Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery) (21 page)

His lips grazed my skin, nipping around my belly button piercing—collateral damage from my first investigation as lead detective. Which I’d grown to kind of like. His hands gripped me, pulling my body closer, if that was possible. “Jesus, Lola, you’re killing me, you know that?”

The feeling was mutual. “I just need to know you’re only with me, Jack.”

He slipped my jeans down my hips. “I am.”

My knuckles turned white with the strength of my hold on the edge of the dresser. Was I ready for this? Could I take a leap of faith with him?

“
Belísima
.” He pulled away and stood, stripping off his T-shirt, his lids heavy as he took in every inch of me.

Any words caught in my throat when I saw the curve of his arms, his chest, his taut stomach, wanting to feel them all against me.

My knees buckled and I started to slide down the wall, but his lips found me again. He held me upright as he tugged at my jeans, working them down my legs. I stepped out of them, only black lace and an unclasped bra separating all of me from him.

He kissed my stomach, his hands running up the outside of my legs, making their way down again, then one of them slid up the inside, his fingers skimming the lace.
Dios mío.

He stood and in one fluid movement, stripped off his jeans, his black boxer briefs riding low on his hips. He caught me again just as my legs were ready to give out completely, and pressed his body against mine.

I leaned my forehead against his shoulder. “Are you sure?” I asked, as much for myself to answer as for him. “I can’t change who I am,” I added, barely above a whisper.

His hand curved around my back and he dropped his head and brushed his lips against my neck, the heat from his mouth bringing goose bumps to the surface of my skin. He swept my hair away from my ears, circling my silver hoop earrings with his fingers. “I don’t want you to.”

“I have to be able to do my job—” I moaned when his teeth tugged at my earlobe.

“Just trust me.”

He searched my face when I didn’t answer.

I tried to steady the rise and fall of my chest, unclenching my hand from the dresser and skimming his hair, his cheek.

His breathing was heavy. There wasn’t a trace of a smile on his face. This was what torture was like.

I held my breath as my thoughts grew fuzzy. I started to move my arms, the straps of my bra dangling from them. Then, slowly, I let the lace slip away from my body.

I heard the sharp intake of his breath before I saw the intensity of his face. The next second, his lips were on me, his tongue exploring every inch. His touch sent an electric charge through my body.

Just when I was sure I couldn’t take another second, he stopped, nuzzled his way to my mouth, and kissed me, hard and insistent, more urgently than I thought possible.

Dios mío
, I needed him.

He held me close as he edged me away from the wall and over to the bed, laying me down as he propped himself above me, taking me in with aching, hungry eyes. “Finally.”

I backed away from any thoughts of Jack’s past, the notches on his bedpost, his one long-term girlfriend. I didn’t want to think about any of that now. I reached for him, my body moving under his, arching up.

He pulled away, skimming his lips down my body before he found the lace barrier and slipped it off me. He paused, his lips curving up. “Mmmm. That’s
very
nice.”

I felt the blush rise on my cheeks. The wax job. “It was provisional. In case I had the guts to be a nudist for a day.”

He lifted his smoldering gaze to mine. “Really? Not for me?”

I smiled just a little. “Well,” I confessed, “you crossed my mind…”

He gave a devilish grin, taking another look. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” Then he slipped his boxers off and crawled back up to me like it had always been meant to be, like there was no other place he belonged. Home.

Chapter Eighteen

“You sure you have to go?” Jack asked as I came back in the room after a speed shower. He lay in my rumpled bed, still naked.

Being with him for the first time was both beyond anything I’d imagined and not nearly enough. “I do if I want to keep my cover and solve my case.”

Which I did. More than anything.

He looked wolfish and ready for more.

Almost
anything.

I crossed the room, bent down, and kissed him. Part possessive, part hungry, part—

“You will,” he said as he pulled me down on top of him.

My eyes closed and I breathed him in. I’d been waiting for this moment since I’d been in high school. Now I thanked God that I’d had time to grow up and appreciate making love with Jack as an adult rather than as a teenager. Poor Greta Pritchard had lost out.

It took work, but I finally pried myself away from him and with another kiss, wiggle of my hips, and a wink, I was out the door. And feeling like a bubble ready to burst. As if I were still in high school, I felt an urgent need to tell someone about the amazing experience I’d just had. But who? Reilly was out of the question. My sex life might become pillow talk for her and Neil, and I definitely didn’t want that. My sister, Gracie, was teaching school. No dice there. Lucy was a possibility, but she was probably working, and besides, I now knew that my schoolgirl giddiness would get back to Jack if I told her.

Which would be
no bueno
.

I’d whispered it to Salsa as I left, but now I jammed in my Bluetooth and dialed my oldest childhood friend. I couldn’t tell anyone I was undercover as a Courtside Dancer. I couldn’t tell anyone I’d been to
Cuerpo y Alma
. But I
could
tell Coco Sandoval that my long-awaited passion for Jack had been realized…in a big…and multiple…way.

“It’s done,” I blurted the second she answered.

“Lola?
¿De qué estás hablando?
”

“Jack Callaghan…and me. We—”

Her screech drowned out the rest of my sentence. “You did not!” she said after she recovered.

“
Sí, dormimos juntos
,” I said, sure the glow was still on my face.

“So you two are…
¿qué?
¿Amantes? ¿Novios?
”

Hmmm. Were we lovers? Boyfriend/girlfriend? “
Somos socios
,” I said as I merged onto the freeway. Partners. A team. I liked the sound of that.

She asked a million more questions, most of which I declined to answer. Not so schoolgirl after all. I didn’t want to kiss and tell
everything
. Before long I was at the arena. “Gotta go, Coco. See you at
Ambrosía
.”

I didn’t know when I’d be able to salsa dance at our favorite club again, but whenever it was, I’d make sure Jack was right there with me.

Ten minutes later, all thoughts of him were relegated to the back of my mind. I was out on the court going through the dance routines and listening to the
chisme
about Jennifer’s death. I tried to pick up any bit of information that might help me with my investigation. Any inkling that anyone—besides Selma—knew about Jennifer’s other life.

By the time practice was over, I’d found out from some of the girls that Jennifer had grown up in a tiny rural town just outside of Sacramento, that she’d been married and still used her ex-husband’s last name—both things I already knew—and that while she loved lemon meringue pie, she was a health nut, she had a standing appointment with the team nutritionist, belonged to a local gym and went religiously, and had less than 17 percent body fat, something the other dancers had been envious of.

The one thing none of them mentioned was her being a nudist.

After we’d all showered and changed, I tried to catch Selma’s attention, but she’d already scurried out of the arena. Heading for
Cuerpo y Alma
, no doubt. For once, the arena was nearly deserted. Time to sleuth around the Royals’ locker room.

I waited until the coast was clear, then I strode down the wide, cavernous hallway, on the hunt for some clue that would show me how Jennifer Wallace’s two worlds had collided.

…

As I rounded a corner, the sound of men’s voices bounced off the walls and came at me. I slung my workout bag over my shoulder and plowed on with sure footsteps. As long as I acted like I knew where I was going and that I belonged, no one would question me.

The hallway curved. The locker room was just around the next bend, but the voices were growing closer. My goal was to search the locker room—specifically, to scour the lockers of the ballplayers Jennifer had broken the rules with. It was possible one of them was the mysterious boyfriend from
Cuerpo y Alma
.

I didn’t hold out much hope for the theory—six-foot-five-plus inches of naked man would surely attract attention. Selma had caught a faraway glimpse of the guy and she hadn’t mentioned
those
stats, so it felt like a long shot. But I had to try.

My other theory was that one of the trophy wives had had a hand in Jennifer’s death. Jealousy was a powerful motivator.

I followed the hallway around the last turn before the locker room and froze. The two men I’d heard were suddenly in front of me. I immediately recognized one as the Royals’ trainer, Steve, and the other as his brother, Larry.

“Hi,” I said. They appeared exactly the same as they had when I’d first met them. Not exactly pudgy, but not super-fit, either. Slightly receding hairlines. Ruddy cheeks. And talking sports.

“The new dancer, right?” Steve asked, pointing at me and then snapping his fingers. “Can I help you? This area’s off-limits to you girls.”

I bristled at the dismissive way he said “you girls,” but I kept my expression innocent. “Oh, I didn’t know. It’s so cool to be down here. I was just taking it all in.” I pointed to the locker room behind them. I upped my innocent act, gave a little flip of my hair. “Is that where you work on the players?”

“That’s right.” Steve glanced at his brother, then at me, giving a shrug. His cheeks lifted as his lips curved up. “It’s Lola, right?”

“Good memory.”

“I make it my business to know everyone. This is my brother, Larry.”

Larry plunged his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet, dipping his chin in acknowledgment.

“Let’s give you a quick tour, shall we? It’ll be our secret,” Steve said. He maneuvered himself between Larry and me, draping his arm around my shoulder as we walked toward the locker room. “Larry’s a big fan of the Royals. Pays to know the trainer,” Steve said in an almost conspiratorial tone. “Never miss a game, do you, Larry?”

Larry uttered a quiet
mmm-mmm
as his brother dropped his arms from our shoulders and opened the door to the locker room. He ushered me inside, talking in a low voice to Larry before falling into step beside me again.

I was a black belt in kung fu and could take care of myself. Part of that meant paying attention to the niggling feelings I got in my gut. And right now my gut was telling me that something didn’t feel right. A wave of unease coiled through me and I suddenly knew I was being manipulated. A tour of the locker room from Steve in return for what?

I moved ahead of the brothers, casually opening random lockers, oohing and aahing at the contents of each one. I’d already done this with the ball boy, and nothing new had materialized since then. Big surprise. This place was devoid of clues. But there had to be something. Anything. Jennifer didn’t die for no reason.

Steve and Larry were both quietly watching me, Steve with overt curiosity and Larry with a sad intensity.

Maybe behind the closed door…

“My office,” Steve said, spreading his arm toward the room I’d seen him in during my brief tour with the ball boy.

He opened the door and I poked my head inside. The huge room held a massage table; a gooseneck light; two vinyl-covered beds; privacy screens; cabinets; and the biggest, tallest stainless steel bathtub contraption I’d ever seen.

“This is a lot of equipment,” I said, coming back to the giant bathtub. “That’s huge.”

“Has to be able to cover the extremities, hips, and backs of pro athletes, and you know how big they are.”

“I didn’t before I got this job.” I laughed. “But now I do.” The height of the pro players made Steve, Larry, and any other Joe off the street seem positively tiny.

As I tried to figure out how to bring up Jennifer without it coming out of the blue, Steve prattled on. “Lots of turmoil right now.”

Boo-ya.
The perfect opening. “Right. Really sad. Did you know Jennifer?”

Steve cleared his throat as Larry dug his hands deeper into his pockets and stared at the ground. “
Every
one knew Jennifer,” Steve said after a loaded pause.

I blinked, playing the part of innocent dancer rather than private investigator. “I thought she was married?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Steve asked, waving away the very idea. He moved to the counter, absently tossing tubes of ointment into a drawer, moving a canister of protein powder into one of the cupboards, and throwing a soiled white towel into the laundry bag sitting in the corner. “She had boyfriends. Lots of ’em. Heard the police found some interesting things at her apartment.”

I wondered if he had been one of her boyfriends, so I watched him with eagle-eye attention as I fished. “I actually heard she dated one of the players?”

Steve scoffed. “One?”

“What do you—”

“Stop.” The word snapped from Larry’s pursed lips like a bullet from a gun.

Steve’s eyes pinched together. “Larry,” he said, a heavy warning in his voice that piqued my curiosity.

“I know you didn’t like her, but she’s dead.” Larry’s chin still pointed toward the ground, but he raised his eyes to Steve. “Even she deserves respect.”

Ay, caramba
, the brotherly love was strung tight right now. I got the feeling that Larry was the voice of reason to Steve’s strong personality. Maybe he’d reveal more about the late Jennifer Wallace.

I tried to melt into the shadows, except there were no shadows in the all-white trainer’s room. So I took a step backward, listening, hoping they’d forget I was there.