LifeoftheParty Read online

  Life of the Party

  Trudy Doyle

  Crimes & Misdemeanors, Book 2

  Detective Doug Welland never got over the sexual obsession that was defense attorney Gina Bardone, even taking a bullet to numb her rejection two years earlier. Now the fiery Gina is Congressman Jack Falco’s chief of staff, and she’s back from D.C., in trouble and begging for Doug’s help.

  The last thing Gina ever wanted was to destroy the love of her life, yet faced with divulging a sordid truth that could crush them both, she chose to walk away.

  Suddenly they’re given a second chance while chasing down a cyber-stalker, and Doug must once again confront their mutually erotic yet potentially fatal attraction. Gina knows she needs to bare herself in every possible way to get Doug past his bitterness long enough to give her the protection she so desperately needs, hoping the promise of love will make it all worth the risk.

  A Romantica® erotic romantic suspense from Ellora’s Cave

  Publisher’s Note: This title was previously published elsewhere in 2009, and has been revised extensively for Ellora’s Cave.

  Life of the Party

  Trudy Doyle

  Chapter One

  CAMDEN, NJ

  TUESDAY 29 OCTOBER

  7:42 A.M.

  La Boca looked up from atop the peach crate, her mouth crooking around flashy whites. “There he is!”

  “What’s up, chica?” Lieutenant Doug Welland tipped back his flask, the john scrambling past him and out of the alley. “So sorry to break up the party.”

  “You should be,” she said, ambling over. She swirled her hand against the front of his trousers and smiled, licking crimsoned lips. “Aii, es enorme, chico! Enorme!”

  “So all the girlies tell me.” He brushed her hand away and leaned into the brick wall as the whore reached into her satchel. “Cocktails after cock, sweetheart?”

  “Oh you so know me by now, doncha?” She took a slug of Listerine, swishing before shooting a stream into the alley. “La fórmula original,” she said, snapping off rubber gloves. “Cuts the nasty-nasty. Not that your billy wouldn’t taste like azucar without it, hmm, chico?”

  “The original Blow Pop,” he said, taking another pull from the flask. No one gave head like La Boca Rodriguez, made doubly convenient because the whore had a germ phobia. He glanced over as she worked her routine. Rubber gloves, antiseptic rinse, preceding a dick duly swabbed. All for a throat as deep as the Grand Canyon. Another quick swig. So they say.

  “You know, you just lost me twenty dollars,” she said.

  He snorted. “I just saved you ten times that in bail.”

  Her laugh sounded like gravel. “Aw, as if.” Then she peered at him, squinting. “Hey, Mr. Doug—you okay?”

  “Aces, sweetheart,” he lied. Christ, my head hurts.

  She dropped her toothbrush into her satchel. “I don’t think so. I think you’re lying. And I think mami has to get tough.” She leaned into him, her body warm and soft against his. “I think she gotta give you what you need.”

  Doug stared at her. What I need. He closed his eyes, squeezing back the pain, knowing no matter what, it hardly ever eased. Not when all he could do was think of her.

  Then don’t think of her! he told himself, but he did anyway, and the next thing he knew his hand was easing around the back of the whore’s neck and his mouth was seeking out La Boca’s boca. It would be easy, and by the look on her face he knew it wouldn’t cost him a dime. Her chest heaved, her lips parted on a sigh, her hand fell to his hip. God, this would be so easy. Or would it? To fuck real pussy again?

  As if he could. He let her go. As if was right.

  “Okay, chico?” La Boca asked.

  He smiled. “Muy bueno, sweetheart.” He pulled a twenty from his pocket. “Here. For the trick I cost you.”

  La Boca shoved it away. “Oh no. You know I can’t take no money from you. I do that and boom, I’m riding in the back of your police car.”

  “What good would it do to arrest the best little cocksucker in Camden?”

  She beamed. “You said it, chico. And that’s why I—”

  “There you are, Dougie-boy.”

  Doug turned. Oh Christ. Stewart. He ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. “Didn’t know they were flushing the sewers this early in the morning.”

  Lieutenant Wade Stewart tilted his gleaming brown head, lighting a smoke as he leaned against the wall. “And look what they washed out. My ol’ pal.” Stewart caught the whore’s arm as she tried to slip past. “Hey, cucaracha, where you going? Dougie ain’t the only one on the squad who needs his pipes cleaned, you know.”

  La Boca smiled sweetly. “You jumping over to my side of the fence now, mi chocolate?” She slid her hand inside his jacket and up his broad chest. “Let La Boca be the first.”

  He grinned, pinching her cheek. “You’re missing my meaning, hot pants. I’m just thinking all the dollars I could make off of you.” He spanked her spandexed ass. “Now go on, get out of here.”

  “Con mucho gusto,” she chirped, scuttling away.

  “So, what you doing doggin’ me in alleys?” Doug asked. “What, the boys holding out on you?”

  Stewart’s mouth quirked, smoke shooting from his nostrils. “You’re a sick motherfucker, you know that?”

  Doug jabbed Stewart’s shoulder. “That’s what they’re saying, sweet pea. And I’m kind of inclined to agree.” He walked to the curb, surveying the line of boarded-up houses—the street so much meaner with the autumn leaves half gone. “So what do you want, anyway?”

  The detective flicked his cigarette to the sidewalk, crushing it. “Not to put a damper on your buzz, but the captain wants to see you. And since you’re not answering your phone, he had the brilliant idea that maybe, just maybe, his partner might know where you were.”

  Doug pulled out his phone, pressing it on. He scrolled, seeing three messages from the captain, two from Stewart, one from a squeal and one more from…he had no idea.

  “Since when are you turning off your phone?” Stewart asked.

  Who the hell was 609-387…? All it said was New Jersey. “Aw…did you miss me?” He slid the phone into his pocket, scanning the street. “Where’s the car?”

  Stewart looked at him. “Where’s yours?”

  Doug stepped into a gutter full of broken glass. “On a gorgeous day like today? I’m out for a stroll.”

  “Jesus,” Stewart said, aiming toward the unmarked Crown Victoria. “You really don’t give a fuck, do you?”

  “All part of the package, my boy,” Doug said, swinging himself into the passenger seat. “Unlike you, I’m exactly what I seem.”

  “Dude, my days on the down-low are ancient history. The difference is I know it.”

  Doug leaned back, took one more swig, then closed his eyes. “Let me know when we’re there.”

  “Asshole,” Stewart muttered, pulling into the street.

  * * * * *

  FIFTH DISTRICT, CITY OF CAMDEN POLICE DEPARTMENT

  DETECTIVE UNIT

  8:17A.M.

  Doug looked to his partner, the squad room raucous with uniforms, staff and witnesses, plus the random handcuffed suspect. “So what’s he want?”

  “I have no idea,” Stewart said, pouring a cup of hours-old coffee. He glanced toward Captain Halchak’s glass-walled office. “Let me know when you find out.”

  Doug popped an Altoid. “You’re not coming?”

  “Wasn’t invited.” Stewart smiled. “Give him my best.”

  Doug turned toward the office. “Just what I fucking need.”

  “That better be you, Welland,” he heard when he got there and, straightening his tie, went in.

  The captain glanced up from his computer, his index fingers ta
pping away. “Your phone broken?”

  Doug leaned against the door, hands in pockets. “No sir. It must have accidentally shut off when I dropped it.”

  “Really.”

  He shrugged. “You know. Things happen.”

  “Yeah. Like me, accidentally dropping you off the roster.”

  “What?” he said, straightening.

  A few more taps and the captain looked up. “Sit.”

  After a moment or two, he did.

  Captain Alex Halchak leaned back in his chair, assessing. A thirty-year veteran, the captain was nearly unflappable. Except for a little gray around the temples, he belied his fifty-four years with a fitness absent in many men half his age. He took one more look at the computer screen then turned to the detective thirteen years his junior.

  “You’re officially on leave,” he said.

  “You’re joking.”

  The captain laughed. “I don’t joke. And you don’t have shit to say about it.”

  “I sure as hell do. I passed every physical they gave me, even passed the psycho.”

  “All except one.”

  “Which one’s that?”

  He leaned in. “Mine.”

  Doug started to say something, then dropped it. He wanted to punch the wall.

  “Look, this isn’t easy for me. You’re a good cop and a smart one too, and I’ll tell you why. You never let bullshit get in the way of common sense. I mean, hell—take that partner of yours. No one wanted to work with him, but you saw right away what he is doesn’t mean shit to the job.”

  “Because I had my asshole sewed up.”

  The captain laughed. “More like he could kick that ass six ways to Sunday.”

  “Well, that too.”

  “The thing is,” Halchak continued, “it’s been two and a half years, Welland, and still you’re dragging those chains. Normally I’d leave your personal life alone, but unlike Stewart out there, it is screwing with the job. Your judgment’s shot to hell.”

  Doug felt his insides tighten. “Don’t tell me you’re talking about the shooting again.”

  “Oh now there’s a brilliant deduction.”

  He’d never let it go, would he? A gang-banging two and a half years earlier, he and his old partner. Each took a bullet, his partner a round in his armor, Doug two inches from his heart.

  “Drop it already,” said Doug, stiffening. “I have.”

  “The hell you have. Face it, you should’ve never gone in there.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice. The thing is, Carmelli went in to stop some bad guys. You went in to stop a bullet.”

  Doug’s fingers clawed into the armrest. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but you’re way out of line.”

  “Am I? Then explain to me why one of the best cops I ever knew is becoming the worst. Who cares more about getting his drunk on than protecting the innocents from the crazies, or about how many shitbuckets he can piss off bad enough so they’ll pop him and get it over with. Listen, I’m all for you proving me wrong, and if you want to do that, then here’s the thing.” He pushed forward a slip of paper. “Call this number.”

  Doug glanced at it. It was the same mystery number as on his phone. “Who is this?”

  The captain leveled his gaze. “Gina Bardone.”

  It hit him like a sucker punch. “You can’t be serious.”

  “That’s the second time you questioned my veracity, Welland. You’d think by now you would’ve guessed I’m not playing here.” The captain’s face hardened. “Listen, if I had put you on leave after it happened maybe we could’ve skipped this whole drama, but I’m gonna fix that now, so get this. Call the woman and face the damn thing once and for all, or spend the next six months on the psycho couch. She’s in some kind of trouble and you’ve been recommended to help her.”

  He flew out of the chair, slamming it against the wall. “Who the fuck in their right mind would ever recommend me for that?”

  Captain Halchak turned back to his computer. “Only your old partner. And he already knows you’re crazy.”

  Carmelli. The room went red. Roark Motherfucking Carmelli. Doug might just have to kill him.

  * * * * *

  ADMIRAL WILSON BOULEVARD, CAMDEN

  10:46 P.M.

  Doug remembered a time when even a glance down Admiral Wilson Boulevard would get him hard. Titty bars, peep shows, Live Nude Dancing—everywhere a veritable cornucopia of hard flesh and fantasy. Now ever since the Republican National Convention a few years back, the bridge road to Philadelphia was as white-bread-boring as a church lady breakfast. Razed buildings gave way to a tree-lined avenue with riverwalks, jogging trails and monuments, though luckily enough, a few holdouts remained. Doug parked his battered ’87 Dodge Aries and staggered into the LuLu Lounge, his mouth dry and his brain seething.

  The bartender looked up as a thonged and topless blonde humped a pole to hip-hop behind him. “Hey, Dougie, whassup? Scotch?”

  “What a lucky guess,” Doug said, scanning the dimly lit bar, the couches, the curtained alcoves at the far end. “Tracy here?”

  “Upstairs,” the barman said, pouring out a double. Doug downed it, waggling his finger for another. “So, how’s things at the squad?”

  Doug snatched the glass, downed it, then waggled for one more. “It’s Disney World every day, Sal,” he said, snatching the glass and the bottle before turning toward the staircase.

  The bartender sniffed. “For you, I bet it is.”

  The stairwell smelled of piss and perfume and Doug climbed the steps two at a time, the pulsing music below giving way to the low thrum of closed-door sex. He had known too many women like Tracy over the last couple of years, used them like tools to get through the job, a necessity like water for washing. He stopped at her door and knocked. When she said, “Come,” he could almost take that for a given.

  Tracy’s room was plush with pillows and scarf-filtered light. She pushed up from a nest of sheets and tangled blankets, her chestnut hair spilling over her naked back. “Hey, sugar,” she said in her Georgia drawl, her voice still thick from sleep.

  Doug leaned against the doorjamb, sipping scotch. “Got some booty left for me?”

  She jolted, flipping over, her surgically enhanced breasts perking like two ripe cantaloupes. “Dougie! What’re you doing here!”

  He set the bottle and the glass on the bedside table and plopped heavily to the bed as Tracy sprang from it, kneeling to pull off his shoes. He loosened his tie and slid off his jacket, revealing a holstered semiautomatic. He shrugged it from his shoulder, tossed off his shirt and slipped his holster back on.

  Tracy thumbed the leather strap. “This makes me hot just looking at it,” she whispered and, sliding a manicured hand up his tautly muscled chest, urged him back onto the bed.

  He stretched out on the mattress, gripping the brass bars of the headboard. He could hear her breath intake sharply and he laughed to himself at this effect he seemed to have on all the ladies, whores or not. He flexed his arms, making his muscles bulge, and Tracy responded by stretching out next to him, her pointed nipples pressing against his side.

  “You want me, sugar?” she asked a little breathlessly, her lips hot on his skin, her tongue traveling up his arms to his chest.

  Doug shut his eyes but still she appeared, always there, always there, always. He gripped the bars, his fingers so tight around the brass he could feel it collapsing, his nails digging into his skin, but still she was there. Go away,he thought, his body stiffening. Goddamn it, Gina, leave me alone.

  “Dougie…” Tracy whispered. Biting, nipping, her breath coming in gasps. “Sugar—do you wanna fuck?”

  He rolled over and reached for the bottle. “Baby, I’m already fucked.”

  * * * * *

  CARMELLI RESIDENCE

  RIVERBORO, NJ

  WEDNESDAY 30 OCTOBER

  3:22 A.M.

  Roark Carmelli opened his eyes and immediately knew what
time it was. Same time it was the morning before and the morning before that, when he had awoken knowing what time it was then too. He leaned up on his elbow and looked past the mountain his wife was becoming, enormously pregnant and still two months to go. The Italian in him, the romantic and earthy side, congratulated him on his manly prowess, not only for making his wife pregnant their first time together, but with triplets for Christ’s sake, and no medical intervention necessary.

  The Irish in him, the practical but no less lusty side, congratulated him on his efficiency, where he and his wife, at forty-four and nearly forty respectively, had gotten their childbearing duties in under the wire and with the remarkable compression of two heirs and a spare. But the whole that comprised Roark himself was just proud as hell and terribly in love, which even at this late and unwieldy stage still produced in him a morning wood comparable to forged steel. He slid his hand over her massive belly, nuzzling her neck.

  After a moment or two, Pam stirred, sighing as she glanced at the bedside clock. “Three twenty-two again,” she said, yawning. “Jesus, Roark, your cock is like one of those pop-up turkey timers.”

  “What can I say?” he said, snuggling closer, his hand sliding around breasts grown twice their normal size. “Monstrously pregnant women get me hard. Especially when they’re my wife.”

  Pam’s hand roamed to his leg, sliding it down his tightening thigh. “I feel like one of those pagan fertility idols we saw at the Museum of Natural History. All tits and a belly as big as Santa’s sack. If this gets you hot, then, player, get up here.”

  “That’s not what does it,” he said, prodding her to open as he braced himself over her. His cock nudged her slick pussy as he slid one hand down her leg. “It’s the swollen ankles that really get me off.”

  “And the nipples as big as coasters? I feel like I should be giving birth in a potato field.” He brushed his hand down over her belly, his finger circling her clit. “Let me know how I’m doing down there, Roark. I haven’t seen it in months.”

  “It’s still there, don’t worry,” he said, easing himself in, half entering, as far as he’d let himself go. She groaned, brushing his cheek. It was almost enough to set him off.