate chatter between us is verbal foreplay—and I guess it is. I can’t seem to do the sensible thing and back away, because the moment I heard about his move to New York, I thought I’d lost him forever.

Who falls for the most unattainable guy in the world and expects to survive without any bruises on her heart? I’m a fool.

But maybe a few bruises would do me good. It’s been so long since I did anything that wasn’t work. And yes, I want to solve this case and prove my boss made the right decision to promote me…but this could be my last chance to have the man who’s always occupied my head. What happens behind the closed doors of our apartment isn’t anyone’s business.

This was precisely why I wanted us to play brother and sister…because I knew that one kiss for the sake of playing a role would be enough to unlatch the feelings I’ve locked up tight for far too long.

“Then tell me, Hannah. What do you want?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy something that gets my intuition tingling. And, as much as I desperately want to keep playing this game with Owen, the case does come first. “Matt and Celina are arguing.”

“Huh?” Owen blinks and I entwine my fingers with his, pulling him toward the next sculpture in the exhibition. “Where?”

“Your nine o’clock.” I lean over so it looks like I’m reading the little gold plaque. “They’re standing by the hallway.”

“Got it. She looks pissed.”

I let my gaze drift casually in the direction of the argument. A few people have noticed and are moving away, so Celina and Matt head down the dark corridor together, disappearing into another part of the gallery.

“Think it’s something?” I ask. I stand and lean my head against Owen’s shoulder, so we can speak without anyone hearing.

“Not sure. Did you notice her earrings before?”

I nod. “Big stones. Could be fake, though.”

“We should try to get a photo to compare to the list of stuff that went missing in the Collins Auction House robbery.” His voice is low, gravelly. He could be reciting a shopping list and still make it sound like the sexiest thing ever. “I had a funny feeling about them.”

“Me, too.”

I walk forward, unhurried. Partly because I don’t want to draw any attention, and partly because it’s the only speed I can maintain in these damn heels. Owen is beside me, his hand still in mine. I feel as though my body is burning up. We receive curious glances from other people in the room—but nothing that gets my police officer senses tingling. My dress demands attention and Owen…well, he’s always got appreciative eyes on him. The open-collar shirt and grey suit pants make him look every bit the hot Aussie millionaire he’s supposed to be.

We slip past the gold sign that tells us this hallway is “for staff use only” and follow the voices.

“Then why did you invite me here?” Matt sounds irritated and in the quiet pause, I can hear sniffling. “I thought we agreed to part ways after…”

I shuffle closer to a bend in the hallway, and I can tell they’re just around the corner. Celina is definitely crying.

“Can you walk away so easily?” she asks. “After everything we shared?”

“You were the one who said you couldn’t do this anymore. I was ready to go all in.”

“No, you weren’t. Because you would have listened to me if you’d cared at all about my feelings.”

It’s a lover’s spat. Nothing more. I’m about to motion for Owen to head back the way we came, when she mutters something under her breath.

“Here, take these bloody things. I’m not going to wear something you stole.” There’s a long pause and the sound of something dropping against the floor.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cel. They were a gift.” Matt sighs. “Does it matter where they came from?”

My brows shoot up and Owen nods. This could be something—because I am damn sure she’s talking about the earrings.

“Yes, it matters. It should have mattered before but I was willing to look past your…unethical activities.” She huffs and the sound of shoes knocking against the floor makes my heart kick up a notch. Shit. They’re coming this way. “You promised me you’d get out of that stuff. It’s dangerous.”

Owen backs up as silently as possible. The hallway isn’t long but I’m moving slow and a little unsteadily in these heels…we’re not going to get back out before they come around the corner. And there’s nowhere else to go.

As I sense a flash of movement, Owen pushes me against the wall and his lips are hard on mine once more. It’s even better this time than it was the first—because anticipation has been fuelling my every movement. My every waking moment. I open to him like a flower, my body warm and pliable in his hands. The soft groan that comes from the back of his throat is everything.

The scent of his cologne winds through me, and like a creeping vine it wraps around my heart and lungs. I’m intoxicated by him. Enraptured by the way his hands smooth over the fabric of my dress, tracing my boyish shape and making me feel every inch a desirable woman. They tell me a perfect lie and I’m in too deep not to believe it.

I slide my tongue along his, tangling my fingers in his hair and taking my fill. By the time we’re done—pink-cheeked and breathing a little heavier—Celina and Matt are gone. I turn my head in time to see Matt walking out of the gallery on the other side of the room. Celina is mingling with the guests as though nothing happened.

“Did you see anything?” I pull back and right my dress, which has ridden up my thighs.

Owen shakes his head. “No. I was a little distracted.”

It’s a problem. These kinds of distractions lead to cases going unsolved…or worse. We’ve lost good men and women in the past when someone makes a mistake. When someone has their eye on the wrong thing.

Guilt surges through my veins. I’ve got this amazing opportunity in front of me and I’m letting my libido lead me astray. I know this thing with Owen won’t go anywhere, but I can’t let it go. Maybe sex cravings are like food cravings? If you want something sweet, the best way to dissipate that feeling is to nibble on some chocolate.

“What did you make of the whole ‘unethical activities’ thing?” I ask as we slip back into the main room.

“It’s vague, but it cements Matt as someone to keep an eye on.”

The gallery is much fuller now and it’s harder to get close to the sculptures. So we tuck ourselves away in a corner, pretending to inspect one of Celina’s few charcoal sketches. This one depicts a woman with her face screwed up with pleasure. The blurry figure of a man is behind her, with his hand at her throat. It’s intense. Sexy and a little dangerous and it socks me in the chest.

“She’s talented,” I murmur, watching Celina weave through the crowd.

There’s no sign of her tears now. Her face is radiant as she works the room—touching arms and leaning in close to create a sense of intimacy geared toward making people open their wallets.

“She’s not wearing earrings anymore.” Owen slips a hand around my waist as we spot Rowan across the room. His face lights up in recognition and he heads over. “I think we need to make sure you get a business card for Ms. Yang. A private consultation might be a good chance to get some information.”

I nod. “Maybe putting something like that in our bedroom might spice up our sex life.” I say it partially for Rowan’s benefit, loud enough that he’ll hear us acting like a regular married couple.

But heat flares in Owen’s eyes—turning the icy blue to pure flame—and his fingers flex at my hip in a way that’s instinctive. It’s not for show. I’m convinced I’m not the only one being drawn in by this carnal tide. He feels it, too. Underneath the teasing and the butting heads, there’s something simmering.

But he won’t pull the trigger. Why? For a long time I thought it was because he wasn’t attracted to me. But the way he looks at me now, darkly engrossed and with an intensity that threatens to burn me alive, I reconsider.

The fact is, I can’t keep going around and around like this. My brain is like a spinning top, and I need to focus. Tonight, I’m going to do something stupid, something that proves I’m a glutton for punishment.

I’m going to proposition Owen again.

CHAPTER NINE

Owen

I LEAVE THE gallery with Hannah close to 11:00 p.m. We stay longer than most, chatting to Rowan and Dom. Rowan told us in hushed tones that Matt and Celina had a tumultuous relationship—on again and off again. Their strange work hours and the pressures of their perfectionist tendencies had put them under a lot of strain. Before we left, Hannah got a card from Celina and promised to call for a private appointment.

Now, Hannah and I stroll along the Southbank Boulevard. I’d suggested a cab, but she wanted to walk. Processing time, she called it. I’d rather be back at 21 Love Street and straight into a cold shower, because her dress is turning my resolve to mush and her gently smudged lipstick has me thinking about what I could do to further ruin her makeup.

Sparkling lights bounce off the Yarra River as we walk, and the night air is filled with the sound of music and laughter. This part of the city is full of bars and restaurants and, despite the chill in the air, people are out in force.

“Do you think much about the academy days?” she asks me, out of nowhere.

“Sure. They’re fond memories.” I’d made a lot of friends back then—though many dissolved after I left. It’s something I’ve learned over the years—when you hang out with ghosts for too long you can easily become one.

She steps up to the railing overlooking the river. “Was it hard to walk away?”

“No.” Self-preservation is the easy route.

“Not even a little bit?”

“Are you mistaking me for someone with a heart?” I aim for a joking tone and miss by a longshot. “I left my grandmother two months after my granddad passed. I was her only other family…and I left. Like a coward.”

Shit. Why did I say that?

The sincerity shines out of Hannah’s eyes like she’s turned into a fucking Care Bear. I don’t want her to look at me like that. I’m not a person to be saved. Hell, I’m not a person to be loved. I operate best in the middle ground between friend and acquaintance.

“Why did you go? I’m not buying the whole ‘I’m chasing a whim’ thing.”

“You don’t need to buy it because I’m not selling it.”

Nobody from my police force days is aware of my past, except for the people who run the psych evaluations and the superiors who looked over my file before I entered the academy. I haven’t told a single person unless it was absolutely, one-hundred-percent necessary. Not even Max knows, and he’s the closest friend I’ve ever had.

“You were missed,” she says quietly, almost as if reflecting to herself. “By a lot of people.”

“By you? I thought you hated my guts.”

“I did…for a bit.” She leans against the railing and tilts her head up at me—all lashes and big brown eyes and a sweet expression that’s softer than anything I’ve seen from her before. “It’s hard not to hate the guy who made you a laughing stock.”

“You were hardly a laughing stock.”

“Really?” She pushes back up to a standing position and folds her arms. “Let me see if I remember this correctly. You snuck into my room, found my diary and decided to do a dramatic reading to a bunch of my peers.”

“Firstly, I didn’t sneak into your room. I was visiting Vanessa and she opened the door. Secondly, it wasn’t like I had to scavenge for the damn thing. It was right there on your nightstand…in a box. Under a picture frame.”

Okay, fine. It had been hidden and I’d hunted it out.

Hannah rolls her eyes. “And how do you explain busting open the lock, huh? Did it fall off when you picked it up because your hands are so strong no metal can withstand your grip?”

I laugh and the feeling drives all the way through me, loosening my muscles. Thawing the ice cage around my heart. She always had that effect on me. It’s hard not to like a girl who can make you laugh from down deep.

“I may have encouraged it to open,” I reply. “With a paperclip.”

“You picked the lock on my diary like a ten-year-old boy!” She’s blushing again and I know we’re thinking about the same thing.

Hannah Anderson, who’d always seemed like this straitlaced, buttoned-up good girl, had been harbouring some dark and dirty thoughts…about me. At the time, I did not expect to see my name on those pages. She’d always acted like I was a bug to be swatted. Or some gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

When I decided—in my young, stupid brain—that it would be a good idea to read her diary, I had not planned to make it a show. But my roommate had caught me, demanded to know who it belonged to and rounded up a bunch of guys to listen in. I never divulged Hannah’s name. Ever.

But someone obviously figured it out.

“Do you remember what it said?” she asks. She’s luminous under the moonlight and street lamps, her dress glimmering through the gap between her coat lapels. That peek of bare skin is everything and nothing—the best kind of tease.

I want him. Even though I don’t truly know what wanting is because I’ve never slept with anyone before. But I want to send everyone away for one night—just one—so I can lose everything I have to him. I want to know what it’s like to be fucked. Will it hurt? Will he lie with me afterward? I have no idea if I’m even on his radar. Owen could have any girl here, but I want him to have me. Hard.

The words were forever imprinted on my brain. They’d circled like vultures, preying on my sanity and concentration. The night she’d come to me after we graduated, with sooty eyes like blackened pits, my fucked-up brain hadn’t been able to shut out the darkness. The second I started to feel anything about Hannah, all I could think about was the dead girl I’d loved more than anything else.

“You do remember,” she says. “You just weren’t interested.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t like that. I only took the damn diary because I wanted to know more about you and being a dumb kid, I didn’t think I could ask.” He shook his head. “I never meant for anyone else to see the pages.”

“Water under the bridge now,” she said with a shrug. “It’s not like it stopped me doing anything I wanted to do…well, not most things anyway.”

I don’t respond to the innuendo hanging in the air. We shouldn’t be talking like this—not when we’ve got shit to do and a case to close and not when I’m leaving the second it’s all over. “Nothing will ever stop you, Anderson. You’re a force.”

“Why do you say sweet things like that when I’d rather you say something dirty?”

My head snaps toward her. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t go there. Not with you.”

Her face falls and I want to explain. I want to tell her that it’s nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. I want to tell her that it’s because I’m not capable of treating her the way she deserves to be treated. That I can take her to bed, but that will be it, and I don’t know if I can handle the look on her face when I leave after it’s all done.

“It’s…” Fuck. I’m so not good at this. I can walk away from my troubles like a boss, but staying and talking…I suck at it. “You’re hot, okay? It’s nothing to do with that.”

She tilts her head in a way that reminds me of an adorable puppy. “So it’s not because there’s a lack of physical chemistry.”

I laugh. “Hell no. That’s not it at all.”

We’re still standing at the river, and a group of drunk girls totter past giggling and singing. On the water, there’s a cruise boat stuffed full of partygoers. Music floats toward us and so does the sound of laughter and cheering. They’re all so obliviously happy.

“I’m not asking for a ring, Owen.” She nudges me with her elbow. “I already got that.”

“What are you asking for?” I go against my better judgement with that question, but the air is burning up around us and we’re standing close enough that I could capture her lips with mine.

“One night.” Her chest rises and falls with a big breath. “Get it out of our systems. I’d like very much to be able to concentrate on the job and I just…can’t. Not with the tension distracting me.”

One night, no strings, with the girl I’ve crushed on ever since she walked into the first-day induction session at the Victoria Police Academy. It would be so easy to say yes.

“No.” The word comes out a lot weaker than I’d hoped.

“Why?”

“Because the whole one-night thing doesn’t work when you know the person. It’s all fine to say we’ll act like it never happened, but we both know that’s bullshit.”

“What if I wasn’t me?” There’s a darkness to her expression, a simmering heat that pulls me in. “What if I was someone else?”

“What?”

“I’m already playing a role. Hannah Essex.” She wriggles her fingers and my mother’s ring glints in the light. “I can simply change roles and be someone else.”

She wants it that badly? My fingers twitch and my cock is aching for release—I’ve been in a semi-state of excitement for days and this is only making it worse. How long before I break? How long before my willpower is a billion glittering shards?

“Surely you’re not intimidated by a bit of role play?” Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips and I’m about ready to fall to my knees in front of her.

“I’m not afraid of role play.” I grit the words out.

“Then I’m going to be in that bar, ordering a drink.” She turns and points to a little hole-in-the-wall place with the ambient glow of low-hanging lights. “If you come find me, we’ll pretend to be other people for the night.”

Bloody hell. “And if I don’t come find you?”

“Then I have my answer.”

She turns and walks across the tree-lined boulevard, pausing at the edge of the bar to shrug out of her coat. Her dress glimmers, like stars winking at me, beckoning me closer. I catch the flash of her toned, bare legs and those shiny silver shoes before she disappears inside.

CHAPTER TEN

Hannah

MY HEART IS pounding a million miles a minute as I enter the dimly lit bar. The place is full, but not bursting. A beautiful curved bar in gold and pearl-white wraps around the back two corners of the room. Ornate pendant lights emit a warm glow, and velvet chairs dot the space, where people sit drinking and talking. Most wear suits or pretty dresses—they’ve probably come from seeing a show at the Arts Centre.

When a couple vacate the bar, I claim one of the empty seats.

Will Owen follow me in here? Is he outside stewing over his decision or has he already started walking home? I can’t get his words out of my head.

Nothing will ever stop you, Anderson. You’re a force.

When it comes to work and my career, I’ve worn that label with pride. I’m ambitious and I have the respect of my colleagues and superiors. But the second I shrug out of my blue uniform, I somehow shrug out of my confidence, too.

“What can I get you?” The bartender smiles.

“A French 75, please.” I’m craving something fizzy.

My eyes stray to the door, where a couple walks in. They’re arm in arm and so into one another that the room shoots up a hundred degrees. Is it pathetic that all I want is for someone to look at me like that? I’m an independent, intelligent woman but…

Just once I want to be that girl. The girl who gets the guy, the girl who stops traffic. Is it so bad to want to feel desirable? To feel sexy and coveted and beloved?

The bartender places my drink on a coaster and I pay. Bubbles race to the top of the champagne flute, where a delicate curl of lemon peel sits, curving over the edge of the glass. I stare at it for a moment, hanging in a delicious limbo between fear of rejection and the possibility that I may have something exciting in front of me.

The cocktail is tasty, dry champagne with a hint of sour lemon. As I watch the door, I twist Owen’s mother’s ring. I still haven’t gotten used to wearing it. But for tonight it’s on the wrong finger. I slip it off and transfer it to my other hand.

I turn back to my drink and run my finger over the rim, trying to make it sing like I used to when I was a little kid. I count my breaths in and out, clinging to hope.

Please come to me.

I remember how mortified I was when I found out my diary had been read aloud. I knew Owen had done his best to conceal my identity. But people talked and theorised—we all wanted to be investigators, after all.

Rumours spread. I’d denied it, of course. And then the diary had turned up back in my room seemingly of its own accord. I knew he’d put it there. And part of me had been excited that he knew how I felt. Unfortunately, nothing had come of it.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

I turn toward the deep voice and swallow back the excitement surging through my veins. Owen has a dangerous edge to him. His usually playful smile is nowhere to be found, and his vibrant blue eyes hold me captive. Will he play my game?

“No, please.” I gesture toward the empty seat next to me. “It’s all yours.”

He eases himself onto the bar stool and signals to the bartender. 18-year-old Talisker, neat. I’ve never seen him drink anything but beer. He looks at me while the bartender pours, his expression smouldering and unreadable. The corner of my lips lifts into a smile, inviting him closer. He knows what I want, so now the ball is in his court.

I hold my breath…waiting.

“I’m James,” he says.

My thundering heart almost trips over itself with joy. It’s happening. “Annabel.”

“Are you from around here, Annabel?” An American accent has crept into his voice that’s doing funny things to my insides. Is he drawing on his time in New York?

My mind spins. I don’t have a backstory planned—I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. Hell, I have no idea how this role-play thing is supposed to work. Perhaps part of me never thought he’d say yes…

“I’m in town on business.” I sip my drink. “For one night.”

“Just one?” There’s that cheeky twinkle.

“Yes. I’m…” Think, dammit. “A researcher.”

“And what do you research, Annabel?” The way he says my fake name sounds like sex itself.

His drink arrives and he brings the heavy glass up to his mouth, tipping his head back. As he swallows, I watch the muscles working in his throat and I find my own totally devoid of moisture.

“I research the five senses and their effect on the human body.” My creative mind kicks into gear and it’s like slipping a costume over my head. “Such as how the other senses increase in strength to compensate when one is no longer accessible.”

“That’s an interesting field of research.”

“It’s very hands on.”

Our bodies are turned toward one another, my legs crossed so that my knees sit between his open legs. Owen leans one arm on the bar and watches me closely. It’s different to every other time he’s looked at me.

“How do you test those things?” he asks.

“It’s pretty simple. I can show you right now, if you like?”

He nods. “Sure.”

“Close your eyes.”

There’s something deeply appealing about having this strong man under my spell. Owen is physically fitter than most men…even most cops. He’s easily over six feet, broad-shouldered and has the kind of sculpted, muscular arms you’d expect of an action hero. But having him here in front of me, eyes closed, while he awaits my instruction makes me feel all kinds of powerful. I usually only get that surge of confidence at work.

But this is purely personal.

I take the lemon rind from my cocktail and slowly bring it under his nose. I see the recognition in his facial features, even though he doesn’t open his eyes. “What do you smell?”

“Lemon.”

“But a second ago you had no idea it was there.”

I leave the peel there for a second before placing it on a napkin on the bar. Then I lean closer to him, being sure not to touch him. When my lips are right by his ear, I blow cool air onto his skin and he shudders.

“With your eyes closed, everything else feels more intense. Your sense of smell and touch compensate for your lack of sight.” I place my hand on his thigh, feeling hard muscle beneath the fine fabric of his trousers. “It’s something that helped our ancestors when they had nothing but the moonlight to guide them.”

Where the hell is this coming from? I’ve fully embraced the role—Annabel, the sexpot researcher. It’s helping me be less like my typical awkward self, and more like the woman I wish I was.

“In fact,” I say, pausing to clear my throat. “I’m here recruiting test subjects.”

Owen’s eyes open and he looks at my hand resting on his thigh. “What are the requirements?”

“Single men between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. Must be in good health.” I let my gaze roam over his body in a way I’ve never done before.

I dwell in the details of him—in the blond hairs dusting his arms where his sleeves are rolled back. In the way his Adam’s apple protrudes at his neck. In the sharp cut of his jaw and the hard slash of his cheekbones. In his bluer-than-blue eyes and full, curved lips. He’s so attractive it borders on obnoxious. All the female recruits had a crush on him—charming Owen, who could befriend anyone. Who was always quick with a smile and a joke.

He was a boy, then. And now he’s filled out into this complex, mysterious man.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“Must be free for one night of testing,” I reply. “One whole night because…I like to be thorough.”

“Sounds like I fit the bill.” He knocks back the rest of his Scotch and I’m so nervous and excited I’m worried my heart is going to bust its way out of my rib cage. “I don’t suppose you have a spot open tonight?”

“Actually, I do.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Owen

MOST PEOPLE DON’T know this about me, but I make decisions with care and consideration. No one expects the joker to have much going on upstairs…but I do. I let my head take the lead, instead of other less reliable parts like my heart, or my dick.

Tonight, however, is a rare exception.

My head is literally screaming at me to back away from this bad decision. But all the blood in my body is currently supporting another appendage. Hannah—posing as a sexy researcher named Annabel—slides from her bar stool, her eyes never leaving mine, and I’m done for. No amount of worrying about the case—about tomorrow—is going to stop me from taking the delicacy she’s dangling in front of me.

I follow her from the bar and help her into her coat the second the night air hits us. It’s colder now, spitting with rain, and I tuck her close against my body. “Where does your research take place, Ms. Annabel?”

She looks up at me and I see the cogs turning. She’s considering whether we should go back to the apartment. That’s not a good idea. A hotel will make it easier to keep sex and the job separate.

“I’ve got a room we could use,” I say, leaning into my role of anonymous travelling businessman. “If you don’t mind working out of a hotel.”

“That sounds great,” she says breathlessly.

We walk along the river’s edge, our heads bowed to the fine, misting rain and our hands entwined until we reach the Crown Entertainment Complex. The hotel here is swanky to the max and has a price tag to match. The only room available is a suite and the nightly rate makes Hannah’s eyes bulge—but I hand over my credit card and within seconds we’re whisked up to heaven. The room boasts an incredible panoramic view of Melbourne, with glistening lights and a luxurious white sectional facing the window.

I can already see how incredible she’ll look laid out on it—naked, with the moonlight dancing on her skin—while I feast on her. My body is tightly coiled, like a spring. There’s a pressure building inside me that’s been growing for years.

“Please remove your coat,” Hannah says in a formal voice. She’s already hung hers on a stand by the front door. “If you could also remove your shoes and socks, that would be most helpful.”

The clipped, efficient tone makes me smile. I bend and untie my dress shoes, toeing them off and removing my socks, as instructed. She hangs my coat next to hers and when she walks back to me, she’s holding a tie in her hands. It looks to be made of the same fluffy white material as a bathrobe.

“I’m going to blindfold you now, so we can begin.” She waits a moment and I give her a quick nod, letting her know it’s okay to proceed.

I’ve always known Hannah to be a take-charge kind of woman, and it thrills me to know it transfers to the bedroom. I love being in charge, too, but there’s something insanely hot about a woman who wants to take pleasure into her own hands. Tonight, I am willing to be her test subject—to play this role and revel in whatever that mysterious brain of hers has planned.

She wraps the blindfold over my eyes, tying it in a secure knot behind my head. And then nothing. I can’t detect her movement, because the plush carpet absorbs the sound of her stilettos.

She makes me wait.

The seconds tick by and my desire grows like a storm, swirling and building, rising until it fills me completely. When her soft touch brushes the front of my pants, I’m hard as stone and aching for her.

“Ready?” she asks, her lips brushing my ear.

“I’ve never been readier.”

We’ve both waited a long time for this.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Owen

IT DOESN’T TAKE long for the blindfold to work its magic. In seconds, I feel my other senses ramping up to accommodate for my lost sight. The gentle kiss of cool air is amplified where my collar sits open, and it’s so quiet I can hear the pitter patter of rain against the windows. I smell the rain, too—in her hair as she moves around me, mingling with whatever fruity shampoo she uses. I’m driven immediately to the edge of sensation, to the edge of wanting.

There’s a tug at my shirt. She’s undoing my buttons…slowly. I sense her teasing through the way she pops each one open with an agonising pace.

“You must be doing well to afford such a fancy hotel room,” she says, tracing the V of skin at my chest with her fingertip. But the sensual touch does little to hide the curiosity in her voice. The question, no matter how it’s posed as part of this role play, is genuine.

“I’m doing well, but money doesn’t make the man.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” she murmurs. She works her way to the last of the buttons and then pulls the hem free. “Money doesn’t buy decency.”

I know the opposite is more likely—money is the reason I have no family. Money is what caused them to be taken from me. “Greed brings out the worst in us.”

I would have burned all my parents left me if I’d been allowed. A teenager—blinded by rage and grief—has no use for zeros in a bank account. Because whatever future they might have secured—education and houses and finery—means nothing to an orphan who only wants his parents back.

“I’m feeling a little greedy now.” Her hands toy with the buckle at my waist. “Is that so bad?”

“This is totally different.” And this greed, I can handle.

The buckle makes a metallic chink as she yanks the leather through the loops on my suit pants. The sound of my zipper being undone slashes through the quiet air—through my thoughts. I’m about to embark on a hot night with a woman I’ve wanted for a long time. I need to get my head out of the past.

As if sensing my need to retreat from this conversation, Hannah says, “I’m going to strip you completely. Then we’re going to see how you respond to different stimuli.”

“Like what?” The anticipation is a fist around my cock. I’m desperate for more, desperate to see what she has planned.

“I can’t tell you that. I need to measure the…strength of your response.” Her voice is low and husky.

She shoves my pants down my legs, dragging my boxer briefs with them, and helps me free. I’m totally naked now, and knowing that she’s fully dressed makes this even hotter. My cock bobs up against my stomach, hard as concrete and oh-so-ready for her. But after a few seconds of nothing, I realise that Hannah has disappeared.

The silence is broken by the click of her heels over tile—has she gone into the kitchenette or the bathroom? I don’t know the layout well enough to tell. There’s a brief rushing of water, a dull, metallic sound and then that damn clicking again. I let myself dwell in the vision of her legs in those heels. Hannah is muscular—always devoted to stamina and speed. And her daily runs haven’t been interrupted by this case. She gets up at the crack of dawn every morning without fail.

I know the purpose of her runs aren’t for physical appearance, but there’s no denying the activity has given her shapely legs and a firm ass. Both of which have been on my mind since our kiss in the garden.

I wonder where she is now. The clicking has stopped, and the robe tie is a surprisingly effective blindfold. I need to relieve a little of the tension, and I hesitate only a moment before reaching down to wrap a fist around my cock. I don’t think I’ve been this hard in years. Never mind the fact I lost my taste for casual sex some time ago. But this…is not that.

Not casual. Not meaningless.

I stifle a moan and I run my fist up and down, giving a little twist at my swollen head. I imagine it’s her hand doing the work, pleasuring me. Exploring me. Pulling the tip of me to her willing, open lips. My balls are tight. Achy. Never mind that I rubbed one out in the shower this morning, trying to make sure I kept my desires in check.

So much for that.

“Owen, uh… James…” She loses the role play for a moment, her voice ragged-edged with need. “I need you to stop that so we can properly start testing.”

I release myself, reluctantly. But it’s clear she was watching me for a while before she told me to stop. I can hear it in her voice. Dirty girl.

“Anything else I should refrain from doing?” I ask, letting my words come out slow and lazy.

“Just follow my orders,” she replies. “If I don’t tell you to do something, then don’t do it.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hannah

I’M SO OUT of my depth. I can only hope my voice sounds more commanding than I feel. Because right now, I want to melt into a puddle at Owen’s feet.

His body is a masterpiece. Hard sculpted muscle shapes his arms, shoulders, legs and abs. A dusting of blond hair creates a delectable trail from his bellybutton all the way down to…

God. I can’t tear my eyes away. Of course he’s perfect everywhere. Watching him touch himself, watching those slightly rough, strong tugs and the way the swollen head of his erection poked out the top of his fist… Let’s be real, I’m already a puddle.

“We’re going to start with scent,” I say. I’ve found a bowl of fruit in the kitchenette and I’ve selected an orange. I press my fingernail into the flesh, piercing it. The ripe scent of the fruit’s flesh comes through. “What can you smell?”

I bring the orange under his nose, trying hard not to think about how I want to rush through this and sink straight to my knees so I can take him in my mouth.

“Hmm, fruity.” His voice is roughed up, desire-laden. God, it makes my toes curl in these ridiculously high heels. If a man can have that effect with his voice, what will happen when he finally touches me? “Citrus. Orange or mandarin.”

“Very good.” I’ve collected a few items for us to use in this role play: a glass of chilled water, a fork and an individually wrapped chocolate. A condom that I’d stashed in my purse…just in case. “How about taste?”

I peel back the rind from the orange and extract a small piece of flesh. Coaxing his mouth open with my thumb, I wriggle the fruit between his lips. He readily accepts it.

“Definitely orange.”

The chocolate is next. I unwrap the foil and see something flicker over his face—like he’s trying to figure out what the sound is. But I don’t give him any clues. Instead, I pop the chocolate into my mouth and take my time enjoying the small, decadent moment. Then I press into him, bringing my lips to his, and he responds hungrily. The taste of chocolate mixes with the orange he’s just consumed.

“Tastes like a Jaffa,” he says, bringing his strong arms around me. “So sweet.”

“Not yet,” I rasp, pulling out of his grip. I want to draw this out—because I have the power now. I’m in charge.

And the second he gets his hands on me I’m going to fold like a house of cards.

“Am I not a good test subject?”

“You’re not very good at following instructions.” I pick up the fork and press the spiked end into his thigh—not enough to hurt, but certainly enough to elicit a response. His erection twitches and his hands ball by his sides. “How is your sense of touch?”

“Heightened.” His voice is wire-tight.

I trail the fork over his chest, letting the metal scrape lightly against his skin. I imagine the contrast feels good—a little pain, followed by something softer. I press my lips to his neck, breathing in the faded scent of cologne on his skin. Sucking so the blood rises to the surface.

The soft imprint of lipstick fills me with a sense of warm possessiveness—like I’ve claimed him. Marked him.

“If you want this to last more than five fucking seconds, you’re going about it all wrong, Hannah.” He speaks softly, the growling sound like a fine blade along my nerve endings, making my body sing. “I’m breaking character to tell you that.”

“We’re almost there,” I purr, emboldened by the effect I’m having on him.

I’m not quite done toying with him. I step back and watch him for a moment, let my eyes have their fill. Then I bring my hands to the zipper that runs down the side of my body, keeping my dress in place. I drag it down slowly, letting the sound slice through the air. Then I shed the garment, making a show of dropping it to the ground.

“What can you hear?” I ask him.

“Are you…?” His hand twitches, as if he’s going to touch himself again but I make an uh-uh sound. “Are you undressed?”

“Almost.”

I’m in lacy underwear, heels and no bra. But I hook my fingers under my waistband and drag the black silk and lace down over my hips. I step out of the underwear and dangle it from one finger. Then I move closer to him, draping the silk over his swollen cock. I drag it up his length, wrap it around him and rub the silk over his skin.

“Hannah,” he growls.

“Annabel,” I correct him as I pull the underwear back and whip it across his stomach. His body jerks and his nostrils flare, but not from pain. Oh no, it’s all pleasure now.

“Annabel. Is that…?”

“Yes.”

He stifles a groan. “I want to touch you.”

“Not yet.”

I toss my underwear onto the floor and slowly sink to my knees. The water glass beckons and I take a big mouthful, relishing the slide of the cold liquid down my throat. But the water isn’t intended solely for hydration.

I take another big gulp and set the glass down. I saw the tip once in Cosmo, to drink cold water or suck on ice cubes before giving head. The sensation is supposed to be amazing for the guy. It was one of those cheesy articles: Ten Ways to Pleasure Your Man that I used to laugh at with my girlfriends back when I thought blow jobs were all about the guy.

But right now, I want nothing more than to take Owen into my mouth and suck him until he forgets why he ever said no to me. Until he understands the giddy, lust-fuelled attraction that turns my brain to jelly.

I don’t want to be the only one feeling this way.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his hands reaching forward to see if I’m there.

I brace one palm flat against his stomach and lower my mouth to the tip of his cock. It’s beaded with pearly liquid, and I wrap my lips around him.

“Fucking hell.” His fingers drive through my hair, flexing against my scalp in a way that mixes the sharp snap of pain with a whole lot of pleasure.

He’s hot and pulsing on my tongue—tastes and smells earthy in a way that’s one-hundred-percent masculine. Yeah, this isn’t just for him.

“That…” He grunts. I release him for a second and look up, catching the way his head lolls back as I continue to work him with my hand. “Christ, that feels good.”

I lower my head down again and relish in the power cursing through my veins. I’ve never felt like this during sex. Never felt like I could bring a man to his knees. But the sounds coming from his mouth tell me all I need to know—for now, for this moment, I’m in charge.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.