Razor's Edge: Men in Blue Book 2 Page 3

  “Lambert, that’s enough.” The chief beat them at politics every time. One reason he’d made the grade and they never would—never wanted to.

  “What kind of douche takes from his own kid, even if he’s allowed?”

  “Move on.”

  “So the babe gave it all up for her husband. Who, by the way, was spotted by one of our watchers with another woman in the garden at his own fucking multi-million dollar reception. Paid for courtesy of daddy’s new stash, I’m sure.”

  “And she fell for all this bullshit?” Razor could have kicked his own ass when the three other men in the room stared at him without uttering a single word.

  When he thought the supercharged atmosphere might spontaneously combust, the chief said, quietly, “Malcolm could be an expert con man. What chance would a sheltered girl have against a shark like him?”

  “It looks like she might be wising up now.” Mason added.

  “Or she was in on it from the beginning.” Razor scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried to ignore the subtext. “So why do we care? Yeah, maybe they shat on her one time too many and she decided she wants out, maybe demanded her nest egg, but there’s nothing criminal here. Just greed. All of their greed.”

  “On the surface, you’re right.” Tyler snatched the briefing. “But lately we’ve been picking up some chatter. The joint Carrington-Buchanan holdings are vast. They’re into lots of legitimate businesses and a few that skirt the line. This time they may have gone too far. Ever hear of Black Lily?”

  Razor paused. Should he admit that? In front of his boss and his superior officers? Who already had reason to doubt his judgment when it came to sex? Fuck it. No sense in lying now. “Uh…yeah. I know what it is.”

  “Ever been there?” Mason arched an eyebrow.

  “Maybe once or twice.”

  “Malcolm Carrington is the proud owner of the establishment. On paper. Lots of people say Buchanan has controlling interest but doesn’t want the trail leading in his direction.” Tyler winked at him. “Again, nothing illegal about people enjoying consensual BDSM scenes in a private club. However, we’ve heard rumors of something…darker going on in the reserved rooms.”

  “What do you mean? Prostitution?” Razor had heard whispers the last time he’d visited—forbidden offers—but it’d been a while.

  “Worse.” Mason spoke through clenched teeth. “They’re allegedly trading sex slaves in the dungeons. Offering test drives, rent-to-own deals and other arrangements I can’t comprehend. One of our moles reported seeing someone resembling Mrs. Carrington on site.”

  Razor cursed under his breath. One psychotic woman who thrived on power games was enough for any man’s lifetime. He’d barely survived Gina. They wouldn’t sic another on him, would they?

  “We need to know if she’s involved or if she can slip us information. With trouble in paradise, she could help us crack the case, bring Malcolm down.”

  “And you think I’m going to be able to figure out the truth? You think I can fucking tell if she’s lying—if she’s up to her perfect tits in trouble or masterminding the plan? We all know I can’t tell jack shit when it comes to the femme fatales of the world.” He hated the panic squeezing his vocal chords until his pitch rose.

  “I believe you can.” Tyler looked straight into his eyes as he offered the reassurance Razor never could have asked for but desperately needed. “You won’t get fooled again. We’ll be at every show, watching, helping.”

  “You’re on the case. You better get your act together.” The chief didn’t stray from his place at the window. “I won’t be able to overrule the administration again.”

  “It’s all about your edge. You have to hone your instincts. Jump back on the horse.” Mason nodded in Razor’s direction. Not a single trace of doubt tinged the more experienced cop’s expression.

  Razor didn’t have a choice. He was being pitched into the lion’s den. Again. “There’s just one thing…”

  “Yes?” The chief hesitated a moment before answering.

  “I don’t do sequins.”

  Mason and Tyler’s laughter boomed through the office. The chief pivoted, flashing a hint of a smile. Ten tons lifted from Razor’s shoulders. If he could pull this off maybe things could return to normal.

  Chapter Three

  Razor spent the next two days preparing for his initial meeting with his new teacher. He read the department’s files on all the players at least a dozen times, did some extra research into the Black Lily online and jacked off as much as humanly possible to ensure he could keep his libido under control.

  Though he hadn’t had much of a sexual appetite while recovering in the hospital—followed by a lack of time for indulging as he spent most of his waking hours rehabbing in the gym, returning home dog tired—he didn’t seem to have any trouble now. Every time he saw Isabella Buchanan Carrington’s flawless face he sported a hard-on so rigid he impressed himself. The file of photos he’d amassed in his dossier showed her off in sparkling evening gowns, her brilliant smile flashing as she laughed on the arm of her über-rich, asshole husband.

  He’d made up for months of abstinence in one short weekend the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he’d activated his broadband connection his freshman year in college. In fact, he might be developing some chafeage. Despite the epic release he’d granted himself, he feared he’d fall into his old ways as soon as he met the tiny blond bombshell in person. Why did she have to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen? Something about the gleam in her eyes sucked him in as surely as her doll-like features or that downright sinful mouth.

  At five-eight, he wouldn’t win any height competitions. He’d always aimed for lean and agile over big and bulky, but this waif would make anyone feel like the Jolly Green Giant. Delicate and petite, she’d fit perfectly in his arms…

  Shit.

  He didn’t have time to take care of his raging arousal again before he left for their pre-arranged meeting place in one of the unused TV studios downtown. Unable to stand pacing the confined area of his apartment one second longer, he grabbed his leather jacket to ward off the early spring chill before taking the stairs from his third-story landing two at a time.

  Razor straddled the neon yellow and black Suzuki GSX-R750 he’d bought himself instead of a car. When he’d worked undercover, it’d enhanced his badass image. These days, he reveled in the freedom he found flying along country roads on the maneuverable bike.

  As he navigated the rush hour traffic heading into the city, he let his mind wander. A mistake when he realized how many parallels he’d drawn between Gina and Isabella.

  Gorgeous. Check.

  Keeping secrets. Check

  Used to having men wrapped around their little fingers. Definitely check.

  Somewhere in the past forty-eight hours, he’d made up his mind. Princess had to be in the know. Maybe she had pushed her luck, insisting on a larger share of the take, until dad and hubby kicked her to the curb. He’d dug up the press conference on his DVR, glad he never deleted things until he was about to run out of space. The crocodile tears she’d manufactured hadn’t moved him.

  All right, so what if that was a big fat lie? He’d watched the damn segment no less than fifty times, trying to build resistance. He attempted to embrace the numb void he’d experienced between drug-induced periods of sleep in the hospital. But no matter how many times he’d rewound the program, he flinched each time that single tear trickled down her battered cheek. So he’d thrown the remote across the room. It had cracked the drywall and left his tuner stuck on the home shopping network. Damn it.

  If she had nothing to hide, why wouldn’t she answer the reporter’s questions about the injuries evident on her face and hands, or the reason behind her sudden separation?

  The legal mumbo-jumbo she’d spouted about the media affecting the outcome of her divorce proceedings reeked of bullshit. After all, she’d been the one to call the press conference. No, something didn’t add up her
e. That conclusion finally tamed his arousal, leaving him frigid as a glacier.

  Razor parked out front of a non-descript building next to a gleaming, red Enzo Ferrari. He winced when he noticed the white scuff on the front quarter panel. After drooling over the machine behind the cover of his tinted visor, he tugged his helmet off and glared at the wall of windows facing him. Somewhere up there she waited. And he was ready to face the music.

  Isabella studied the man on the motorcycle, thirty feet below her. Even from here, she could detect the unyielding set of his compact shoulders. When he shook out his wild hair from under the helmet, her breath caught in her lungs. Until he glowered up at her with unmitigated fury. She staggered several steps from the window.

  She’d seen that potent concoction of anger and bitterness on another masculine face, not long ago. And she never wanted to witness it up close and personal again.

  Focus.

  Now was not the time to permit her doubts to bubble to the surface. Especially not because of a random stranger. She swore she’d make the most of this opportunity, prove to the world—or at least herself—she could survive on her own. She didn’t need the riches of others to thrive. Not when she had the spirit of a fighter and a stubborn streak a mile wide. And especially not when the life of luxury she’d known came with such a high price tag.

  Dear God, she had to do something. Had to find some way to stop them…

  Her frantic thoughts made it impossible to think clearly.

  Take it one step at a time. Do well today and think of the rest later.

  To calm herself, she selected a mellow piece of music then began to stretch, warming up. Her partner should arrive within the hour. She reviewed the beginner choreography she’d assembled over the weekend so they could sprint right out of the gate. It’d been a long time since she anticipated something as much as she did this morning.

  The barre on the mirrored wall seemed high to her, but she could reach it while balancing on the tiptoes of her uninjured foot. She’d taken so many things for granted. Outside of the custom-made studio her father had ordered for her in one of the outbuildings on their estate, everything seemed a little odd. She adjusted as best she could. The stretches were more difficult in this position. It would tone her core strength faster.

  Isabella bent at the waist, reaching for the ankle on the barre as the light strumming of harps helped her get her zen on. With her eyes closed, she didn’t see the man approach, but she heard his careful footfalls come to an abrupt stop when he turned the corner.

  Two and two collided.

  She jerked upright so fast she lost her balance, crashing to the floor flat on the ass he’d had a perfect opportunity to ogle.

  A gentleman would have offered his hand, drawn her to her feet and made sure she hadn’t hurt herself. This man did none of those things. Instead, he scrutinized her with such contempt, she felt like a bug about to be squashed.

  Didn’t it figure? The motorcycle man. Her partner. One and the same.

  Had the studio intentionally given her the competitor least likely to be trained? Did she make a better story as a failure?

  Refusing to believe something so despicable to be true, Isabella hauled herself from the dusty hardwood before brushing off her black leggings. She stepped forward, extending her hand. If nothing else, she knew a hell of a lot about manners. When he refused to shake in introduction, she let her wrist fall to her side with a shrug.

  “I’m Isabella Buchanan.” She had decided to drop the Carrington. Nothing about the name inspired her to claim it any longer. Though he continued to stare at her with bitter loathing tainting his milk-chocolate eyes, she refused to be cowed. “And you are…”

  “Razor.”

  Terrific. A monosyllabic, motorcycle-riding, dance-hating Neanderthal named after a cutting implement. Piece of cake.

  “Nice to meet you, Razor. The producers left instructions for us, but I thought I’d wait for you to arrive so we could go over them together. I admit, I’ve never actually seen Dance With Me before. I’m curious to discover what we’ve gotten ourselves into.” She chided herself for the nervous titter that escaped before she could subdue it. “Are you ready to begin?”

  “Why not?”

  “Great.” She ignored his sarcasm and his stinking attitude. “Please change into your rehearsal clothes so we can make the most of our time. We have the space for five hours today before the next couple arrives. Since you’re early, we can fit in almost six if we settle in quickly.”

  He looked at her as though she had nine heads. “Unless you want me naked, this is all I’ve got.”

  Isabella decided not to acknowledge his crude remark when he looked chagrined enough for them both. She scanned her partner from head to toe. Every part of him—from his stiff leather jacket to his snug jeans to his motorcycle boots—more inappropriate than the next for their purpose. But damn if the bad boy ensemble didn’t outline one of the finest bodies she’d ever spied. He was so different than any other man she’d met in her prior life; she found herself oddly and immediately intrigued.

  Just what she needed.

  “You’ll have to do this in your socks for today. Tomorrow, we’ll find you proper shoes.” She tried not to think about how many groceries she could have bought with that money. Her contract stipulated she’d only be paid for the number of episodes they appeared in. As the worst couple was eliminated each week, she needed them to stay in the running as long as possible if they couldn’t win outright. A little investment up front would pay off in the end. She had to believe that.

  Dead silence surrounded the rasp of her unwilling partner untying the laces of his boots with yanks hard enough she swore the little plastic caps on the end popped off. He kicked the heavy footwear into the corner, rattling the mirror on the wall.

  Oooo-kay.

  “Can we cut the petulant-child crap here, Razor? You’re pissed. I understand I’m probably not the person you were hoping to see today. If you want to call the station, it’s not too late to have them hook you up with someone less…controversial.”

  Though she’d started her rant with a decent amount of steam, it had bled off by the end of her magnanimous offer. If he took her up on it, she’d be right back in the pile of shit she’d started out in days ago. Plus, she really hadn’t had time to worry about public opinion until the disgust in his almond eyes telegraphed exactly what he thought of rich daddy’s girls who’d fallen from grace. He wouldn’t be the only man who held her in such low regard.

  She’d been lucky to find this job, never mind another. But she couldn’t waste time. Not when innocents counted on her success.

  She turned, prepared to gather her belongings. He reached for her. His broad hand had nearly grazed her arm when he stopped short. He retracted his shaking fingers.

  “Damn it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come off all caveman.”

  Isabella almost crashed to the floor again when his impish smile brightened his whole face and turned her knees to jelly. The light expression took years off his militant face. She realized he couldn’t be much older than she was.

  “Talk about a bad first impression. Can we start over?”

  Afraid to speak, she nodded instead.

  “Here’s the thing. I’m doing this on orders.” He ruffled the dark brown spikes of helmet hair persisting at the base of his skull. “I…uh… Well, shit. I’m not unfamiliar with drama, and I hate being shoved into the limelight when people were beginning to forget about my fu…um, screw-up.”

  She studied the strong lock of his jaw and his classic Roman nose as something tickled her memory. The way his palm massaged his chest, in an awkward gesture she’d swear he didn’t realize he indulged, tipped her off.

  “You’re the police officer…”

  “Ding ding ding. We have a winner.” The loathing flowing from him resonated with her. She took a step in his direction, but he retreated at an equal pace. “I’m the dumbass the smoking hot psycho-killer duped. You
know, the bitch who shot me with my own gun when my pants were around my ankles then attempted to murder two of my squadmates and the love of their lives. They won’t let me resume active duty until I take one for the force, make amends by leaving a good impression on the public through this joke of a show.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. She shivered as she remembered the macabre interest Malcolm had taken in the story. The garish pictures on the news had sickened her. Blood spattered in every direction. This man’s blood. No one could understand better how the betrayal of someone you thought you cared for blistered your heart. The way it slashed your soul. But her pity didn’t interest him, and he didn’t offer her any in return. Not that she would have appreciated it if he had.

  Isabella gave him a minute to pull his act together. She glided to the corner of the room, sitting cross-legged near the stack made by her bag, the CD with the music selection they’d been assigned to use and a packet of instructions. After several long, tense moments, he followed, dropping to his haunches beside her spot on the floor—careful to keep their knees from touching.

  Maybe her bullshit meter had been permanently fried, but he seemed genuine when he met her questioning gaze and murmured, “Thanks.”

  She smiled, deflecting the intensity he leveled at her with a joke. Though, she wasn’t entirely kidding. “You might want to hold off with your gratitude. I have every intention of winning this title, and I’ll do whatever it takes to whip you into shape.”

  “Why is some cheesy competition so important to you?”

  She nearly forgot to answer him as she inhaled the succulent combination of leather and soap wafting from his skin. How could it be possible to be this attracted to a man after knowing him less than five minutes, of which he’d spent a solid fifty percent pissing her off?

  “I guess I want to prove I’m more than a beautiful but useless trophy.” She certainly wasn’t about to cry to him over her money issues or clue him in to her worst nightmare—that her father would allow Malcolm to reclaim her before she could rescue those poor women.