Barely Undercover: Legal Heat Book 2(2)

Twenty minutes later, Lana stepped out of the changing room and through the interior entrance of Vancouver’s most exclusive sex club, unrecognizable, even to herself. Although there was little she could do with the riot of red curls running rampant down her back, a heavy coat of foundation and a light dusting of bronzer had banished her freckles and darkened her naturally pale skin. Fake eyelashes and miracle eyeliner had turned her big green eyes into smoky emerald pools, and a slash of red lipstick had given her a trout pout to die for.

Someone had left a pair of handcuffs in the changing room, and she clipped them on to the belt of the risqué police officer costume she had tucked into her backpack for just this sort of emergency. Even if Angel hadn’t warned her about Rex’s penchant for sex clubs, Lana would have been tempted by the skintight, cleavage-baring, dirty-cop outfit she’d found in the costume shop. She was in law enforcement, after all. Sort of.

“Whit woo!” A short, skinny dude made a lewd gesture with his hips and motioned Lana over to his table. She tipped back her police hat and peered down at him through mirrored aviator sunglasses. Leather, chains and an overabundance of pink, spiked hair decorated his scrawny five-foot-and-a-few-inches frame.

“Really?” She rolled her eyes and sighed. She needed a real man. Big. Strong. Protective. Easy on the eyes. Dominant in the bedroom. Docile in the kitchen. Handy with a mop.

Heartless Bastard with a domestic side.

She searched the room, taking in the curtained alcoves hugging the curve of the wall, the tan leather couches and the new sparkly, red-tiled floor. No sign of Heartless Bastard. Her anxiety dropped a notch and she looked around for Rex.

Laughter and the clink of glassware drowned out the pathetically tame hip hop music buzzing through the speakers. Latex-, leather- and Lycra-clad bodies jostled for space on a dance floor near a roped-off area at the back of the club.

Taking a deep breath, Lana wove her way through the crowd, her fake handcuffs jangled on the hooks at the front of her barely there, strip-of-Lycra skirt. She wasn’t as worried about flashing a cheek as she was about cracking a smile. Still, it was way more fun than being nude in the morgue. Her last case, investigating an undertaker’s alleged infidelity, had given her a chill.

“Ooooh, Officer, I’ve been a bad, bad boy.” A portly, balding man in a cheap brown suit snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. The tiny skirt rolled to the top of her thighs, exposing her sparkle-studded G-string and the problem with eating too many donuts.

“Go tell your mama.” Lana stomped a stiletto heel into his shoe and the tiny handcuff straps on her knee-high boots rattled in what she hoped was a menacing way.

Apparently not. He grabbed at her thighs and succeeded in snapping one of the garters attached to her black mesh stockings. “Whaddya gonna do, sunshine? I’m resisting arrest.”

Stilling herself, Lana positioned her elbow to inflict the maximum amount of pain in his place of least resistance, and then remembered she was supposed to be flying under the radar.

“Resist this,” she hissed. She angled her elbow down and shoved it between his legs only half as hard as she’d originally planned. The man exhaled a breath and doubled over. Lana slid off his lap and made a run for the bar, pressing a hand to the built-in bra cups on her corset as her almost-Ds threatened to escape.

“Hey, stop her.”

Lana took a quick look back and ran smack into a solid wall of muscle. Rough hands gripped her shoulders, holding her tight. Her gaze locked on to a mini glowering Cerberus affixed to the front of a worn leather jacket.

Oh God. Rex.

“Where are you running so fast, pet?”

Lana jerked back, the deep growl from above hitting her like a powerful blow. Her breath whooshed out of her, and she instinctively looked down, hiding her face.

Surveillance Rule #1: Never be seen.

“Sorry. Just going to the bar for a drink.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the man in the brown suit. He had stopped about ten feet behind her. One glance at Rex and he walked away. Exactly what she should be doing. But she couldn’t give up. Not without a picture of Rex engaged in some morally or legally reprehensible behavior. A week of surveillance and the worst thing he had done so far was toss a gum wrapper on the street. He just had to be planning something bad tonight. The press hadn’t nicknamed him Rex the Hex for nothing.

Intending to head back to the changing room and slip on a new disguise, she tried to sidestep around Rex, but he thrust a meaty finger under her chin and tilted her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze. She inhaled sharply as he loomed over her. Bulky and barrel-chested, he had to be well over six feet in height and he had the coldest eyes she had ever seen. There was nothing behind those eyes. Not a flicker of emotion. Only darkness.