Win a copy of Bad Cop, Worse Cop by Amber March

To celebrate my birthday, I'm giving away a copy of the first book in the Bad Cops series by that saucy minx Amber March, published last month on Amazon, ARe and Smashwords.

Synopsis:

When Janos Kovacs calls 911 about an intruder at his home, hot cops Dean and Brock are first on scene. When Janos's story doesn't quite tally, they decide they will have to punish him for wasting police time.
Janos soon realises that there isn't a bad cop, good cop here, only bad cop, worse cop...

Leave your name, e-mail and preferred format to win! Drawn on Sunday 22nd July.

Excerpt:

The report of a breaking and entering at 1278 Woodbine Drive came in at two am and the nearest officers to the scene were Dean Carey and Brock Brennan. It had been a quiet night so far, taking turns to doze in the patrol car parked up in a peaceful stretch of town.

The house stood dark and alone at the end of the cul de sac. Dean followed Brock along the side path through a gate to the yard, stifling a yawn all the way. Nights killed him. Anything that would keep him awake was a bonus. Watching his partner’s broad-shouldered physique, the equipment jiggling on his belt and tight pants stretched across his firm ass was definitely a bonus and guaranteed to keep him up as well as awake.

Brock was blond, six feet four and built like a brick shithouse. Gay with no shortage of admirers and a list of conquests as long as his arm, he liked it rough and ready and treated his lovers meanly.

While lean with muscle, Dean wasn’t nearly so burly, a shade over six feet, dark-haired and more clean-cut. They made a striking pair while out on patrol; the amount of propositions they garnered was testament to that fact.

Brock stopped, flashlight trained on the rear door, trying the handle and finding it open. He glanced at Dean, who nodded, drawing his gun at the same time as his partner.

The two cops stepped over the threshold. The kitchen beyond was dark, the small, neat space lit up by the bright flashlight beam as Brock swung it around. They stood listening a moment to the dead silence before Brock led the way down the hall, peering in through a doorway, gun levelled. He backed out, shook his head, craned his neck to look up the stairs.

Dean had noticed an alarm box on the wall. Wondered why it wasn’t going off if there had been a disturbance. He gestured to his partner to go up. Brock ascended the stairs on noiseless feet, gun held out, Dean following. The total silence suggested either any burglar had long gone or he’d injured the occupant to incapacity. Three doors opened out from the landing, one of them closed. Brock and Dean looked into a bathroom and a guest room, finding them clear before they approached the closed door, standing on either side.

Brock spoke up. “Hello? Is there anybody in there?”

The two waited. Dean had no particular instinct that anything bad had happened here and his partner’s fairly relaxed body language suggested he thought the same.

It was a few seconds before a quavering male voice answered them. “Yes.”

“Sir,” Dean said. “It’s the police. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then come out please.”

A shuffling noise sounded before the door was slowly cranked open. A slender man barely five feet six in stature stood in the entrance, blinking owlishly as Brock shone the flashlight in his face. He was in his late twenties, pale and dark haired, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms.

“Sir?” Brock said. “What are you doing here in the dark?”

“I… I was too afraid to come out,” the man said timidly, staring up at the two cops who towered over him, his blue eyes wide with fear.

Dean’s gaze drifted down his lean torso, noticed the PJ pants rode low on his hips, barely covering his pubic hair. He swallowed, stepped back, let Brock carry the conversation.

“What happened?”

“I heard somebody downstairs.” The man crossed his arms over his bare chest and shivered even though the night was balmy. “I was afraid.”

“There’s nobody here now,” Brock said patiently, voice soothing. “Why don’t you put some clothes on and come down. We’ll have a chat.”

The man glanced at Dean unsurely before nodding. He closed the door in their faces.

Brock looked at Dean. He shook his head and smiled wryly. Dean followed him downstairs, hoping to at least get a cup of coffee out of this visit for their trouble.

He flicked the light on and the two of them stood in the kitchen, one leaning against the sink, the other against the work surface, both waiting for the house owner to show. The man appeared within a couple of minutes. His concession to getting dressed had apparently been to pull a robe on over his pants, a flimsy thing that ended at his knees and gaped over his chest.

Dean folded his arms and gestured to the table in the middle of the room. “Why don’t you take a seat, sir?”

The man regarded them both warily and pulled out a chair to sit. He looked at them from eyes that were even more startlingly blue under the bright kitchen lights. With a good look, he was more handsome than Dean had initially thought too, his rather delicate features complimenting his compact little body, his dark hair cut short and neat.

“What’s your name?” Brock asked. “Dispatch says you hung up before telling them.”

“Janos Kovacs,” the man said. He looked at Dean, ran his tongue nervously over his lips in a gesture which made the cop shiver. A sudden arousal started to fizz down his spine and his cock began to fill. Something about this man was deeply attractive and excited him no end.

“Are you Hungarian?” Brock asked.

“My parents are.” Again Janos looked at Dean, anxiety radiating off him in waves.

“All right, so why don’t you tell us what happened this morning?”

Janos licked his lips again. “I was asleep. I heard a noise downstairs and voices. It might have been two men. I phoned 911 and I hid upstairs.”

“Then what?” Brock asked.

“Then you arrived,” Janos said.

Brock looked at Dean. He raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Mr. Kovacs, why wasn’t your alarm going off if someone had broken in?”

“It wasn’t set,” Janos said nervously. “My cat walks about during the night.”

Brock’s voice remained patient and steady. He had all the time in the world for time-wasters, while Dean usually wanted to slap a citation on them. “That’s not a reason not to set your alarm. Plenty of other people find a way around that.”

Janos nodded quickly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“And your back door was open.”

“I guess they must have picked the lock?” Janos said, a feeble question. He twisted his hands together on the table, glancing at Dean again.

Brock walked to the door and opened it. He examined the Yale lock and then the inside of the door. “There’re no signs of forced entry. And there’re two bolts here, top and bottom. You can’t have put these on before you went to bed.”

“I must have forgotten,” Janos said meekly.

Dean blew out his breath in a loud sigh. “All right, enough. You didn’t set your alarm and you didn’t lock your door and then someone breaks in. What did you expect?”

Janos shook his head, wide eyes fixed on Dean. “I’m sorry.” Something about the directness of his gaze, his meek submission made Dean’s cock even harder. He put a hand in his pocket, tried to adjust it discreetly and the house owner’s gaze immediately darted down to his groin. Janos’s mouth opened a little, his eyes widened and he sat back in his chair, shooting a glance at Brock.

Dean pushed off the work surface and went to stand at the sink next to Brock. “I’m not sure sorry cuts it, Mr. Kovacs,” he said sternly. “You wasted police time. In fact, I’m beginning to question if there ever was an intruder.”

“There was!” Janos exclaimed. He addressed Brock, perhaps starting to realise who was the good cop in the duo. “You believe me, don’t you?”

Brock regarded him placidly. “I don’t know, Mr. Kovacs. My partner’s instincts are usually right. If he thinks you made this up, then maybe you did.”

“No!”

Brock looked at Dean. Something passed between them, some green light and Dean had to swallow a smirk, almost telepathic when it came to Brock’s desires.

“Officer Carey is right when he says you wasted police time,” Brock said, his voice a little cooler than it had been. “I’m going to bow to him here and let him deliver what punishment he feels is necessary.”

Janos paled. His eyes swung rapidly between the two cops. “Punishment? You’re not going to arrest me are you?”

Dean regarded him as though debating what to do. “Tell me why we shouldn’t?”

“B-because… because I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’ve never done anything wrong! I didn’t mean to waste your time. Please believe me!”

“Hmm,” Brock said. “I guess we could let him off this time.”

Janos looked like he was holding his breath, his hands clasped together in front of him as though in prayer.

“I don’t think so,” Dean said with an inward smile.

Janos leapt to his feet. “Oh please! I’m sorry!”

Dean regarded him scornfully. “So you keep saying. Why don’t you show us how sorry you are?”

Janos bit his lip, eyes filled with confusion. “How?”

Dean spread his feet, pelvis tilted forward, cock straining his tight pants to bursting so Janos’s gaze was again drawn down between his legs. “Come here,” he commanded.

Janos stumbled forward so he stood small and defensive in front of the two cops.

Dean took his hat off. Laid it on the sink. “On your knees.”

Buy link

INFERNO - OUT NOW

Inferno - 93,000 word novel out now from Silver Publishing.

Synopsis:

In Inferno, passion burns hotter than hell…

After the murder of a notorious rent boy in the relatively new gay nightclub Inferno, Moonlight Cove cop Zack Stewart and his partner Claire Keaton are presented with a bewildering array of suspects, all with links to the dead man.

Zack's chief suspect is arrogant club owner Dante Jardine, a man not so easy to unravel, and even more difficult to pin down. Soon the cops are knee-deep in bodies and Zack's priorities become more muddled the longer he is around Dante.

When his professional and personal lives begin to merge, Zack finds himself walking a dangerous road between being a good cop and giving in to his growing desire…

 Read the first chapter below.

PROLOGUE

 

The man found him in the back room. Thick darkness cloaked the activities within but failed to hide the moans and grunts coming from every corner. Corey Breton wandered about for a few minutes, spying on entwined couples, titillated and hard and hoping for his own action.

A figure approached out of nowhere, making him jump. "Hi there."

Corey flicked on his cigarette lighter. "You again," he said, as he looked up at the pale face. He licked his lips nervously as the man continued to watch him, a slight smile curling around the guy's mouth. "You just can't get enough can you?"

"No," the guy said.

Corey reached between the man's legs to feel the bulge there.

Lips brushed Corey's tantalisingly and left him wanting more. "Why don't we take this somewhere more private?"

Corey cocked an eyebrow, naming an inflated price but knowing the man would pay. "Two hundred?"

The guy regarded him a moment. "Sure. Let's go."

Corey was easy. He was just as happy to be fucked here as fucked at home in his bed, plus he wouldn't have to change the sheets. The man led him away, not the way Corey had come in but out the back, swinging the fire exit door open so the security light shone down on his dark head momentarily.

As Corey watched, the guy stripped off his jacket and threw it over the camera above the door. He turned back, light gleaming on his white teeth as he smiled. "Come on, we're safe."

He moved out of the circle of light and into the shadows of the alleyway and Corey followed, eagerly joining his prospective lover. They exchanged a heated kiss, lots of tongues and breath, Corey holding the man's head, playing with his neatly styled hair and then the guy fumbled Corey's pants open, stripped them down roughly and spun him around, crushing him to the wall.

Corey panted with excitement and tried to cling to the bricks as the man's hand cupped his erection through his briefs, stroking perfunctorily before, without warning, he tore Corey's underwear apart, sliding it off. Corey gasped. "Hey, mister!"

"What?" the man whispered in his ear.

"I hope you're going to give me money to replace them."

"You want more money do you, slut?" His lover slapped him hard on one buttock. Corey yelled. "Shut up. Do you want to get fucked or don't you?" The man squeezed Corey's balls then gave his cock a few hard tugs.

The rough treatment excited Corey against his will. "Yeah. Hurry up."

The man laughed softly, tearing a foil packet open with his teeth. "Desperate for my cock are you?"

"You know it." Corey spread his hands on the wall. He tilted his pelvis back, feet wide apart. A hand gripped him suddenly under one knee. He stood precariously balanced on one foot, spread open as a finger hastily smeared cold gel over his entrance. Then he was full, so suddenly, so shockingly, he cried out.

"Christ! Fuck!"

"Shut up," growled the man.

"Sorry, sorry." Corey whimpered. "Fuck, that's good."

The guy held his knee up with one hand and the fingers of his other dug into Corey's hip. "Good? You like a cock in your dirty little ass, do you slut?"

Corey glanced over his shoulder. He was used to being spoken to this way, but it didn't turn him on quite as much as it once used to. He touched his own prick, greedily stroking. "Yes. Give it to me."

The man started to pound him into the wall. Hard, slow thrusts which hit his prostate and made Corey's legs shake uncontrollably, his knee scraping agonisingly against the wall, removing skin and drawing blood. "Fuck, fuck…"

"Mmm, you dirty, filthy little whore, I can't believe how tight your ass is."

Corey grinned in triumph because he was proud of that fact and it kept regulars coming back. "That's right," he said. "Fuck my tight ass, you bastard." He knew the man's name but he wouldn't get him off by using it. He'd always liked Corey screaming his name.

The guy's movements were virtually lifting him off his feet, impaling him deeply every time.

"Like that?"

"Yes, God. Don't stop." Corey shuddered all over, gripping his cock hard, trembling on the edge of climax.

His partner didn't stop. His thrusts became jerkier, more furious. Something slid around Corey's neck: a wad of material with his own scent on them. Corey had dabbled with asphyxiation in the past with other partners and usually ended up coming in a hurricane. So he hissed in excitement as the torn briefs around his neck tightened and his orgasm rushed upon him in a blaze of white-hot heat.

"Filthy, dirty little whore," his partner spat viciously in his ear. "I gave you chance after chance and you let me down. Your time is up."

The cotton bit into his neck and Corey came, spurting gloriously over the brick wall with a cry. He put his hand up, tried to work his fingers beneath the material as he came down from his high, and his vision started to darken alarmingly.

No. Too far, too far.

The makeshift ligature dug so deeply into his skin that for a moment, Corey imagined being decapitated. He tried to cry out. His swollen tongue protruded as he thrashed against the body holding him against the wall. He heard a grunt behind him.

"That's it, that's it. Oh God, yes."

The man pulled free and slowly, Corey slid down the wall into a heap on the ground.

Chapter One

Detective Zack Stewart slammed his car door, not bothering to lock it. He crossed the parking lot, avoiding a puddle of vomit and a couple of used rubbers and held his badge up at the nearest uniformed officer guarding the door, grunting something unintelligible, still groggy with sleep. The cop waved him past the police tape and into the dark, sweaty club.

For a moment, he stood blinking, staring into the depths of Inferno, the premier—and indeed only—gay nightclub in Moonlight Cove.

That a town the size of Moonlight Cove—nestled somewhere between Dana Point and San Clemente on the southern stretch of the Orange County coastline—had a gay village at all was a source of great pride to its LGBT inhabitants. Sure, it consisted of little more than five bars but it was their own space, flying the flag for their sexual identity.

The first nightclub in the village, Inferno closed at five am on most nights. It operated a strict door policy and often ran men-only nights. Famous celebrities appeared there, competition nights gave away fabulous prizes. The club was the talk of the town but Zack had never been there.

It looked like Saturday night was still in full swing. The place was outfitted like a version of hell itself—all black and red, flames licking around the edges of the walls and up the spiral staircase, a mural depicting the nine circles of hell with quotes from Dante's Inferno. Other landscapes showed naked men entwined in a variety of sensual and explicit poses and made Zack's blood run hot.

The front door might have been cordoned off to prevent anyone leaving or entering, but it was business as usual inside—heaving dance floors, half-naked podium dancers and gratuitous sexual displays around each corner. Zack swallowed and tried to remain calm and detached as he saw his partner with relief and hurried to greet her.

"Claire, it's four in the fucking morning."

"The night's young," the attractive blonde detective said wryly. "Homicide in the alleyway outside, white male."

"Lead the way."

Probably a lover's tiff, drinking gone wrong, jealous bar-fight, that kind of thing, Zack thought as he followed Claire past the dance floor and rest rooms, down a long corridor and out of a fire exit. Zack squinted into the spotlights set up. The crime scene was taped off and men in white suits were meandering around.

"Claire, Zack," said the pathologist, straightening up. He was a rugged man in his sixties, brusque and to the point, but eminently good at his job. Suspicious deaths weren't frequent in Moonlight Cove and usually made him rub his hands with glee.

"Eric," Zack said, gaze straying to the thin, blond-haired figure on the ground. "What can you tell us?"

"Preliminary: white male, approximately five feet nine, one hundred and twenty pounds. Been dead around two hours. Driver's license id's him as Corey Breton, age twenty-seven. Money in his wallet, watch still on his wrist, one cell phone, switched off."

Zack crouched down at the victim's head, looking at the swollen, congested features.

"Ligature mark around the neck, strangled from behind," Eric said. "A pair of briefs by his side appears to be the murder weapon."

"His own?" Claire asked, glancing at the white material.

"I'd say so. Slight marking around his hips from elastic indicate he'd been wearing underwear."

"Was he raped?"

"I'm hesitant to say. There is some blood. I'll do a proper examination downtown but the killer wore a condom and there's evidence of lubricant around the anus. Not usually the actions of a rapist and not just that, but there's semen on the wall."

Claire and Zack looked at each other. "He came before he died?" Claire asked.

"Yes. Brick dust under his nails consistent with being held against the wall during sex."

Zack stared thoughtfully down at the corpse. "Rough sex gone wrong? Trying to get off with some asphyxiation and his partner accidentally kills him?"

"Possibly," the pathologist said.

"I'll run a check." Claire straightened up and walked away, flipping her phone open.

Zack glanced around the crime scene. Dry ground, no foot prints. He leant closer to the wall, wondering if the rough bricks might have snagged some fibres from the murderer's clothes. All in good time. Let the crime scene unit do their job and he'd do his. But it was four in the morning and he could barely see straight.

Back inside the club by the rest rooms, a uniformed policewoman was comforting a crying young man.

"I take it you found the body?" Zack asked.

The man looked up, blue eyes swollen. He was about twenty years old, attractive in a gauche kind of way. He straightened up, checking Zack out rather obviously, giving a wan smile. "Yeah. The rest room was heaving so I ran outside to take a leak. Almost tripped right over him." He sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his nose. "It's so horrible."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"All right. Give the officer your details and we'll be in touch if we need you again."

The man nodded and Zack wandered back outside. He blinked as he walked under a spotlight. He looked up slowly and spotted a camera above the fire exit. Zack smiled.

He'd managed to get his hands on a cup of coffee and was standing watching the body being zipped into a bag when Claire joined him. "He's got a rap sheet," she said. "Two arrests for drug possession—crystal meth—with intent to supply. Three arrests for soliciting. Suspended sentences or a fine every time."

Zack sipped his coffee. "So, robbery wasn't the motive unless he had a stash on him that our killer took with him. But they had sex and maybe consensually. Perhaps things just got out of hand?"

"Maybe," Claire said. "You spotted the CCTV?"

"Yeah. Let's go see who's in charge here."

A word with the bar manager, Anthony, led to them being escorted up the stairs to the next level. A line of men thronging the stairs eyed Zack as he walked past and he flushed, feeling hungry stares checking out each part of his anatomy. As they reached the second level balcony, Claire grinned at him. "You've got a few admirers."

Zack worked out three times a week and kept himself well groomed, his dark hair regulation short, his face always closely-shaved, but all his efforts were wasted: he was married to the job. One secret he had yet to share with anyone at work though, was that he found some of the men looking at him attractive and had to fight the urge to stare right back. He suspected Claire knew but was waiting for him to say something. He wouldn't be coming out any time soon. What was the point in stirring up trouble for himself when he was virtually celibate anyway?

Anthony led them along the next landing and up a second flight of stairs marked Private. Staff Only. He knocked on a door and opened it when a deep voice bade them enter. Claire thanked him. As he walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder and winked at Zack.

"I don't believe this!" Claire hissed as they entered the impeccably decorated office. "Every guy in the place is falling over themselves for you!"

"Hush." Zack flushed and straightened his tie, glancing up into the eyes of the man standing from behind his desk.

The owner of Inferno was in his late thirties, taller than Zack, around six feet four with a broad-shouldered, worked-out physique that almost strained his impeccably tailored suit. His hair was jet black and slicked back from his satanically handsome face. A stark black beauty mark stood on one cheek, drawing the gaze readily. Zack stared. He couldn't think of a more fitting person to own Inferno. The man looked like Lucifer himself.

The fallen angel walked around the desk—with a slight limp, Zack noticed—and his big body immediately dominated the room. He looked the two of them over, his gaze lingering on Zack. "Detectives, I'm Dante Jardine."

"I'm Detective Keaton, this is my partner Detective Stewart." Claire introduced them.

Dante shook their hands, his grip solid and firm, startling violet eyes appraising Zack.

Zack made sure to draw his hand back as soon as he could without appearing rude. He felt curiously intimidated and didn't much like it. "You know about the murder?"

"Please have a seat." Dante gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk and waited until they'd sat down before he settled back into his own chair. "Yes, I know. Dreadful business."

"I'd expect you to be down there in the alleyway, not hiding up here in your office," Claire remarked.

"Oh no, I wouldn't trample all over your crime scene. I'm safer up here." Dante's tone was smooth and calm. He smiled coolly from rather cruel, if sensual lips, the beauty mark stretching, the smile not reaching his eyes

Zack bristled. Before he could speak, Claire stood up and handed her phone to Dante. "This is the victim. Do you know him?"

Dante didn't take it, merely glanced at the photo. "Not exactly. He was a regular. I'd seen him around the club."

"Do you know anything about him?"

Dante arched a sardonic eyebrow. "About his lifestyle you mean? He was a dirty little whore who sold drugs."

Zack glowered at him. "You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

Dante looked chastened. "Forgive me. He didn't deserve to come to such a nasty end."

Claire took over again. Clearly she sensed Zack's dislike and frustration. "So you allowed him to sell drugs and solicit for business in your club?"

"Of course I didn't. He was frisked thoroughly every time he came in. He hadn't been caught with anything on him for a while."

"Why didn't you just ban him?"

Dante shrugged. "I don't know."

Like fuck you don't, Zack thought savagely. There was more to this than met the eye. He'd noticed a small TV on a table in the corner of the room showing a black and white image of the alleyway downstairs. "Is that your CCTV?"

"Yes."

"Who watches it? Just you?"

"Usually, yes."

"You mean you don't have your security people keeping an eye on it during the night?"

"I don't find that necessary." The club owner's tone was blasé, almost bored.

Zack clenched his teeth. "I don't think much of your security precautions here at all. In fact, they're shit. Perhaps I'll have a word with a few people I know."

Dante paled, his eyes narrowing. "Are you threatening me?"

"No. Where were you this morning at around two o'clock?"

"Here," Dante said between his teeth.

"Can anyone vouch for that?"

"Plenty of people. I had phone calls, the bar manager came up, the door manager came up. I was called around three-thirty when the body was found."

"You've been up here all night?"

"No, I was down at the bar till about midnight."

The two men stared each other down until Claire broke the silence. "We need to see the CCTV footage from the time the club opened."

Dante pushed his chair back and stood. "Knock yourself out." He went over to the desk where the TV sat and rewound the tape. "It starts at ten pm." Claire and Zack looked over at the black and white image of a circle of light outside the fire exit door. From time to time, crime scene investigators walked past, their white outfits standing out.

"Doesn't it pan down the alleyway?" Zack asked.

"No. That's it."

"Your camera is fixed above the door and just films that spot?"

"Yes. It does the job doesn't it? It's supposed to capture the face of anyone breaking into the club. Similarly, I'm sure it will show the face of your murderer. If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it."

"Oh no," Zack said, walking across the room. "You can stay here while we watch."

Dante stared down at him from his taller height. They were so close Zack could smell the spicy, intoxicating scent of his cologne. Despite himself, he felt a stirring of arousal. "Take a seat Mr Jardine," he said before he turned his back on the club owner.

Claire was already sitting in position before the TV and forwarding the tape quickly. Zack leant on Dante's desk and watched, stifling a yawn. The tape wound forward at a good speed but it still made for tedious work watching four hours worth of the small circle of light.

Claire perked up when a black shape slinked up to the door, nosing around. "Cat burglar?" she joked over her shoulder to Zack who glared and said nothing, not in the mood.

As the time on screen clicked around to nearly two am, something happened. Claire stopped, rewound slightly and then played the tape. But it was just as obvious in play mode what was going on. Suddenly a shadow fell over the circle of light before the camera went black.

Zack stared. "Son of a bitch put something over the lens. He knew it was there." He turned around to look at Dante.

"And you're looking at me, why?" Dante asked. "Am I being accused of something here?"

"Is there a fire escape down to the alleyway from this floor?"

"Yes. At the end of the corridor."

"Ever been down it?"

Dante's face turned to stone. "No. Why would I? I'm getting tired of the interrogation, Detective. Should I call my lawyer?"

Zack shrugged. "If you feel you need one."

The two men eyeballed each other.

Claire stepped in smoothly. "That won't be necessary, Mr Jardine, we're just asking questions, that's all." She shot a warning look at Zack. "Why don't we see what time the camera was uncovered?"

Zack turned back to look at the TV. Claire forwarded the tape again until the item blocking the lens was removed at two-fifteen.

"Okay, so our murderer went back into the club at two-fifteen. Someone must have seen him come back in."

"Not necessarily," Dante spoke up. "There's an entrance on the corridor to the fire exit from the back room. If he went back that way, nobody would have noticed. It's kind of, er, dark in there."

Zack stood up and turned around. He regarded Dante for a long moment. "The back room? Do I want to know what goes on in there?"

Dante smirked, an unmistakeably seductive look in his violet eyes. "I don't know. Do you, Detective?"

Zack clenched his jaw. "Do you have CCTV in there?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Dante said scornfully.

"In the corridor to the fire exit?"

"No."

"All right, that's it." Zack marched to the door and wrenched it open. "Fuck us around as much as you want, Mr Jardine, that's fine by me."

Claire ran after him. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for witnesses." With his jaw set, Zack set off down the stairs. He glanced back to the third floor landing to see Dante standing at the railing, pale and angry.

"Detective, if you lose me business, I swear I'll sue you for every penny you've got."

"Then sadly, you won't get much," Zack retorted. He charged down the next flight to the ground floor and stood looking over the dance floor a moment. "There," he shouted to Claire over the ear-splitting dance music, pointing to a black door.

Zack banged the door open. The first thing that hit him was the dark, then the heat and the smell of sweat. The next thing was the noise. Without warning, the hair on the back of his neck stood up and his cock stirred. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and switched it on, surveying the darkness, raising his voice.

"My name is Detective Stewart from Moonlight Cove Police. There has been a murder outside this club in the alleyway behind this room. We are looking for witnesses."

He stopped, his jaw open at some of the scenes his torch lit up.

"For fuck's sake, Zack," Claire muttered behind him.

In every corner, against every wall, couples and multiples were entwined, sucking and fucking. Zack thought he had stepped into a Roman orgy. He had never seen anything like it in his life, but then he had never frequented anywhere like Inferno before.

"Detective," rapped a sharp voice behind him. "Have you seen enough or should I snap a few photos for you to take home?"

Zack charged forwards. He grabbed a handful of Dante's jacket and propelled him back, pinning him against the wall, ignoring Claire's pleas to let him go. "You and I are going to go back up to your office and have a nice chat, starting from the beginning," he hissed, flashlight shining full in Dante's face. "And you can give me a reason not to close you down right now."

Dante stayed still in his grip, although his eyes flashed dangerously, pupils constricted to pinpoints. "I'll be calling that lawyer after all."

"You do that," Zack spat before he let him go, stalking out of the back room.

Claire caught up with him by the dance floor. "What the fuck are you doing?" She shouted above the music. "Do you seriously like him for this?"

"I don't know." Zack breathed heavily, running a hand through his hair, unsteady with the aftereffects of adrenaline. Christ, the things he'd seen… "Don't you?"

"Not really. He'd have to have one hell of a good motive to start murdering his clientele."

"Look, someone's been murdered and he doesn't give a fuck."

"He's just a cold fish. Doesn't mean he did it. You were out of line back there, you know that."

Zack stared at her a moment. He didn't bother to deny the accusation.

"You should go home. I'll wrap up here for tonight."

"No."

"Yes. The guy's going to be all lawyered up and what will we achieve? Nothing. I'm going to do some damage limitation and you're going to go back to your beauty sleep."

Zack sighed heavily. "I want a background check on the bastard. I want CSU to go over the fire escape leading from his office to the alleyway, got it? He says he's never been down there. Let the fingerprints and fibres do the talking. And I want every Dumpster in that alley checked for the killer's condom."

"Okay, fine. Now go."

Zack glanced up the stairs. Dante stood on the third floor landing looking down at him with an unreadable expression on his face. "Good night," Zack told Claire.

She patted his shoulder. "See you in the morning."

* * * *

"Your partner's a fucking maniac," Dante said when Claire reached the top of the stairs, sliding her phone back into her pocket.

She shrugged. "He's tired, overworked."

"That's an excuse?"

"Can we talk?"

"Yes, if you're not going to accuse me of murder with no good reason. I'll get some coffee sent up."

Dante's coffee was like him—hot, dark and smouldering. Claire already had him pegged as gay—did a straight man run a gay nightclub?—or she would have been seriously interested, cold fish or not.

"So," she said, warming her hands on the mug. Not because it was cold in Dante's cosy office but because tiredness always made her shivery. "About my partner's behaviour…"

"He's an asshole," Dante cut in.

Claire didn't deign the comment with a reply. She'd worked with Zack for two years. Secretive about his personal life, yes, asshole, definitely not. "As I said… perhaps you should see it from his point of view. You acted like you couldn't care less that a young man died on your premises."

For the first time, Dante looked ashamed. "I've been under stress. The club's just opened, it's been hard work."

Claire leant forwards. "What did you do before this?"

A wry smile crossed Dante's frozen face. "I was a cop in Long Beach. Vice squad."

Claire gaped at him.

"I was shot on the job. My partner was killed. Decided not to go back."

The limp. "That explains a lot," she said.

"It does?"

"Yeah. Your… lack of emotion."

A slight flush stained Dante's pale cheeks. "Yeah well, I learned to switch off. Some of the stuff I saw…" He looked away, his lips drawn into a thin line.

For a moment silence hung heavy. Claire used the time to furiously berate herself at finding herself even more drawn to this man than she had been on first meeting him. She cleared her throat. "We need to discuss what we saw in your back room, Mr Jardine."

Dante snapped back to attention. "Detective, the men of Moonlight Cove work hard and play hard. They have a right to let off steam where no one's going to judge them or tell them they're wrong."

"Laudable, but that was pornographic down there."

Dante shrugged. "That's your definition. Nobody's being hurt. Safe sex is practiced, I make sure of it."

"What do you do, go down there and monitor every cock?"

A sly smirk curled around Dante's cruel mouth. "It's funny but I couldn't understand why your partner got so wound up about it when it clearly gets him going."

Claire's cheeks heated. "Excuse me?" She knew what he meant. Something like anger filled her at the fact this stranger apparently knew something about Zack that he hadn't told Claire in two years of close working.

Dante sat back in his chair. "Forgive me for getting personal."

"Too personal," Claire snapped. "Let's stick to the business in hand. I want the back room closed."

Dante shook his head. "You're here to investigate a murder, Detective, and I'll give you all the help you need but please, let me run my club how I see fit. I'm not breaking any laws."

"Public indecency? You worked vice and you're telling me you're not running some obscene den of iniquity down there?"

Dante's grin took Claire aback. His teeth were blindingly white and perfect but they looked natural as opposed to veneered. The smile made his eyes glitter. For a moment he seemed almost human and God… she wanted him. "You sound positively Victorian, Detective. It's the twenty-first century and men love men, that's a fact."

"That's not what bothers me, Mr Jardine."

"Stop calling me that. Mr Jardine is my father. My name's Dante."

Claire smiled. She sensed a thaw, finally. "Well, Dante, for the time being, I've bigger fish to fry but I don't think my partner will let it go so easily."

"I'll have a word with your partner. I'm sure we can come to some sort of compromise." Dante smiled enigmatically and Claire got it then. She got Zack's aggression and hostility. Of course. He had been as attracted to Dante as she was. Christ. This was not what she needed.

She cleared her throat. "So, Corey Breton, how often did he come in here?"

"Once a week, twice maybe."

"I didn't tell you his name."

"What?"

"When I showed you his photo. I didn't tell you his name."

"Christ, you're so suspicious of me, Detective, and I don't know why. I knew his name, okay, he was trouble. I had reason to know his name."

"You said he was a dirty little whore. How did you know that?"

"I watched him take men into the back room."

"For money?"

"Yeah, I saw them pay him."

"You're very observant for a busy man. You give me the impression you stood around watching him every night."

Dante glared at her. "After he was caught with drugs a few times I made it my business to watch him. This is my livelihood, Detective, nothing's going to ruin that."

There was a motive if ever she'd heard one, Claire mused, but hardly a good one. Dante could have just banned Corey from his club. That's all he needed to do.

Dante rubbed his eyes. "It's closing time, Detective, and I'm tired. Can we call it a night?"

Claire finished her coffee and put the cup down on Dante's desk. As she rose, so did he, holding out his hand. "Thanks for your time. I'm sure I'll see you again."

Dante smiled wryly, shaking her hand. "I'm sure you will. Good night."

"Good night." Claire turned and left the office, closing the door after her. She walked down the two flights of stairs just as the DJ announced last orders at the bar. Glancing upwards, she saw Dante standing at the rail looking down at her.

* * * *

That bastard. Zack should have knocked his head off. Or arrested him for running some sort of whorehouse. He lay in bed, still fuming, still frustrated and angry while a calm, sly voice asked him just why he was so frustrated.

Yes, okay, he told it, the verbal and physical sparring with Dante had kind of excited him. All right, more than excited him. His hard cock was testament to the fact. He had been hard all the way home and remained hard an hour later, try as he might to ignore it.

But he wasn't the only one. When he'd grabbed the nightclub owner and thrown him against the wall, he had felt Dante's hard cock against his own. Hard at what Zack's flashlight had illuminated or aroused by the sparring the way Zack was?

Fuck him. He was a sly, cold bastard who clearly got off on knowing Zack was in the closet and taunting him with that fact in front of Claire. He'd had motive and he'd had opportunity and he'd do as a suspect for now in the absence of another. Zack wasn't above a little bit of police harassment. And there was no one he would rather harass more than Dante.

He shuddered at the thought. He imagined arresting the nightclub owner. Manhandling him into a pair of cuffs, shoving him into a cell, the door locking behind them. Touching the beauty mark on his cheek. Tracing its edges with his tongue. Then Dante in that suit face down, with his ass bared and jacket shoved up, silk lining exposed, hands cuffed behind his back as Zack rode him like a bucking bronco.

A whimper spilled past his tightly clenched lips. "Stop," Zack moaned helplessly, addressing that wild imagination of his.

He tried to think of tax returns, police paperwork, overtime, the body in the alleyway, but he came back time and time again to this. Dante at his mercy in a cell. His pyjama bottoms were damp. He wrenched them down, found his cock wet with pre-cum and slicked it along his shaft, gasping at the feel of his hand on his needy flesh.

"Fuck, oh God…" He bucked his hips into his own greedy touch, imagining thrusting into Dante's velvet depths, the nightclub owner shouting and writhing beneath him.

He couldn't decide if the scenario involved him taking Dante by force or not. Right now, he felt that's the way it would go, if it went at all. Giving the sardonic son of a bitch something to really complain about. A hot prick up his ass and even more of a limp than he had already.

But who said Dante hadn't given it to Corey Breton the same way? Taken him roughly up against the wall and then strangled him with his own underwear?

He felt the heat rising from his balls and he cried out with pure ecstasy as jets of cum pumped over his hand, splattered his stomach, tons and tons of the stuff, testament to how often Zack even bothered with this activity.

He slumped down, sweating, sticky, his heart racing. Christ, he could have just jerked off over a murderer.

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