Chapter 4

The door closes and I begin trembling. I'm not sure if it's caused by Moon, the overload of adrenaline, or the hit to my head. I remind myself who he is-all the horrible things I know about him. He's the embodiment of every criminal who has crossed my path. He has multiple deaths credited to his organization. There's never been enough evidence to pin them on Moon, but law enforcement knows he's responsible. And even with all these thoughts, my damn body doesn't care.

I inhale slowly and try to gain my composure. This isn't me, it's a momentary lapse. I'm not controlled by raging sex hormones switched on by a hot, magnetic body. "I'm not," I mutter aloud. Thank God he took my stupid remark about being a cop for a "no" to his dinner invitation. I can't imagine being seen anywhere with him. Or going anywhere with him.

My gaze moves to my BDUs and camera on the dresser. I do a quick sweep of the room, wondering if Moon has hidden cameras. I wouldn't put it past him. I'm assuming that I'm in his Phoenix compound. I've driven past the high walls multiple times wondering what crimes were taking place inside. I didn't work this area-his home is on the way to my parents' house in Scottsdale by a slight detour. Which I took on multiple occasions. That stopped more than a year ago when my parents moved to Florida.

I gingerly rise from the bed. My head spins, and it takes a minute before I'm able to walk to the dresser and grab my pants. My belt is curled on top of my pants, and I slip it through the loops as soon as my lower half is clothed. I check my tri-fold black wallet for my identification before sliding it into my back pocket. Police training took away my desire to carry a purse. The thought of being strangled by the strap does that to you. In my current occupation, the lesson hits home too. I put on my socks and cheap running shoes next. The only way I can manage without sitting down is by placing one hand on the dresser for balance. I pick up my camera and glide my fingers over it. Even though my parents didn't agree with my new career choice, they bought me this expensive camera for my last birthday so I could use it on the job. I pull the strap over my head. I ordered a custom strap that breaks in two places if pulled too tightly. It would be hell to damage the camera in a fight, but, again, strangulation isn't my thing.

I glance down at the shiny wood dresser and notice the palm smudge I left behind. I get close to the side and rub the spot with my T-shirt. All of which is stupid. I'm imagining my fingerprints being discovered when and not if Moon's compound is raided. This is stupid because my DNA is on the dresser and in the bed. I'm fucked if I'm ever linked to Moon.

Most of my friendships on the police force dissolved after I announced my intention to get my private investigator's license. I understood. Cops hate PIs. I felt the same way before my accident. PIs take side jobs with scum of the earth defense attorneys and work against the cops. I admit it was very hard to sink that low. It came down to eat or starve. What cred I've built with the few remaining cops willing to say hello to me would completely dissolve if I'm linked to Moon. The sad truth is that emotionally, I still need those hellos from my brothers and sisters in blue. I'm pretty sure, as pathetic as it sounds, that I always will.

I had my entire career with the police force planned out. Until it all went to shit. I'll take part of that blame. Not because of the accident, but because I should have stayed on task when I first got my badge instead of taking off-duty security jobs to earn extra money. They pay extremely well for law enforcement. My original plan was to attend college after graduating the academy so I could earn my criminal justice degree. As one of their perks, the Phoenix Police Department pays for college tuition. Getting a degree would have put me in line for faster promotions. Like a fool, I put schooling in the background and blew the extra money.

My parents always struggled and couldn't help me with college. My father, years before he retired as a payroll clerk for the City of Phoenix, made just enough money to buy a house in a middle class district of Scottsdale. My mom worked as a dental assistant in the same dental office for twenty years.

I took a job as a waitress right out of high school and bided my time until the golden day that I turned twenty-one and was accepted into the police academy. In the interim, I worked out daily to stay in shape along with taking the criminal justice classes here and there. I kept my partying to a minimum and stayed out of trouble. Marks, even petty ones, on your record are a huge problem when applying for a job in law enforcement. Basically, I lived a very boring life because I wanted that blue uniform so bad it hurt.

I peer down my body and huff out a sigh. Some uniform. BDUs and a loose gray tee that conceals my handgun.

Which... is missing.

My panic rises all over again. Damn, they can use it in a crime. Arizona has few guidelines for guns, but I went the extra step and registered mine. I take a slow steady breath and think about the situation.

These people are gunrunners. Why would they need my gun?

I calm a bit and peer around the room until I see a phone on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. I walk over, lift the receiver, and press zero.

"Yes, Miss Kinlock?"

I think it's Thug One, but I'm not sure. I'm suddenly more nervous than I was a minute ago. "Umm, well, ah Moon said someone would drive me home when I'm ready."

"That would be me, Miss Kinlock. I'll be up to collect you momentarily."

I'm sure of the voice now. Gomez is Thug One. I place the receiver down and, unable to sit still, walk around the room. I open a few drawers and find them empty along with a huge, empty walk-in closet. The room is masterfully decorated with dark overtones by way of artwork. Two connecting walls are beige and the other two white. The artwork is strangely disturbing. I examine each piece. A painting of a woman, obviously committing suicide by jumping from a tall building, holds my attention; I'm admiring it when Gomez knocks once and then opens the door. I glance over my shoulder and look at him.

His deep voice fills the room when he says, "The artist, Frida Kahlo, has an interesting story. Her German father immigrated to Mexico and married a native woman. Frida, though her given name was Magdalena, contracted polio as a child and recovered due to her father encouraging her to play sports, such as soccer, swimming, and wrestling. This raised many eyebrows in the early 1900s. As an adult, she was in a serious accident and was impaled on a steel handrail. Her life was filled with physical pain and also heartache for the man she loved and married twice."

Intrigued, I can't help but turn back to the picture as he continues speaking.

"She was a communist throughout her life and quite politically active. In the 1970s her work was heralded again, more than twenty years after her death, as being a motivation for women in the feminist movement. The painting you're admiring was a gift for the mother of the actress, Dorothy Hale, who committed suicide exactly as depicted in the painting. As you can imagine, it was not well-accepted."

My immediate thought: Dorothy's poor mother. As I continue examining the details, I recognize the pain. Even more disturbed now, I turn away and face Gomez, the thug art critic.

"I'm concerned about my gun," I say without acknowledging his art lesson.

His lips quirk much like they did in the garage when I first saw him. He's wearing the same dark suit, which is pulled tight across his powerful body. He's handsome and has been gifted with an incredible physique, much like Moon. And like Moon, I'm sure he works hard to stay in shape. I know that you don't become his size without good genes or anabolic steroids. He's jacked, but doesn't have the typical look of a steroid user, thick neck aside. He isn't cut to a bulging point that keeps him from moving gracefully or quickly. His dark eyes take in everything, much like a cop's. Even in a room with only the two of us, he's vigilant.

He reaches behind his back and the suit jacket pulls as he removes my gun from his waistband. He walks forward and hands it to me. "The magazine is in my pocket and will be returned when we arrive at your apartment. Are you ready to leave, Miss Kinlock?"

I pull back the slide and check the chamber-habit. I can feel by the weight that the magazine is missing, I just don't trust anyone to empty the chambered round but me. "My holster?"

Gomez reaches into his slightly bulging left pocket and pulls out my small paddle holster that's made specifically for a Glock 17. I holster the gun and slip the paddle over my belt and under my tee. I feel naked without the magazine, but I'll survive.

I think.

"I'm ready." I truly am. I hope to never think about this day again. No blue eyes offset by dark skin, no intense scrutiny that makes my inner thighs clench. And no thoughts of a whiskey voice that sends shivers across my skin. Done. Over. Finished.