“Creedence Clearwater. Chicago. Three Dog Night. You know, the classics.”
She buried her face against his shoulder and giggled. He smiled, liking the sound. “I’m a Golden Oldies kind of guy. What about you? No, let me guess: You like the old classics.”
“No fair. You saw my music collection on the shelves in the living room.”
“I was in there, what, a minute, while you called your mother? I didn’t examine your music collection.’
“You’re a cop. You’re trained to observe things.”
“Give me a break. All I was thinking about was getting in your pants.”
“What color is my couch?”
“Blue with big flowers on it. You think I wouldn’t notice? We were naked on that couch.”
She sighed blissfully. “I know.”
“But you’re right about one thing: because I’m a cop, I’m very observant. For instance, which club were you thinking about going to next time?”
Drat! He’d noticed. “I don’t know,” she said vaguely. “I haven’t decided.”
“Well, when you decide, I expect to know.” There was a hard edge to his voice that she hadn’t heard before. “I mean it, Daisy. If you’re going out alone, I want to know where you are.”
She chewed her bottom lip. What if he showed up wherever she went and scared off anyone who asked her to dance? On the other hand, he was right about the safety issue; she had to be intelligent about the matter. Besides, she was in a difficult position, literally: flat on her back, naked, pinned down.
“Promise me,” he insisted.
“I promise.”
He didn’t ask if she would keep her promise; he knew she would. He pressed his forehead against hers. “I want you safe,” he whispered, and kissed her.
As usual, one kiss led to another, and soon she was clinging to him, giddy with arousal. She wound her legs around his hips, and with a groan he sank into her, thrusting several times before suddenly cursing and pulling out. He leaned over the edge of the bed and blindly scrabbled for a condom. “I don’t care what color it is,” he said hoarsely.
Daisy didn’t care either, didn’t even look. She was shaken that they had almost made love without protection, that even those few thrusts carried a small amount of risk. Then he surged back into her, and she met his fierceness with her own, demanding everything he could give her.
Afterward, exhausted, Daisy dozed cuddled against his side while Jack stared at the ceiling and wondered what in hell Todd Lawrence was up to. Something was going on that made him feel antsy and he didn’t like it worth a damn, especially when the uneasiness concerned Daisy. He had damn good ears, and Daisy had been lying under him at the time, the receiver only inches away, he’d heard every word of their telephone conversation. Maybe it was just the instincts of a cop prodding him, because there hadn’t been anything he’d heard that he could honestly say struck him as suspicious, but it seemed to him that Daisy was being guided to certain clubs. He didn’t like that scenario at all.
He’d been in bars and nightclubs every night except for Sundays since talking to Petersen. He’d seen one episode of a possible date-rape drugging—and that had been at the Buffalo Club on Thursday night, so he’d gone back on both Friday and Saturday to see if he could spot something. As it was, the woman who had possibly been drugged had been with two female friends; Jack had discreetly questioned them, but they had not only allowed men to buy them drinks, they had also left the drinks unattended while they danced or went to the rest room, so there was no telling when or if the drinks had been drugged.
Both of the other women were sober enough to drive, which made him suspect the third woman had definitely been drugged. He helped them get their friend out to the car, quietly told them to get her to a hospital in case someone had put something in her drink, and saw them on their way before going back inside. Everything had been kept very low key, he didn’t make a disturbance, didn’t identify himself as a cop, because if some bastard was there slipping GHB or whatever into women’s drinks, Jack didn’t want to scare him off. He simply watched, trying to spot something or at least step in if another woman looked to be in trouble, and the next morning he’d called Petersen to tell him they maybe had a starting place.
Last night had been cut short by the fight, but his heart had almost stopped when he’d seen Daisy on the dance floor. She didn’t seem to realize how she drew the eye with the contrast between her classy clothes and the way all the other women dressed; men watched her, and not just because she was a good dancer. They watched those legs, and the sparkling eyes that said she was having a ball. They noticed her breasts, and the way that red dress had clung to their shape. Even now, with her naked in his arms, just thinking about those breasts made his mouth water. His Miss Daisy was stacked; not overblown, but definitely stacked just right.
She wanted a husband and kids. He wasn’t in the market for a wife, let alone kids, but he got a burning knot of what he recognized as pure masculine possessiveness at the thought of her actually meeting someone she really liked at one of those clubs, going out with him, sleeping with him, maybe even eventually getting married. He didn’t like that scenario at all. And when he’d realized he had entered her without first putting on a condom, for an earth-tilting moment he had continued thrusting, tempted almost past control at the thought of coming inside her. If he got her pregnant—hey, he’d marry her. They’d made a deal. Being married to Miss Daisy would be a hell of a lot more fun than being married to Heather the Bitch, and look how long he’d stuck that out.