Chapter One
“How much for the shoes?”
Jo eyeballed the clerk standing behind the glass counter in yet another crappy store selling counterfeit goods in Los Angeles’s Fashion District. How many of these stores had she been in over the past couple of years? And how many of them had she confiscated merchandise from?
Merchandise Jo’s high-end clients wanted off the streets because it took money from their bottom line and—oh, right—was a trademark violation. By now, her purchasing the goods and turning them over to the PD had become routine. At one time, the chase, the intrigue, and the occasional danger in her effort to see justice done had lit her fire.
Now? Eh. The endless stream of bogus items exhausted her, left her feeling she’d never get ahead of it.
Giving up wasn’t an option though. So she stood in front of the display case containing earrings, wallets, key chains, and every other small counterfeit item she could imagine. Behind her, another case was stuffed with more knockoffs and Jo seethed, the tension shooting straight up her back to the base of her skull. At least those items didn’t have her clients’ logos on them. Even the shelves lining the walls in the long, narrow building were full. This merchant was making a small fortune selling knockoffs.
So far, she hadn’t spotted any Barellis, but those shoes were definitely Dansens, a client Jo had signed just before coming to California. A client she wanted very badly to make happy. Which the middle-aged, dark-haired woman in front of her might involuntarily help with by selling Jo this crummy pair of shoes.
“Sixty,” the woman said. “All the shoes are sixty.”
Kudos to the sales clerk—obviously a negotiating pro—for making Jo wait for an answer on the price of the shoes, but what she didn’t know was Jo excelled at waiting out her opponent. In the world of cut-throat negotiations, the first to flinch lost. In this case, Jo didn’t care if she lost. She needed to lose. Needed to tuck those knockoffs in with the rest of her stash collected over the last two hours, all of it evidence of the illegal selling of counterfeit merchandise within LA’s Fashion District, and take them to Lieutenant Wes Palermo of the Los Angeles Police Department.
The bells on the front door jangled and Jo glanced over her right shoulder. A big, beefy man with a long beard and stringy, long hair lumbered through, carrying a large box with a familiar cigarette logo on the front. The box may or may not have contained cigarettes. Cigarettes that may or may not have been counterfeit. No way to know without seeing them. But, while here, she’d ridden shotgun on multiple S.W.A.T. activations—raids—that procured over two-hundred-thousand dollars’ worth of knockoff cigarettes. She’d reported this to Sergeant Gabe Townsend, aka, Mr. August, aka her current squeeze, back in New York, letting him know that Operation Clean Sweep, the task force Jo helped create, needed to pay more attention to cigarette sales.
But that had to wait until she got back home in two weeks.
For now, she needed to concentrate on Los Angeles and helping them get their own version of Clean Sweep organized. Which included standing in this store, haggling over cheap shoes while this beefy guy, more soft than hard around the middle and wearing a leather biker-gang vest adorned with patches, gave her the once-over. She’d been in Los Angeles long enough to know that when a man wore those patches, more often than not, it meant something. Something not good.
Something criminal.
Slowly, not wanting to show fear or interest in this man, she pulled her gaze away. Gabe would have a fit if he knew she was even in the place, doing the exact thing he’d asked her a hundred—maybe two hundred—times not to. But LA was different. The vendors here didn’t know her, and unlike in New York, wouldn’t consider her a threat.
At least not yet.
Two feet from her, the biker swung a right, leaving his body odor in his wake—bathe much?—as he headed down the hallway behind the sales counter. The name on the back of his vest read 12th Street Crew, and although Jo didn’t know a lot about that particular gang, she’d heard enough to know they were bad news.
The tension in her neck barked and Jo tapped her fingers against the glass case. Whatever the biker guy was doing, she didn’t want any part of it. She’d simply procure her evidence and get out.
She puckered her lips, tapped the case again. “I’ll give you fifty.”
The woman turned, pretending to study the shoes that her boss had probably paid three dollars for. In the world of high-end fashion, those shoes would go for twenty times what Jo offered.
“Fifty-five,” the woman said.
For crying out loud. Really? Whatever. “Fine. Fifty-five.”
As long as it got her out of here with her evidence, she didn’t give a rip. Jo dug exactly fifty-five dollars from her wallet and handed the cash over.
“Great,” the woman said. “If you like them, come back on Tuesday. We get new shipments every Tuesday and Friday.”
Wasn’t that handy information? “I sure will,” Jo said.
Only next time, she’d be accompanied by a team of hot S.W.A.T. guys who would shut down this illegal enterprise and make Jo a rock star to her clients.
Win.
Win.
The woman scooped the bills off the counter. “I’ll get you a fresh pair of shoes from the back.”
A fresh pair? Gee. Thanks. But losing the sales clerk to the back room would delay Jo’s departure, and she couldn’t have that with Gabe’s plane landing in an hour.
Although, she could surreptitiously watch where the woman went and pass the info on to Palermo for when they took the place down. Jo wandered to the end of the display case, faux-enthralled with a pair of gaudy gold earrings. Quickly, she peeked around the doorway into the long corridor with peeling wallpaper. The woman disappeared through another door and voices erupted, filling the narrow hallway with angry yelling. Two men. And the woman. Jo checked her phone. 3:31. Darn it.
On a good day, assuming she didn’t get lost, an airport run from here took a good thirty-five minutes. Forget about if she hit the insanity known as LA traffic. And one thing Jo didn’t want after almost three weeks of waking up in a cold bed that had a definite lack of Mr. August’s hotness was to be late picking him up. Being late because of one of her shopping excursions that he despised so much would certainly fire that temper.
Seconds later the woman re-emerged, but angled back to flip someone off—aww, just like home—before tromping back to Jo.
But the yelling continued in the back room, getting louder even through the closed door and that snicking tension on the back of Jo’s neck went full blown. Get out. Now.
Jo waggled her fingers as the woman tried to shove the shoe box into a half-inch too small bag. “I don’t need a bag. Thanks.”
The woman shrugged, set the bag down, and handed over the shoes. “How about some jewelry? Fifty percent off since you bought the shoes.”
Any other time, she might have jumped on that. But the yelling continued with someone dropping an f-bomb along with a few other choice words that would make the S.W.A.T. guys envious, and every alarm bell Jo possessed urged her to get out. Whatever this was, she wanted no part of it. She tucked the shoes under her arm.
“No. Thanks. I need to get going.”
“Come back and see us again. Don’t forget. New merchandise on Tuesday.”
Excellent. “I guess I’ll see you Tuesday then.”
* * *
Gabe stood at the luggage carousel between two women, alternately scanning for his bag then checking his surroundings for Jo. The place was a madhouse—people everywhere bumping each other, jockeying for a better spot at the belt cranking out bags, and limo guys holding signs. He breathed in and counted to three after the short guy behind him shoved through. All the way on the other coast and somehow it all seemed similar. If Gabe weren’t on vacation, he’d let this prick know to be a little more courteous. Instead, he locked his shoulders back and cracked his neck.
Vacation.
With Jo.
Finally.
The douche-bag—make that double-douche bag—who’d just pushed through hefted his luggage off the belt, nearly hit the older woman standing beside him.
Now I’m done. This guy was bigger than a douche-bag. What Gabe had here was a douche canoe.
“Dude,” Gabe said. “Take it easy. You almost took that woman out.”
The guy swung back, clearly about to mouth off and came face-to-face with Gabe’s chest. Gabe kept his gaze glued to the top of the guy’s head. Slowly, that head inched up. Up, up, up—hello, douche bag—until he finally made eye contact.
“Uh, sorry,” the douche canoe said.
Vacation. Barely on the ground thirty minutes and he didn’t need to be losing his shit on someone. Gabe sidestepped, jerked his head for the guy to move on. Which he did. Without speaking. Thank you.
The brunette next to the older woman eyed him with that I’m interested look. Being male, he appreciated her full lips and killer body, and a few months ago, he’d have been happy to oblige her in some recreational activity of her choice. Right now, he had a thing for a loud-mouthed, blond attorney who made him howl like a wolf separated from his pack, and although beautiful, the brunette didn’t stack up. Not even close.
Gabe had come to believe no female in his lifetime would compare to Jo. Which meant things were getting serious. Plunge-worthy serious.
Speaking of the loud-mouthed blonde, she’d texted him ten minutes earlier from the wrong airport garage and it made her a few minutes late. No shock there. Plus, as much as he adored her, respected her intelligence and her determination to get shit done, her driving sucked. Good thing she took mass transportation everywhere in New York or he’d never get any sleep from worrying about her.
He nodded at the brunette, friendly, but not enough that she’d think getting busy was an option, and shifted to the luggage belt that finally spit out his bag. He grabbed hold of it, wheeling it to the doors that would lead him to the perfection—at least from the perspective of a guy who’d left thirty-five degrees in New York—of LA’s March sun. The winter had been a bitch-and-a-half and being an ESU—New York’s version of S.W.A.T.—sergeant meant dealing with all kinds of nonsense in freezing temps, snow, and ice. Yep, all he wanted on this trip was Jo, mostly naked, and some sun and quiet time to explore a city he’d never been to. Hell, maybe he’d even take the bus tour. Why not?
People whizzed by him, heading out to grab taxis or rides and he pulled his phone to see if Jo had texted again. From behind him, someone—he knew who—slid her arms around him and her scent, the light, musky soap she’d taken to recently, instantly sparked that crazy feeling. The killer combo of lust and protectiveness and power he always got around her. Describing it had become a useless endeavor since he’d never experienced it before. But pretty much, with Jo, everything just felt like home. And he liked it.
“Hello, Mr. August,” she said in her playful sex-line operator voice. “I’ve missed you.”
He studied her hands sliding over his shirt, across his belly, those long, elegant fingers as perfect as ever and he smiled because, yeah, even in an airport with a fucking bazillion people around, his mind went straight to the gutter.
She kissed the back of his shoulder then pressed her forehead against the spot. “God, it’s good to see you.”
Still in her arms, he turned sideways, brought her in for a hug and buried his face in her hair, lingering there a few seconds. Home. “I missed you, too. Crazy missed you.”
Then he kissed her, dragging her close so she’d know just how much. She let out a soft moan and his body, as usual, responded. A man could only take so much, as evidenced by his growing chubby, and they both laughed. One thing they never had issues with was a lack of sex.
She nipped at his bottom lip, then backed away. “This might have been the longest three weeks of my life.”
“I hear ya, babe. It’s not the same without you. Even my guys are asking when you’ll be back.”
As the force behind Operation Clean Sweep, the team responsible for clearing millions of dollars in counterfeit merchandise off the streets of New York, the men in Gabe’s unit had gotten used to Jo and her sassiness. She’d badgered the mayor relentlessly until he finally gave in and dedicated a team to battling trademark infringement in the city. Gabe’s boss had once told him the mayor had gotten so beaten down by her constant attention he gave her a task force to shut her up.
In an odd way, Gabe understood. When Jo got her mind wrapped around something, she did whatever necessary to make it happen, including helping the mayor of Los Angeles replicate what they’d done in New York. As much as he hated her being around a bunch of horny S.W.A.T. guys on the other side of the country, her dream was to form a nationwide task force and getting the city of Los Angeles on board with that initiative would only help her.
“It’s past your dinner time,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
Oh, he was hungry. For many things. “I am.” He nuzzled her neck again. “If you’re done for the day, I’m thinking room service. You can get naked and feed me.”
“Ha. That’ll be the day.”
“You won’t get naked?”
“I’ll get naked, but I’m not feeding you.” She stopped, went on her tiptoes, and got right next to his ear. “Unless you’re licking something off of me.”
And the chubby became more painful, pressing against his jeans and making his eyes cross. “Careful what you wish for, Counselor. I’m a man who hasn’t gotten laid in three weeks.”
“Well, Sergeant, I’m a woman who hasn’t gotten laid in three weeks. I guess we’re eating in tonight.”
“We sure are.” He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head. “Damn, I missed you.”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it? We’ve spent so much time together this past year and then all of a sudden nothing. I hate that.”
They reached a door and Jo pointed. “We’re going this way.”
“Okay.” He held the door open and watched her step through. “So, you’re not staying in LA?”
And how pathetic was he? She’d been gone a few weeks and suddenly he’s some pansy, wondering if his girl was going to dump him and switch coasts.
“Heck, no.” She stopped, turned to him and gripped his T-shirt in her fist. “Are you seriously worried about that?”
Apparently so. Pansy. He shrugged. “If you like it out here, what’s to stop you from moving?”
“Um, you?”
He shook his head. “But that’s what I don’t want because one day you’ll look at me and wonder if you should have gone.”
Jo gawked, her jaw literally flopping open. “Listen up, Sergeant. LA is nice, but it’s not New York. Everything I love is in New York. That includes you. It’s fun to visit and help with this new project, but I should be wrapped up here in a couple of weeks and I’m heading home. I might even fly back with you when you go.”
Well, all right then. She’d pretty much made her intentions clear and his newly appointed pansy status gave him permission to feel no small amount of relief. The truth of it was he’d spent the last weeks prowling around New York in a pissy mood, screaming at his subordinates, and as much as it surprised him, he knew, without a doubt, the lack of Jo Pomeroy was the cause. He just wasn’t sure how to control it.
Aside from dragging her back to New York.
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “Now take me back to your hotel and make me howl.”
* * *
Jo’s phone rang, the obnoxious bling, bling, bling of her law partner’s ringtone destroying the quiet inside the hotel suite.
Not now. Please.
Go away, go away, go away.
Underneath her and groaning, Gabe opened his eyes and gripped her hips in his giant hands. “Answer it and I’ll kill you.”
She smiled down at him, as usual, loving the view of a naked Mr. August after they’d just finished one of their mad dashes to make love. At times, their lovemaking was slow and exquisite. At other times, well, they needed what they needed, and after weeks away from each other, this was one of those times. “I won’t answer it. That’s a promise.”
“Thank you.”
Twenty floors below, a siren wailed, reminding her they were in the city, just not their city. Which was fine too. As long as she had Gabe close, it didn’t matter where they were. At least until a knock on the door mixed with the siren, and Gabe’s eyes lit up. Dinner had arrived and he was starved.
She slid off of him, and in one fluid move, he got to his feet, his big body showing that odd lumbering grace only a man possessing immense self-confidence managed to pull off.
Mr. August.
So hot.
From his suitcase, he grabbed a pair of shorts and a mismatched T-shirt off the top of the stack and slipped them on.
“I’ll wait in the bathroom,” Jo said.
No sense letting the room service waiter see her lounging in bed. Naked.
Gabe waggled his eyebrows. “That was a helluva way to kill time while waiting for dinner.”
On her way to the bathroom, she dug through her suitcase for her silk robe and toiletry bag so she could put a brush through her hair and tie it back. Might as well get comfy. Without a doubt, they’d be hopping back into bed after they fueled up. A pleasant thought any day.
Two minutes later, Gabe rapped on the door. “You’re good. Let’s eat.”
Which they did. Heartily. Halfway through the meal, Gabe waved his fork at her. “Let’s talk about this room. I know the L.A.P.D. doesn’t have digs like this in the budget. What gives?”
When she’d switched rooms, she’d anticipated this, and like any good lawyer would, prepped for it. As an attorney, Jo’s salary was triple what Gabe made as a police officer. It had come up when she bought him clothes or refused to take money from him for picking up takeout. The salary issue, although not often verbalized, bugged him. What he couldn’t get through that stubborn skull was that he took care of her in the most important ways. He loved her and protected her. Physically and emotionally. But being a proud man, he didn’t like her spending her money on him.
And upgrading to a suite wouldn’t fly.
She’d play it off though, totally nonchalant. Even if he didn’t like it, she wasn’t moving. Gabe would have to adjust to her wanting to pamper him a little bit. “Nothing gives. I upgraded us. The room I had was the size of a closet. I barely fit in it myself. The small mountain known as Gabe certainly wouldn’t.” Mirroring him, she waved her fork. “And I’m not arguing about this.”
He eyed her and she set her fork down, readying for battle. This time, she didn’t care. He worked hard and deserved a nice room for his vacation. As much as he’d complain about her spending the money to upgrade, she’d known he wouldn’t be comfortable in the smaller room. Not for two weeks. She wanted her hardworking man to enjoy this break.
“I’m not arguing either. That being said, I don’t want you spending your money on me. You didn’t have to do this for me.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for us. This is your vacation, one you told me you hadn’t taken in a while. I wanted it to be special. For us to have extra room. To snuggle on a couch or eat a meal at a table. Or soak in that giant whirlpool tub in there. We wouldn’t have been able to do any of those things in that shoebox of a room I had.”
“Then I’ll help you pay the difference.”
Oh, whatever. “Okay, Sergeant. You can help me pay the difference.”
Not that she’d take money from him, but he didn’t need to know that.
He laughed. “You are so full of shit. I know you and you’re gonna be a pain in the ass about this.”
Holding back a laugh, Jo twisted her lips. “A pain in the ass? I’m insulted.”
“No you’re not.”
He stood, walked over to her, propped one hand on the table and one on the back of her chair then he kissed her. Whammo. Just laid a scorcher on her—tongue and all—and Jo curled her toes.
Whew. Mr. August. So hot. If only she had a fan.
He backed away, taking those amazing lips with him and the agony of that might just kill her. “Leaving so soon?”
“Only for a minute. Thanks for taking care of me all the time.”
She gripped his T-shirt, scrunching it in her hand. “Ditto, big boy. I know you hate when I spend money, but I can afford it and I love you. Why shouldn’t I splurge on you?”
“Maybe because I don’t want to be the guy whose girlfriend supports him.”
As if. “You’re not. And you never will be. You just happen to be a civil servant where I work in the private sector. That’s all. Now shut up and go soak in the whirlpool before I have my way with you. Again.” She let go of his shirt, cracked a smile, and gave him a light shove. “I swear my work is never done.”
“Yes, ma’am. I gotta admit I saw that tub and my beat-to-shit body damn near groaned. You should come in with me.”
And that fan was where? “I will.” She glanced at the clock on the table. Almost time for the news. “We’ve been watching a storefront all week that we identified as selling knockoffs. S.W.A.T. was supposed to hit it this afternoon and I’m hoping it made the news.”
Gabe nodded. “What’s the latest on this guy?”
The guy Gabe referred to, one Andre Theo, was the leader of a smuggling ring responsible for flooding the West Coast with billions in counterfeit goods. Goods that bore the name of some of Jo’s clients. Months of work on the East Coast had resulted in the arrest of Donald Martinson, Theo’s number-two guy, who’d squealed the minute handcuffs hit his wrists. Andre Theo had been arrested, his warehouse seized, his accounts frozen, and now the smuggler awaited trial while out on bail. But Jo knew he still operated his illegal business by flying just under the radar. If nothing else, the man had an astonishingly large set of balls. She’d give him credit for that much, but she wanted to catch him, once again, and secure a nice long prison sentence for trademark violation.
She’d get it done. No doubt about that. Look out, Andre Theo.
“We’re getting there,” she told Gabe. “Cigarettes are huge out here. I think we need to really focus on that when we get home. I’ve been so dialed in to finding knockoffs of my own clients’ items, I haven’t been looking at the big picture.”
“Well, yeah, but your clients are paying the bills.”
Which couldn’t have been a truer statement. When Jo had finally convinced—er, badgered—the mayor of New York into starting the Clean Sweep Task Force, part of the agreement was her clients would help pay the massive cost of the operation. If she wanted to expand into cigarettes, she’d have to get one of the tobacco companies to pony up.
“I know. As soon as we get back, I’ll get on it. This problem is massive. Manufacturers lose billions!”
Gabe held up his hands. “Whoa, Counselor. I’m on your side, remember? When we get back, let’s talk to the mayor about it. If your clients are footing the bill, he’s not gonna care what products we go after. All he cares about are his morning press conferences when he tells the city how great he is at cracking down on criminal activity. No matter what form it takes.”
He smacked a hard kiss on her lips. “Now, I’m gonna soak in that badass tub you got me. Make sure you come in after you watch the news. I’ll make you happy.”
“You always do, Sergeant. You always do.”
She flipped the television to the local news channel and sat back, propping her feet on the ottoman while she watched.
The blonde—was everyone blond in LA?—stared straight into the camera, her face completely neutral as she gave an update on a shooting in the Fashion District.
Jo sat up. The Fashion District. Wow. She grabbed the remote and tapped the volume button as the anchor went to an on-scene reporter standing in front of a store. Jo’s gaze zoomed in on the bright-red store logo and—holy, holy God. She gasped, holding her breath until the pressure built behind her eyes.
She watched the blonde’s mouth moving, but…what was she saying? The words sounded distorted, slow motion maybe, and Jo shook her head and took another breath.
“The shooting,” the blonde said, “occurred at approximately 3:40 this afternoon. At the time, the only ones in the store were the owner, Maurice Cummings, and an unnamed female employee. Mr. Cummings and the woman were pronounced dead at the scene. According to police, pedestrians in front of the store heard gunshots, but the assailant appears to have fled through the rear door of the building into the alley. So far, no witnesses have come forward.”
The anchor took the reins again, leading into another story and Jo collapsed back in her chair, paralyzed for a few seconds, her body buzzing.
Dear God.
Gabe. She scrambled from the chair, running to the bathroom, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet until she reached the doorway. Gabe sat in the giant tub, unbelievably dwarfing it, his head back against the wall, eyes closed. This might be the most relaxed she’d ever seen him. The man worked harder than anyone she knew. The atrocities he saw on a daily basis were enough to drive the sanest of people to an asylum. But he did it. Every day. Sometimes for sixteen hours a day. This was supposed to be his vacation, one he hadn’t had in years.
And she was about to ruin it.
“Gabe?”
He lifted his head and gave her that shark grin she loved so much. “Make my night and tell me you’re coming in. We can do fun things in this tub.”
“I think I witnessed a murder.”