Betrayed 1(15)

I knew that getting close to Sean was the key to getting the evidence we needed to bring down his father’s operation. And the way he looked at me during the interview told me that he had one thing on his mind and that was what was between my legs.

I had to admit, my panties were more than a little damp when I left the interview. Criminal or not, Sean O’Connor made my blood boil like no man had before.

The question that kept running through my mind was: how far was I willing to go to get the evidence we needed? And exactly what would it take to get him to let his guard down?

Would I let him kiss me?

Would I let him touch me?

Would I touch him?

Would I let him squeeze my nipples and slip his fingers inside my…?

Whoa there, girl…

Getting a little ahead of yourself with that one.

I knew I would be walking a fine line. Ed reminded me of that fact a dozen times when I got to his office to tell him about my date with Sean.

“I think we should wire you up and have the team outside his apartment, just in case,” he said, giving me a hard stare as I sat across the desk, still wearing the gray suit that showed off my long legs. His eyes followed the movement of my legs as I crossed them.

“Just in case what?” I asked, giving him a blank stare like I didn’t know what he was talking about.

He nodded at the cleavage that was peeking out over the top of my camisole. “Just in case you need backup.”

“I don’t think I’ll need backup,” I said. “It’s just a dinner. I doubt he’ll reveal any deep, dark family secrets right out of the gate.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Ed’s door was closed, but the rest of the team was watching us through the window from the squad room. Danzig was out there, eyeing me like I was a piece of meat in a butcher shop window.

Ed sighed and held out his hands. “Okay, let’s talk about what you can and cannot do undercover.”

“I know the rules, Ed,” I said. “I’ve worked undercover in Vice, remember? Don’t worry, I’m not going to mess this up.”

There were very few restrictions on how far an undercover police officer could go in the pursuit of criminal activity. I could drink with him, dance with him, even sleep with him. I could do pretty much anything my undercover personality would do except participate in the harming of others.

I also knew that a good defense attorney would eat me alive on the stand if I did indeed cross that moral line because it called into question my credibility. However, if I was able to collect solid evidence that was indisputable through my efforts, regardless of how I obtained it, the case should hold up in court.

So, long as I didn’t infringe on his constitutional rights, I could – and would – do whatever I had to do to put the entire O’Connor clan behind bars.

The founding fathers didn’t include anything specifically barring the fucking of a suspect in the constitution.

Was this a great country or what?



Sean

My cock plumped in my pants as I watched Claire Goodman saunter her cute ass out of my office. I licked my lips like a hungry wolf watching a lamb grazing casually in a beautiful meadow, imagining the taste of her on my lips and tongue when I went in for the kill.

Everything about her turned me on.

Her eyes, her lips, her tits, her ass, the way she carried herself, the way she spoke, the way her eyes lingered on mine, and how she squeezed my fingers when we shook hands. I picked up her resume and brought it to my nose. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I could smell faint traces of her perfume on the paper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I opened my eyes to see my old man standing in front of my desk with his hands on his hips and his tongue sticking through the gap in his teeth. He rubbed a knuckle under his nose and grinned. “You want me to leave the room so you can rub one out?”

I set the resume on the desk and rolled my eyes. “Did you see her?”

“Oh, I saw her,” he said. “I assume she got the job?”

“You assume correctly,” I said. “You can rest easy now, pops. Your new secretary starts on Monday.”



I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock. My pulse quickened knowing that Claire Goodman would be arriving soon.

I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the back wall of my bedroom walk-in closet. I had on a dark navy blue Armani suit and white shirt with gold cufflinks, a gold Rolex on my left wrist and my Harvard class ring on my right hand. I smoothed back my hair and checked my teeth.

Not bad, I thought.

Not bad at all.

I made sure the housekeeper left the bedroom neat and tidy (women hate a slob), then walked into the kitchen where Jean Paul, the personal chef I’d hired to prepare dinner, was putting the finishing touches on the evening meal.