Undercovers (4 page)

Chapter Three

“I found something, Jasmeene.”

She over the shoulder of sexy shifter, Kristoff Lionhart. They’d come in as rookies together, and with his irreverent humour, and her sarcastic wit, they’d hit it off instantly. She liked Kris, he certainly was handsome enough, but he only had eyes for the hard-nose tigress who was head of SVU. Guess that was lucky for her, since she seemingly only had eyes for Roarke Dimitru. It certainly would have been tiring walking around carrying torches for two men.

“What am I looking for?” she asked, her eyes skimming the profiles on his computer screen.

He pointed to one image. “This guy. Have you seen him at the club?”

She narrowed her gaze. The face on the screen was so pretty it was almost painful, his crystalline blue eyes soft and gentle, the full curve of his lips almost too pretty to be masculine. He was handsome, in a classic, aristocratic way that was hard not to notice, and impossible to forget.

“No. Never seen this guy before in my life. Why?”

“Name is Les Anders. He was one of the guys on the camera footage Lt. Dimitru gave us. I did some digging. Seems he was hanging around at the club around the time of the murders.” He swung around in his chair. “And get this—he was turned by a prostitute. He was in love with her, so he married her. When she got her hands on his money, she wiped him out. He thought they were going to live happily ever after.” He shrugged. “Guess she had other plans.”

“Do we know what happened to her?’

“Yeah. He caught up with her a century later and killed her. Can’t say I blame him though.”

She beamed down at him and grasped his face, planting a kiss against his cheek. “You’re a genius, you know that? I owe you.”

“Only doing my job,” he said with a handsome grin.

“Well get back to it then! Detective LeCourt, didn’t I tell you to meet me in my office five minutes ago?”

Her smile disappeared, and whatever good cheer she’d just had was now officially gone.

She spun around, but Roarke was already walking away from her, no doubt expecting her to follow after him.

She did, but with painfully slow steps. She wasn’t quite ready to face him just yet. She’d lain awake all last night, her hand permanently fixed between her legs as she stroked herself to orgasm after orgasm. It was embarrassing that Roarke had this type of power over her body—that after all this time he still had the power to make her burn for him.

She’d tried to avoid him all morning, knowing it was futile. They had to meet to discuss the case before they headed to the club later that evening. She dreaded coming face to face with him. It was easy to pretend she didn’t want him when he wasn’t standing before her assaulting her with his blatant masculinity, the rugged handsomeness that made her all too aware of him as a man.

She’d barely closed the door before he was on her, the hard muscled length of him inches from her, his eyes glinting a hard jade. She backed up, but that was a mistake because he closed in, boxing her with his body and the door behind her.

“Lock it,” he growled, and she didn’t question the command with the anger radiating off him nearly making her sweat.

“What is Kristoff to you?”

Her eyes widened at the edge in his voice. “He’s just a friend.”

“Didn’t look like a friend.”

Her nostrils flared, and though she didn’t want to provoke him, she couldn’t rein in her temper even if she wanted to. “I don’t care what it looked like. I’m telling you he’s just a friend, and so that’s what he is, but it wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, it would matter.”

His voice was low, menacing, and she fumed at the veiled threat. “Why would it matter? Because you fucked me last night? You don’t own me, Roarke.” She jabbed at his chest. “Anymore than I, or the millions of women you’ve fucked, own you.” She pushed at him, her face heating with a fresh wave of anger when he wouldn’t bulge. “Get your big ass off of me!”

“No.”

She stilled at that simple word. Before she could react, his hands were under her skirt, tugging at her panties.

“You want me, Jasmeene, just admit it.”

“I never said I didn’t.” That stunned him, and his hands faltered for just a second.

“But who cares if I want you,” she continued while he stared at her speechless. “Plenty of women want you, Roarke, after all, you’re a good lay. But so what? None have ever loved you.”

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “What does love have to do with this? I’ve never asked for their love, and they’ve never asked for mine.”

She noticed his voice had lost some of its edge, as if he was no longer sure of himself. She felt sorry for him, so sorry that he thought love was such a waste of time.

“Don’t pity me, Jasmeene,” he bit out, carrying her across the room to bend her over his desk. “I don’t want or need your pity.” He raised up her skirt, revealing her bare ass. Had it been any other man, she would have torn him apart for taking such liberties, but not with Roarke.

“It’s just sad,” she whispered, holding his gaze from over her shoulder, even as he fumbled with his zipper and released his cock. “If you died tomorrow, no woman would care.”

He leaned over her, the tip of his cock already pushing against her dripping slit.

“You would care,” he whispered. “You would miss me, Jasmeene.”

He was right—she would, but the smug grin on his face forced her to protest, but he swallowed it up, his lips claiming hers at the same time he claimed her body.

She cried into his mouth, his thick shaft filling her, stretching her, sinking into the wetness that poured from her sex.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue nearly down her throat. He slammed into her, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh echoing off his walls. With their lips still fused together, he reached around to rip her shirt open, his hands shoving down her bra to hungrily grope her breasts.

When he plucked her nipples, a tiny twinge of pain shot down her spine, and she moaned. He surged harder, pumping his engorged flesh deep within her, the tip brushing against the mouth of her womb.

He was on the edge, and she was right there with him. Wrenching her lips from his, she grasped the desk, her knuckles turning red. She buried her face into the files scattered across his desk, her eyes clenching tight.

He pounded her pussy like a man possessed, and she knew she would be sore tomorrow. Her body began to tremble, her orgasm right there. She was about to come. With just one more thrust, one last stroke against her g-spot, she was almost th—

“Don’t you scream.” He grunted against her ear. “Blank all your emotions, all your thoughts and hold it in.”

She whimpered at the demand, but knew he was right. If she didn’t control it, everyone would know.

She bit her lip, her eyes squinting tight and when he slammed into her, she fought not to scream. It was too much, and when she would have cried out, he seized her lips, at the same time he let loose a harsh groan into her mouth, as he filled her up with his hot semen.

He spurted into her, thick jets of his seed coating her insides as tremors rocked their bodies.

It was several minutes before he peeled his lips from hers, their breathing ragged and uneven. It took him another minute to move, and when he did, he pulled out of her slowly, stumbling backwards.

With the flick of his wrist, he righted her clothing, although she could have done it herself. He then stuffed his now sleepy cock back into his pants, and combed a hand through his hair, sending it spiking in every direction.

After such an explosive encounter, she wanted to retreat from him again, take time to gather her emotions, but remembered she was there to talk about the case.

“We may have a lead. That’s what I was discussing with Kris. Seems there’s this guy—”

“Anders.”

“Huh?”

“Les Anders, an eerily pretty blond guy with clear blue eyes.”

“You already knew?” She scowled at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wanted to see what you came up with on your own.” He grinned. “Good job, rookie.” She wanted to smack him. She’d been working her butt off—and not just figuratively at this point—to get a lead that he already had.

She folded her arms across her chest. “So what do you know?”

“What Kris has is pretty much it. I’ve been tracking him for weeks, but he hasn’t been in the club since the last murder. I have Kris following up with some of my contacts on the street, but for now all we can do is wait until he returns.”

Great. Just when she thought she could retire her stilettos.

She turned to the door, ready to make her escape. “All right then. That’s all I had, so if you’re done, I will see you tonight at the clu—”

“Wait.” Her hand stilled on the door knob and she turned around to face him. “How old are you again?”

She wrinkled her brow. “That’s an odd question.” She gestured towards his desk. “Besides, you know how old I am. It’s there in my file.”

“So you were fully matured in the 1850s?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re hedging. What are you really trying to ask me?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just that you remind me of someone.”

She stilled, her heart thumping faster. “Really? I’m impressed that you can remember any of your conquests, given that there are so many.”

“This isn’t a joke.” He pinned her with those piercing eyes of his. “Were you living in New Orleans in 1858?”

She laughed, hoping it masked her nervous jitters. There was no way he knew. “That’s a silly question. Probably. I was born in New Orleans. If you give me a date—”

“February 14, 1858.” He stalked towards her. “I met a woman—”

“And I’m guessing she slept with you,” she said dryly.

He ignored her barb. “She did, only to save my life. I was her first—”

“And I’m sure that’s a distant memory for most of the women you’ve slept with. No wonder she’s memorable—”

“Jasmeene.” He warned.

She held up her hands. “Okay. Okay.”

“We were at a masquerade ball. It was dark. I never saw her face, never even got her name. I looked for her, but it was as if she vanished. She was human—” His eyes narrowed. “Or so I thought.”

Silence blanketed the room and her eyes widened when she realised what he was implying. “What? You think that girl was me?”

“Was it?”

She stared at him. “You’re serious?”

 “You remind me of her.”

“Well since you didn’t see her face, didn’t catch her name, I’m guessing we move the same in bed,” she quipped dryly and his eyes glinted with anger at her flippant response.

 “You know what? Forget it. Now that I think about it, you’re nothing like her.”

She bristled at the backhanded insult, every emotion she’d bottled inside her since that night years ago now threatening to spill forth. “Why? Is it because I don’t look at you with adoration in my eyes, or whisper tenderly against your ear, or throw myself at you with wild abandon and stupid naiveté?”

He stood there frozen, his eyes boring into her, but she gave him nothing, not one emotion, not even a single flinch.

She shrugged, shattering the tense silence that hung over them. “Nope, if she was anything like that, then I am definitely not your girl,” she said airily and breezed out of his office.

She maintained her composure all the way to the ladies’ room. But once inside, she barricaded herself into an empty stall, forcing air into her burning lungs. She didn’t know if she was happy he remembered her or pissed—pissed that it had taken him so long to see what had been staring him in the face all this time.

Roarke stared at his office door, his hands curling into fists, his body trembling like a leaf. He’d been drawn to Jasmeene from the moment she’d joined the unit several months ago, and if she was who he suspected she was, then that would explain why. But she couldn’t be? It was impossible.

The moment their lips touched, he’d suspected. But it was last night—the way she moved beneath him, her wet warmth clenching around him, the throaty hitch in her voice just before she came—that made him think she was the one. The woman he’d been longing for over a century and a half. Everything about Jasmeene reminded him of that woman, and yet nothing at all. She moved like her in bed, but there was a loss of innocence, a jadedness that hadn’t been in the woman’s eyes he’d held in his arms as he ushered her into womanhood.

Whether Jasmeene was his mystery woman or not, there was no denying his explosive attraction to her, his need to claim her. When he’d seen her kiss Kristoff he’d been so consumed by jealousy it had taken every ounce of resolve not to rip the shifter apart with his bare hands. There was only one explanation for his possessiveness towards Jasmeene, his obsession with her. She was his heart mate, but if she was, then she’d also been there all those years ago in a darkened boarding room in the heart of New Orleans.

Jasmeene had some explaining to do, and many years to answer for. The moment he got her alone, he was determined she would do just that.

Chapter Four

Jasmeene rocked and rotated her body to the beat of the song, her gaze focused solely on the man whose eyes hadn’t left her from the moment she’d started her set.

Les Anders. It was a stroke of luck he’d returned that night. She poured all of her energy into seducing him, ignoring the hard glare from the man who sat behind him.

Roarke could go fuck himself, especially after what he’d said earlier. She was still fuming about their exchange. Even if he hadn’t pissed her off, she still would have ignored him. She had to convince this guy he had a chance with her, so that he would actually buy her. Roarke had to know she didn’t really want to sleep with this creep. This was her job.

Her set ended and she picked up the dollar bills from the floor, heading backstage. The moment she entered the shadowed corridor, Jensen cornered her.