Chapter 4

AFTER ENDURING FOUR straight mind-numbingly boring overnight shifts on surveillance that yielded zero leads on the case that had been at a standstill for almost a month, Tristan crashed and spent most of the day in bed. When the alarm he had set for late afternoon went off, he could have easily rolled over and slept another twelve hours. But he needed to reset his body clock and forced his still-tired ass out of bed. He showered, which made him feel slightly more human then rummaged through the kitchen in search of something to eat. Since shopping hadn’t made his priority list lately, he had to settle for canned soup and stale crackers. He ate his meager meal while leaning against the counter, alone in his kitchen.

Ah, the glamorous life of a perpetually single man in Los Angeles.

With the urge to do anything other than sit in a van waiting for something to happen that never did, he grabbed his keys, restocked his master’s bag, and headed out the door.

As he descended his front steps, and the fading light of evening cast elongated shadows in the courtyard, one by one, the solar lights blinked on. At the unmistakable sound of heels on the brick stairs followed by the metallic clang of the gate, he paused on his bottom step.

Piper appeared, stunning in a skirt and silk blouse, her hair up in a twist. She looked professional, and older, but still too young for him. That didn’t stop his dirty mind from imagining her with glasses and turning her into a sexy librarian who would dominate his fantasies for days and weeks to come.

With her eyes glued to her phone, the soft glow from the screen illuminating her face, she walked by without saying hello, let alone glancing up. Irritated by her lack of awareness—no surprise, it didn’t take much to get under his skin these days—he could have let her pass without saying a word, but he didn’t.

“Oblivious to your surroundings,” he drawled with disapproval. “That’s a fail on the first rule of personal safety. It’s also a great way to break both your phone and your teeth when you trip.”

With a startled shriek, she jumped and nearly fulfilled his prediction. He reacted quickly, however, catching her device while slipping an arm around her waist, saving both her and her phone from a disastrous collision with the hard brick walkway.

Tristan fought the urge to pull her close and kiss her senseless then turn her over his knee and paddle her pert behind for being careless. He opted instead to release her once she was steady on her four-inch strappy heels.

“Holy crud on a cracker!” she exclaimed, clutching her chest. “You scared the life out of me.”

“That’s the reason you shouldn’t walk around with your face in your phone. When out alone, especially after dark, you should always be cautious and ready to respond to potential threats.”

She tipped her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Are you implying you’re a threat?”

He frowned, insulted by the question. “I’m one of the good guys. Try being more careful.”

“Of course, you’re right.” Her quick surrender and cheerful smile caught him off guard. “Are you heading out for the night or just getting in?”

Soft and slightly throaty, her voice captivated him, as did the subtle scent of her perfume, a delicate floral-and-vanilla blend. Tristan cleared his throat, shifting restlessly in an attempt to ease the unwelcome stirring of his body and the sudden tightness of his jeans.

It proved to be ineffective, and his response, “Out. To unwind for a bit,” came across sharper than intended.

Piper nodded, her eyes lingering on him for a moment, her expression reflecting a mix of curiosity and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Have a good night, then.” She slid her phone from his fingers with the same bright smile and continued on to her door.

His gaze traced the graceful line of her neck exposed by her pinned-up hair, moving down her spine to her delectable ass in a skirt so damn tight, he was amazed she could walk.

A woman alone who took undue risks triggered his instinct to protect, if not his good sense. “Cautious also means not wearing that skirt again,” he called to her.

She halted, glanced down at herself, then at him. “What’s wrong with my skirt?”

“It looks painted on. You’re asking for unwanted attention.”

“It’s a pencil skirt,” she explained, bristling at his critique. “It’s supposed to be formfitting.”

“You should have a man to keep you safe if you wear something like that.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself when you speak? I’ll remind you this isn’t 1950.”

“I may sound sexist, but I’m in the security business and know what I’m talking about.”

He’d seen too many victims, mistakenly assuming everyone honored their rights, fall prey to predators. If she belonged to him, she could wear whatever she wanted, and he’d make sure she was safe.

Warning bells went off in his head. When did “if” replace “never” and his sweet, younger, hot-as-fuck neighbor who was totally off-limits become his, even hypothetically? The idea both excited and terrified him.

Since she wasn’t his, and never would be, all he could offer was advice. A list of self-defense classes in the area slipped under her door wouldn’t hurt, whether or not she followed his recommendation.

Before he pissed her off further, he headed for the gate. Too late. The echo of her infuriated growl—also hot as fuck—followed him.

When he reached the parking lot, he hit the button on his key fob to unlock his truck. Behind the wheel, he paused for a deep breath, trying to clear his head of Piper. But that skirt had burned into his brain, as much as her smile and her scent.

AFTER HIS WELL-INTENDED although poorly delivered advice, a week passed with Tristan not seeing Piper at all, which was undoubtedly for the best. But another tense encounter with her was preferable to what he knew he would face when he walked through the side gate of the community center.

It was a rare Saturday afternoon that he didn’t have to work. As such, he could think of a million other places he’d rather be than at a pool party. Digging a ditch and seated in the dentist’s chair for a root canal topped the list. But he’d never hear the end of it from Hunter if he didn’t at least put in an appearance.

Tristan often questioned his unlikely friendship with his TV director neighbor. Apart from being dominants at the same club, they had nothing in common. As an introvert, he liked to keep interactions with people to a minimum. His co-workers at Rossi were the exception, but they shared common interests and pasts. As for the club itself, he tolerated it because it satisfied a primal urge—less so recently.

Hunter, on the other hand, was the ultimate social butterfly. He didn’t just enjoy attending gatherings and parties; he actively organized and hosted them. His calendar was filled with a range of events from the monthly munch—a casual meet and greet for the kink-minded and kink-curious usually held at a nearby restaurant—to get-togethers for his vanilla friends whether it was a USC football watch party, a gourmet dinner at his place to try out the latest vintage from a new winery he discovered, or booking a venue for an occasion like today’s pool party.

Despite Tristan declining his invitations 99.9 percent of the time, Hunter never failed to extend them—except when it came to football.

Attending today’s event would get Hunter off his back for at least six months. A year if he actually got wet, but that wasn’t happening. If he even owned trunks, which was doubtful, he had no idea where they might be. He planned to cool off with a beer, instead, engage in some brief chitchat, and head home.

As he turned at the corner of the building, laughter, splashing, and the scent of cocoa butter greeted him. It reinforced how much he wasn’t in a party mood, but he could suck it up for fifteen minutes. After all, how bad could it be?

When he pushed through the gate and saw bathing suit-clad tanned bodies standing shoulder to shoulder on the pool deck and wall to wall in the water, he adjusted his estimate. Ten minutes. That’s all Hunter would get.

“I need a beer,” he muttered, heading straight for the tiki bar tucked away in the corner. As he wound through the sea of people, “Spicy Margarita,” the most annoying song of the year, blasted from the speakers. “And to put up with this shit, it better be ice cold.”

Twenty minutes later, because the line took all of his ten-minute allotment, Tristan stood in a shady spot beside the pool, sipping from his red Solo cup. He engaged in small talk with a few of his neighbors and some industry associates Hunter had invited, actors and crew from a drama series he’d directed. The show had received critical acclaim, but unfortunately only mediocre ratings and ended after only one season.

The conversation about their new projects included a lot of name-dropping. He attempted to feign interest, but his attention kept returning to the volleyball game in the water. More specifically, to Piper, who was wearing a yellow bikini that left little to the imagination.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her as she spiked the ball and dove for saves, her athleticism on display, but not as much as her curves. Tristan felt a familiar heat building in his veins, his body reacting to the sight of her in ways it shouldn’t for an experienced man of his age.

“Tristan, you okay there, bud?” Hunter’s question broke through his haze of desire and was a welcome distraction.

“I’m fine,” he replied, trying to focus on anything other than the pool and the desire threatening to consume him. “I just remembered a work matter that needs attending to. If you’ll excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, Tristan strode to the nearest exit. Trying to walk normally with a hard-on wedged against his zipper, not an easy feat. He drained his cup before pitching it into the trash beside the wrought iron gate. It did little to cool his body and his longing for the too-innocent blonde who had to be fifteen years his junior. That only added to the reasons he needed to keep his distance, no matter how tempting she was.

No longer in the mood to be around others, instead of heading to the club as planned, he threw a few things into a duffel bag. The two-hour drive to Santa Barbara would clear his head and hopefully rid his thoughts of a yellow string bikini. Except, having made the trip at least once a month for the past six years, he could navigate the familiar route with ease, and his thoughts drifted.

He’d seen beautiful women before. What was it about her smile, that dimple, and her killer legs in shorts that haunted him? He imagined her wrapped around him, heels digging into his ass, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust. And he dreamed of seeing her in an intricate tie, suspended from the club ceiling, her long hair sweeping toward the floor. He wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of driving into her heat, over and over, until their shouts echoed off the rafters as they found release.

“Idiot,” he grumbled, shifting in his seat as he adjusted himself. “You’re supposed to be thinking of anything but Piper.”

He forced himself to think about less arousing things. Hard-on killers like the obstacle course drills in the rain and mud during basic training or the morning runs during selection with a fifty-pound pack and the grueling four m.p.h. pace they had to maintain. Or jumping from a chopper into freezing water. He’d done the last twice in his career with Nolan, who’d had to overcome a mild fear of heights to pass Airborne training.

Thoughts of his friend reminded him of the reason he drove the all-too-familiar route. The obligation, which he took on willingly—how could he not?—was a labor of love. But he dreaded it for dredging up vivid memories of a pivotal time in his life that he couldn’t, and likely wouldn’t, ever entirely bury.

One thing was certain, his dismal thoughts were a sure-fire way of taking care of his uncomfortable problem.