“Hey,” a feminine voice said two days later. The greeting was accompanied by red nails scratching lightly down his spine.

Rob shivered, slung an arm around Celeste’s waist to tug her tightly against him. She slid closer still, and plunked her ass into his lap. He shifted, adjusting those hourglass curves sideways over his legs.

“Is that a banana in your pocket . . .” she began, lips curved up and one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.

“No,” he muttered, jutting his chin up and flicking his eyes over her shoulder when she glanced back at him.

Her bottom lip slipped out for a moment before she sighed and looked forward.

They were in deep, four towns over where Celeste had stumbled upon a lead for who was dealing in the Tri-Hills. And by deep, Rob meant that he didn’t know the next time he would be home. He hadn’t been able to tell Melissa or his co-workers about the case.

It had all happened fast. He’d pitched Celeste’s plan to his chief and they’d fine-tuned the cover—Rob was out on parole for an arms deal gone bad. Celeste was his girlfriend who liked the white powder too much.

Celeste’s source had then secured them a meet . . . or rather an invitation to a party filled with addicts and criminals.

The rest was up to them. They were to infiltrate the group and find the supplier.

And because there was some suspicion that the dealer was being assisted by dirty cops, he and Celeste were strictly reporting to their chief, who was working with the police chief of this town on a one-on-one basis.

It was a shit show. A twisted mess and a plan that screamed half-cocked. Alone and one wrong move could mean their lives.

But Rob just had to think about the murdered girl to get his head on straight.

If he didn’t solve this, if he didn’t manage to remove this poison from the Tri-Hills, Allie could end up the same.

Damaged. Broken. Scared.

Dead.

So for now, they partied. The house was gross, stinking, and disgusting. There was booze, piles of drugs around—lines of coke literally dotted every flat surface in sight—and what he assumed were illegal guns.

He was fucking miserable.

When he’d been promoted to detective, his thoughts had drifted toward stolen pies from the bakery and teenagers releasing goats in high school hallways.

Not drugs and weapons and murdered girls in nondescript warehouses.

Not a woman who wasn’t his wife sitting in his lap while he was deep undercover.

Not a wife who seemed intent on frosting him out and choosing her precious recipes over him.

Or a family who didn’t seem to miss him when he was gone. He’d left a note because it was early. Had expected a text or call in response before he’d had to lock his personal cell phone away.

Instead, he’d gotten nothing.

Maybe he’d been working too long of hours for too many years. Maybe he’d put other people before his family. Maybe he’d pushed everyone away.

But he couldn’t get that young face out of his mind, nameless, lifeless, and so pale. Her body stained with blood and bruises. Her skirt shoved up, fear fixed in the position of her limbs, in the scratches and marks on her arms.

She’d fought.

And he was throwing everything he had into fighting for her too.

Celeste laughed—a shrill, annoying sound that grated on his nerves. But the man sitting across from them seemed to like it. He crooked a finger at her, and Celeste clambered out of his lap, flashing him her red lace thong in the process.

He used to think that ass was gorgeous, but now it just seemed like she was trying too hard.

She dropped herself in the man’s lap—tall, expensive suit, clear eyes unlike the rest of the druggies in the room—ran her hand down his chest, and leaned up to whisper in his ear.

The man glanced down at Celeste, studied her for a long minute, then smiled as he trailed fingers up her thigh.

Rob stood, ready to stop the man from assaulting his partner, cover be damned.

Celeste stopped him.

By grabbing the man’s hand and tugging it higher.