Give In To Me (23 page)

About the Author

Lacey Alexander
’s books have been called deliciously decadent, unbelievably erotic, exceptionally
arousing, blazingly sexual, and downright sinful. In each book, Lacey strives to take
her readers on the ultimate erotic adventure, and she hopes her stories will encourage
women to embrace their sexual fantasies. Lacey resides in the Midwest with her husband,
and when not penning romantic erotica, she enjoys studying history and traveling,
often incorporating favorite destinations into her work.

Read on for a peek at the first novel in

Lacey Alexander’s H.O.T. Cops series,

Bad Girl by Night

Available now from Signet Eclipse.

S
he knew how to do this.

She got out of the car, body humming, the mere click of her heels over asphalt somehow
adding to her anticipation. Was it from the audible evidence that she was moving,
getting closer to her destination after two long hours in the car, or was it the reminder
of the shoes themselves, the fact that she wore her sexy strappy heels for one purpose
and one purpose only?

The hotel sat along the water in Traverse City—a busy tourist town on Michigan’s west
coast—and the architecture said “modern yet warm” with stone pillars and lots of dark
wood to remind you where you were: the great outdoors, the “north woods.” Yet boating
and hiking were the last things on her mind as she stepped inside and looked around,
her gaze homing in immediately on the big oak doors that led to the hotel bar.

As she walked into the Lodge, curious eyes swept over her dress—red and silky, clingy.
Like the rest of the building, the décor was warm, woody, the walls hung with things
like old snow skis and hunting vests. A large mural depicting a family of bears spanned
the long wall behind the bar, where she calmly, confidently eased up onto a stool.
She didn’t mind the eyes she felt watching her—in fact, it heightened the tingle of
expectation, the eagerness now stretching through her in a slow-flowing river of heat.

The gaze of the good-looking bartender, in his late twenties, held no judgment as
he said, “What’ll ya have?”

“A white wine spritzer, please.” Once, she’d started out with cocktails and discovered
they made her too drunk, dulled her senses too much. And even simple wine possessed
the power to leave her tipsier than she wanted to be right now—watering it down with
a little Sprite made it just right. And that was the key to her trips here every few
months—making sure everything was
just right
. “Goldilocks Does Traverse City.”

The thought should have made her smile, but it didn’t. Nothing about this amused her.

Acclimating to her surroundings, she glanced around—without being obvious—to get an
idea of the bar’s patrons. She spied a creepy-looking old guy watching her from a
booth and immediately blocked out the ick factor his gaze delivered. Loads of masculine
laughter echoed from a darkish corner somewhere behind her, and the sound heightened
her senses. Three college boys ogled her, too, from the end of the bar. Too young.
But at least flattering. And if there were other females in the room, she didn’t notice—they
were invisible to her right now.

She could move on to another bar if she had to, but she’d give this one a while first.
This was like . . . hunting. And north woods girls understood about hunting—that the
best hunters were patient, quiet, still. They let their prey come to
them
. And then they struck. She knew how to do this.

Once upon a time, the endeavor had made her nervous—she’d questioned her every move,
analyzed everything around her; it had all taken an enormous amount of courage and
concentration. The act of walking into a bar, meeting a man, leaving with him, had
been accompanied by grave fear.
Valid
fear. She knew the kinds of bad things that could happen to a woman.

But each time she drove from Turnbridge to Traverse City, the two-hour commute transformed
her even more than it had the time before. She became no less smart than usual, yet
she was more in control; she was self-possessed; she was the one who orchestrated
the events, ran the show. Fear fell away to be replaced by power. And now, at thirty-two,
she could barely remember the fear of those early years—it had disappeared completely.
Now the moves came naturally. They took little more effort than breathing.

The night, the darkness, protected her. So did the low-cut dress, which showed her
curves and flashed too much cleavage. Cleavage that made a promise. The shoes, too,
were like sexual armor—they turned her into someone tall, willowy; they also made
her into a woman unafraid of her needs, bold enough to take what she wanted. Heavily
painted eyes provided one more shield, as did her hair. Long honey gold shot through
with warmer strands—she normally wore it straight, tucked behind her ears or pulled
back into a ponytail, but when she came to Traverse City, she used hot rollers to
change it into something wild and tousled.

The whole ritual, most of it taking place before the mirror above her dresser, made
her feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs—the very act of preparation exciting her hours
before her goal would be reached. Somehow the long, detailed process—and the rising
fever of expectation that came with it—made the whole thing more satisfying in the
end.

A few sips before her glass was drained, another appeared before her on a napkin.
She looked up to meet the bartender’s eyes and he gave her a small smile. “From the
guys at the end of the bar.”

She tossed only a cursory glance in their direction. The college boys. One of them
was attractive, probably a football star or something equally as ego-building, judging
from the arrogance in his pointed gaze. But in addition to his being too young—which
generally meant selfish and clumsy in her experience—she didn’t like him. A little
arrogance was one thing, but this guy was overrun with it; it was the most obvious
thing about him. “Tell them thanks,” she said to the bartender, “but that I’m meeting
someone.”

The bartender, suddenly her confidant, raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Are you?”

“I’m sure I will eventually,” she replied, all smooth voice and unwavering self-control.

His grin said he liked her style—then he headed back to break the news to her youthful
admirers.

She heard the football star mutter, “Shit.” She’d cost them five dollars, after all.
And a minute later he and his friends left, clearly seeking greener pastures.

When a highball glass was plunked down next to her from behind, she turned to see—oh,
hell—the old guy. Though he wasn’t as old as she’d first thought—early fifties, maybe—he
appeared grizzled, tired for his age. “You look lonely,” he said.

She knew she looked far more
ready
than lonely, but that aside, what man thought that was a good pick-up line? “I’m
not,” she assured him sharply.

“Damn, girl—I just came over to say hi, get to know you a little.” He sounded angry,
offended. She didn’t care. This was how the game was played—you didn’t have to be
nice. She had the idea he’d been drinking for a long time already.

“I’m meeting someone,” she told him. It was a tried-and-true excuse, easy to remember,
and not even technically a lie, since, as she’d told the bartender, she
would
eventually find the guy who was just right for the night. She always did. She’d never
gone home unsuccessful. Not even back in the beginning when her hunting expeditions
had also held all that uncertainty and worry. She knew how to do this.

“You been sittin’ here half an hour,” he pointed out. “You ain’t meetin’ nobody.”

She met the man’s glassy eyes, stared right through him. Any other time, any other
place, she’d feel stupid right now, embarrassed maybe, caught in a fib. But her armor
protected her.
“It’s really none of your business who I’m meeting or not meeting.
” She spoke pointedly. Knew she sounded a little scary. Enjoyed it and sensed it making
her nipples a bit harder than they already were.

The graying man with the tired eyes just swallowed, then moistened his lips as if
they were dry. “Whatever,” he finally said—then picked up his glass and turned to
walk away, muttering, “Bitch,” as he went.

“Sorry about that,” the bartender told her as he approached, apparently having heard
at least the last part.

But she just gave a short shake of her head. “No worries.” In her normal life, such
an insult would wound her. Here, it was nothing.

Just then, a good-looking guy with dark hair approached the bar, a few feet to her
left. “Can I get a couple more beers?” Sounding good-natured, friendly, as he addressed
the bartender, he lowered two empty longnecks to the smooth wood counter. Then he
glanced her way and offered a short “Hi.”

She smiled back without planning it. “Hi.” And the insides of her thighs warmed.

She watched him then as he chatted with the bartender—he wore stylish jeans, a button-down
shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was black as coal, soft, thick, and he
was due for a trim. He was the self-assured sort of guy who cared about his appearance
but didn’t go overboard. What did he do for a living? He looked like . . . an airline
pilot, or . . . maybe a photographer. He was smart, focused, professional—but not
a suit-and-tie guy.

How he made his living didn’t really matter, though—it was just a game she played
with herself sometimes. What mattered was that he was hot, handsome, and old enough—early
to mid-thirties—to know what to do. And that he had a nice smile. Not lecherous, but
not prim. She knew, even as quick as their exchange had been, that he’d caught a glimpse
of her cleavage and admired it, but he didn’t think she looked lonely. Or desperate.
Which was good. Since she wasn’t. But she was feeling more
ready
by the second.

When the bartender turned to get the beers, she made conversation, pointing over her
shoulder. “Is that you and your friends I hear having such a good time back there?”
The deep male laughter had continued, like background music to her thoughts. And her
easy flirtation had come out as smooth as always. Because she knew how to do this.

He met her gaze, his eyes a vivid blue that drew her attention. Blue like pictures
of the Mediterranean—saturated, rich, captivating. He gave her another smile. “Wow,
didn’t realize we were being so loud. Sorry.”

She shook her head, knowing she looked pretty and confident to him. “I don’t mind.
Just feel like I’m missing out on the party,” she teased.

He shrugged. “You’re welcome to join us.” But then he lowered his chin, as if rethinking
the offer. “Although you might feel outnumbered with about a dozen guys, most of them
drunk.”

“Are
you
drunk?” she asked, eyebrows lifting.

He thought it over, then held out his right hand, palm down, teetering it back and
forth, as if to say he was wobbling on the edge. She liked his measured honesty, that
he hadn’t simply said yes or no. This one held potential.

So she confided, “Me, too.” Yes, she definitely knew how to do this. Sometimes it
was so easy it was almost scary.

That was when she cast a surreptitious look toward his
left
hand. Good—no ring. And no tan line indicating he’d just taken one off. Some things
she held sacred. Even here.

“So . . . you meeting somebody? A date?” He wasn’t shy about letting those blue eyes
roam her body a little, and it made her feel even warmer, all over. She wondered if
her nipples could be seen through her bra and dress.

“I was. But looks like I got stood up.” Like everything else, she said it smoothly,
her tone indicating she wasn’t too broken up about it. Even in this particular lie,
she knew how to sound above-it-all, still possessing the upper hand. No one would
feel sorry for her.

The man gave her another bold perusal from his spot at the bar, one that left her
inner thighs literally aching. “Guy must be an idiot.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

And that was when he moved closer, sat down on the stool next to hers. “Can I buy
you a drink?”

She tilted her head, flashing her best flattered, flirtatious, but still fully in
control expression. She was
always, always
in control. “Sure. But what about your friends?”

He gave her a look that said,
Get real
. “Let’s see—I can hang out with a bunch of hammered guys, or I can sit and talk with
a beautiful woman.
I’m
not an idiot—I’ll take what’s behind door number two.”

As soon as the adept bartender set two open beers on the bar, he went about mixing
another spritzer.

“What’s your name?” her suitor asked. Or would that be her prey?

“Desiree.”

“I’m Jake,” he said.

Once her empty had been replaced with a fresh drink, her companion lifted his beer
bottle. “Should we toast?”

She picked up her glass and said, “To handsome blue-eyed strangers who rescue damsels
in distress.”

He grinned, clinking the bottle’s neck lightly against her glass, even as he appeared
a little skeptical. “You don’t look very in distress, Desiree.”

She took a sip through her straw and confessed, “You’re right—I’m
not
a damsel in distress. But you
are
a handsome blue-eyed stranger. And you’re suddenly making my night look a lot more
promising.” Then she glanced toward the room’s rear corner. “Unless you decide you
want to get back to your friends, after all.”

“Aw,
hell
no, honey,” he said, and she decided he
was
just a little drunk, but that was okay—even good. People lost their inhibitions when
they were drunk. And she wanted him. He was
just right
. Goldilocks knew when she’d hit the mark.

They talked then. About nothing in particular. The warmer than average temperatures
for May. The wineries out on Old Mission Peninsula. She was glad he didn’t ask her
anything personal; she asked nothing of him, either. And when he inquired, “What brings
you to Traverse City?” she kept it simple.

“Here on holiday.” It sounded European, sophisticated—and vague.

“By yourself?”

A simple nod.

He asked no more. He clearly got the message. She wasn’t into sharing.

“Dude, where the hell’s my beer?”

This voice came from her right, and she turned to find a good-looking guy staring
past her toward Jake—his tone impatient without being angry. Dirty blond hair, a bit
shaggier than Jake’s, along with a few days’ stubble on his chin, gave him the vibe
of a surfer. But the clothes—dark jeans, a zip-up sweater over a knit tee—kept him
looking well put together.