Cuff Me (26 page)

“It depends,” she said, running a finger along his chest.

“On?”

Her hand fisted in his shirt once more and she tugged him downward, pressing her lips to his ear.

“On whether or not you’ve got your handcuffs.”

Vincent’s groan was low and tortured as he rested his face against her neck. “You’re mine forever. You know that, right?”

“I do,” she said, running a hand over his cheek. “At least… I’m yours until the next time I have to go to Florida, and someone with an exceptionally pretty face offers me a diamond ring—”

Jill’s tone was teasing, but when Vincent pulled back, his expression was both earnest and intense. “Detective Henley, I regret to inform you that while I definitely see a diamond ring in your future, the only one who will be putting it on your finger is me.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows in challenge. “How long will that take?”

“I’m guessing six years. Give or take,” he deadpanned.

And then he was kissing her again, his hands sneaking around to the back of her gown, and Jill grinned.

No
way
were they making it six years.

Lauren Layne is the
USA Today
bestselling author of contemporary romance.

Prior to becoming an author, Lauren worked in e-commerce and Web marketing. In 2011, she and her husband moved from Seattle to New York City, where Lauren decided to pursue a full-time writing career. It took six months to get her first book deal (despite ardent assurances to her husband that it would only take three). Since then, Lauren’s gone on to multiple books, including the bestselling Stiletto series, with more sexy stories on the way!

Lauren currently lives in Manhattan with her husband and their spoiled Pomeranian. When not writing, you’ll find her at happy hour, running at a doggedly slow pace, or trying to straighten her naturally curly hair.

Only With You

Made for You

Frisk Me

Steal Me

“Layne launches the New York’s Finest contemporary romance series with this stellar example of the genre. Ava and Luc’s sparks are immediate, and the evolution of their relationship—which starts with little common ground except a dedication to singlehood—is stimulating and realistic. They negotiate their professional and romantic interactions with banter that’s clever but not self-satisfied, and their moment of truth feels warm and real. Fans of slightly gritty contemporaries will adore this.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Layne is hands down the queen of witty dialogue and sexy scenes.
Frisk Me
was a sensual combo of both that left me dying for more.”

—Rachel Van Dyken, #1
New York Times
bestselling author

“4.5 stars!… The first in Layne’s New York’s Finest series is funny, delightfully steamy, and deeply touching, setting the bar quite high… A bustling, detailed setting and a stellar cast of supporting characters… provide the perfect backdrop for her characters and keep expectations high for the rest of this soon-to-be-a-hit series.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“
Frisk Me
is a terrific love story—equal parts sweet and hot. Layne is a master of both sexual tension and the soul-satisfying HEA.”

—Serena Bell,
USA Today
bestselling author

“I just loved this new series from one of my favorite authors and can’t wait to read Anthony’s story.”

—ScandaliciousBookReviews.com

“
Frisk Me
had a story and characters that evoked strong reactions from me and I look forward to the rest of the series. 4.5 stars!”

—Bookaholism.net

H
oly crap! You’re like,
that
guy! You’re
the
cop!”

Luc Moretti deliberately ignored the high-pitched squeal.

He took a slow sip of his much-needed coffee and threw up a silent prayer that for once, the women would be talking about some other cop.

“Tina, it
is
him! The cop from the YouTube video!”

Shit.

Pray as he might, it was
never
some other officer who was subjected to overenthusiastic hero worship. Not these days, anyway. It was always
Luc
who couldn’t do so much as get on the A train without hearing some form of,
hey, aren’t you that guy
…?

Yes
. Yes, he was that fucking guy. Unfortunately.

“Can we get a picture with you?” one of the women asked as they both closed in on him.

“Actually, I—”

Luc’s ready protest was interrupted by the deep voice of his partner.

“Ladies, ladies, let’s give Officer Moretti some space! The man likes to refresh his makeup before a photo op. Moretti, did you bring that special lip balm you like to use? The one you say makes your lips all rosy?”

Luc’s eyes narrowed at his partner as he reached up and scratched his nose with his middle finger.

Both women had already pulled cell phones out of their purses, ready for a shot with New York’s latest hero.

Luc shot another
fuck you
glare at his partner, but Sawyer Lopez was already reaching for the girls’ phones, gesturing his hands in an “all-together-now” motion.

Two curvy blondes flanked Luc on either side. Their too-sweet perfume was ruining his caffeine buzz, but he smiled for the picture anyway. The grin was habit, if not exactly genuine.

Once, Luc’s smiles for pretty women had been easy and authentic. Now they were reflexive, born out of a month’s worth of misplaced hero worship.

Sawyer Lopez, on the other hand, had no such hang-ups, and was in full charm mode.

“So where you ladies visiting from?” Lopez asked, handing the girls back their phones.

Luc took another sip of his increasingly cold coffee and rolled his eyes. At least
someone
was profiting from Luc’s brush with fame.

“Little Rock,” the taller blonde said, her fingers moving rapidly over the screen of her phone.

Luc had no doubt that his face had just been plastered all over every possible social media site. Again.

“Ah, that explains the cute southern accent,” Lopez told the woman with a wink.

Uh-huh. It
also
explained what the women were doing wandering around Times Square—a place no New Yorker would be caught dead in unless someone paid them to be there.

In Luc and Lopez’s case, that
someone
doing the paying was the NYPD.

Crowd control in midtown wasn’t exactly the sexy part of being a New York cop, but it was a necessary one, especially on days where the latest teen pop star was giving a concert at 47th and Broadway.

Times Square was every cop’s least favorite gig. But when there was a concert, parade, or holiday, it was all hands on deck.

“How long you here for?” Lopez asked, still trying to get the women to notice that he was giving them his best smile. They barely responded, still busy on their phones, and Luc nearly grinned at the irritation on his partner’s face.

A month ago, Sawyer Lopez could have gotten the attention of just about any woman he wanted. With the dark skin and jet-black hair of his Latino father, and the pale blue eyes of a Norwegian mother, he was never short on female company.

Then Luc had become an overnight sensation, and now Lopez had to work twice as hard for his share of female attention. Luc would be gloating if the whole situation hadn’t been so damned annoying.

“Excuse me, Officer, could you help us for a second? We’re trying to find the Hilton—”

Luc turned to the tired-looking couple dragging around
enormous suitcases and a cranky-looking toddler. Their expressions were more exhausted than star-struck, and he smiled when he realized they didn’t recognize him.

He’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be anonymous.

By the time Luc pointed the tourists to their hotel, his partner had finally managed to recapture the blondes’ attention.

“Oh
God,
no,” Lopez was saying. “Listen, you want
real
New York pizza, you’re going to walk a bit. I’d recommend—”

Ah, shit.
Once Lopez got started talking about pizza, he could go on for hours.

And since Lopez only shared his “pizza secrets” when he was trying to get laid, experience told Luc he was on the verge of being roped into a double date with a couple of Arkansas tourists.

“Lopez. Let’s move out,” Luc snapped.

The two women blinked in surprise at Luc’s sharp tone, and he felt a sting of regret for being a complete and utter dick.

He used to be good around women. Back when women had liked him for
him.
Back when he’d been just regular Luc, not Super Cop Moretti.

But then everything had changed. Thanks to a couple of tourists with camera phones and impeccable timing, Luc’s life had become a damned carnival.

Luc gave a slow smile to soften the blow of his irritation. “Sorry, ladies. Duty calls.”

His partner grunted something that sounded like
horseshit.

Lopez had a point. Luc’s excuse
was
a load of BS. The only duty they had at the moment was making sure Broadway didn’t turn into a stampede.

But the women nodded in wide-eyed understanding at Luc. “New York’s so lucky to have a cop like you.”

Luc heard the words like a jab to the jugular, although he forced himself to smile through the wave of darkness that rushed over him. These women didn’t have a clue just how undeserving of praise he was. Nobody did.

Pushing the haunting thoughts away before they could fully take hold, he gave the women a wide smile before dragging his partner away.

“I need a disguise,” Luc muttered.

“Nah. Embrace it, man. Get yourself a cape. I’m thinking velvet,” Lopez said. “I bet Clark Kent knows just the place to get that shit dry-cleaned.”

“Hilarious. I haven’t heard a million superhero jokes from my brothers, so please, bring it on.”

Lopez grinned unabashedly. “I bet the Moretti cop clan is loving their little
bambino
being all famous and shit.”

“You have no idea,” Luc muttered.

Luc was the youngest in a family of cops. He couldn’t even get in the door to Sunday dinner without his brothers bursting out of the bushes, pretending to be the paparazzi.

Generally speaking, his
bambino
status was hell, but he’d happily go back to taking shit about being the baby over this latest brush-with-fame crap.

Lopez skidded to a halt beside Luc, his eyes boring through the crowd as he slowly extended a warning finger. Luc followed his partner’s glare to a sulky teen boy in saggy jeans and greasy hair parted down the middle. The kid was seconds away from attempting to ride his skateboard down a very busy midtown sidewalk.

Lopez said it all with one finger and a look.
Not cool, kid. Don’t make me come over there.

Luckily the kid correctly interpreted the warning and had enough sense to keep his board tucked under his arm until he got to a less crowded part of the city. Or at least until he got out of sight of cops.

“Wish they were all that easy,” Luc said as they resumed walking.

Lopez grunted before turning his attention back to Luc. “So how’s your dad reacting to your newfound celebrity? I bet Big T’s either disgusted at the circus or thrilled at the prestige.”

“A little of both,” Luc said, tossing his coffee cup in the trash. “He’s always thought cops were supposed to be unsung heroes, but he’s not above wanting the Department to look good.”

“Even now?” Lopez asked. “He’s retired. He’s not supposed to care about anything other than sports and annoying your mom.”

“
Especially
now,” Luc replied.

“Ah,” Lopez said, nodding in understanding. “He bored?”

Luc grunted as he surveyed the crowd out of habit. “Just last week he threatened to take up paint-by-numbers if one of us didn’t go over there to watch the game with him.”

“Can’t be easy for the guy,” Lopez replied. “One day you’re head of the fucking NYPD, the next day,
bam
, you’re looking at a future of mundane arts and crafts projects.”

Lopez had a valid point. Just a year ago, Tony Moretti had stepped down as police commissioner. The adjustment to retirement had been a rough one, made easier only by the fact that four out of four sons were cops to carry on his legacy.

Or so Tony liked to claim.

What Luc was pretty sure his father
actually
meant was that Luc’s three older brothers were carrying on the
family legacy. But Luc… Luc suspected that deep down, his father didn’t expect much out of Luc. Not since the Shayna Johnson case had gone to shit.

Luc’s brothers may push the envelope on respect for authority, but none of them had had their partner die on the job.

No,
that
horror was Luc’s private torture. Private, because nobody talked about it. Ever.

But at least the rest of the Moretti siblings were on a clear path toward securing the Moretti family name as NYPD royalty. Despite his brothers’ penchant for bending the rules, all had made a name for themselves as some of the city’s best.

Luc’s oldest brother, Anthony, was next in line for captain in his zone.

Vincent was one of the city’s best homicide DTs.
The
best, according to Vin. Modesty had never been his strong suit.

Marco had taken his fair share of crap for moving to California to follow his girlfriend, but he too was moving up the ranks of the LAPD at an obnoxious rate.

And then there was Luc. Luc was just lowly Officer Moretti. The one with a dead partner. The responding officer on the Shayna Johnson case.

Until now. Now Luc was
that
cop. The hero. The one who couldn’t get a cup of coffee without the barista doing a double take and writing her phone number on the paper cup of his Americano.

For most cops, the attention would have been flattering at best, a nuisance at worst.

But for Luc, it was pure torture.

Because only he really understood that Luc Moretti was as far from
heroic
as it was possible to get.