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Satin (A Material World #2)
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Can a touch of Satin bring a straight copper to his knees?
Detective Joel Hunter is on surveillance when he first lays eyes on Satin, the singer with the amazing voice, which is as beautiful as she is. But when the stake-out comes to an end, he can’t resist going back to the bar. He gets a shock when he learns what lies beneath the satin dress, but an even bigger one when he realizes he’s attracted to the owner of that sultry voice – Ross Dauntry.
46,000 words. A standalone novella of satin and sensuality…
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“Any sign of him?” Detective Constable Joel Hunter muttered under his breath as he retook his seat next to his partner.
DC Tricia Mortimer chuckled. “If there had been, don’t you think I’d have got you out here? The call of nature would’ve had to wait.”
After half an hour at the Paradise club and no sight of Tony Rose, Joel had figured he was safe to nip to the toilets. Besides, Trish was right: if the club owner had made an appearance, she’d have probably hissed so loudly into her mic, she’d have split his eardrum. Not that they were to apprehend Rose if he turned up—they were simply to call in if he did. The drugs squad would make the arrest.
Rose had been top of the Met’s hit list of undesirables for a long time. One way or another, he was going down, and his drugs network with him.
“Is CID sure he’s on his way here?”
Joel shrugged. “They’ve got that many coppers watching Rose, I think they’ve covered all eventualities.” He and Trish were working with a drugs task force in an undercover operation. Thus far it had been two long weeks of surveillance, and he hoped it was coming to an end. Sooner or later, Rose had to put a foot wrong, and then that would be that. There were police officers watching Rose’s every move, at his home and the various clubs he owned, and Joel had spent long hours at several locations. Not that Joel could complain about that evening’s venue. It was his first stint at the nightclub, and his colleagues had already told him it would be a pleasant stakeout.
Once he’d seen the interior of the club, Joel had to agree.
It wasn’t a huge space: there were maybe twenty round tables arranged on the main floor, with a bar to the rear, and a raised stage to the front, complete with lush burgundy velvet curtains and a gleaming black piano. Each table seated three or four people, and in the centre of each was a small table lamp with a gold shade, dripping with gold tassels around its edge. The chairs were comfortable, and that was a definite plus in Joel’s book: he’d been in far too many places where the seats appeared designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, undoubtedly so that you wouldn’t want to sit too long in them.
The lighting was subdued, with wall lights covered in the same gold shades, set against a heavy brocade wallpaper in red and gold. Tasteful prints—not too many of them—adorned the walls, and while the stage was empty, soft music played in the background. All in all the club had a rich feel to it. Most of the tables were occupied, and the patrons talked in low voices, some eating, everyone drinking, while waiters dressed in black circulated, moving gracefully like they were on casters.
Joel and Trish’s table was near the rear, far enough back that they could see most of the club, including both sets of doors.
“Isn’t it time for another act?” Joel wanted to know. They’d walked in during the last ten minutes of the previous artist, a guy who’d sung songs by Frank Sinatra.
Trish rolled her eyes. “We’re not here to watch the show, remember? Want another coke?”
Joel laughed quietly. “Why not? Let’s push the boat out.” He knew better than to drink while on duty, even if he was on a stakeout.
Trish signalled a waiter and gave her order in a low voice. When he left them and headed toward the bar, she twisted around in her chair to follow him with her gaze.
“I’ll tell Sam,” Joel teased. “I saw you ogling that guy’s arse.”
Trish arched her eyebrows. “How do you know I wasn’t checking him out for a concealed weapon?” Joel snorted. “And you can tell Sam whatever you like. After all this time, she knows better than to believe a word you say.”
“Yeah, I forgot you’ve got her well and truly hoodwinked.”
Trish buffed her nails. “What can I say? She loves me.” She leaned closer, her chin resting on her laced fingers. “And speaking of lurve… Been on any good dates recently?”
Here we go again.
Joel scowled. “We’re not discussing this.”
Trish pouted. “Aw, but we haven’t talked about your love life—or the lack of it—for so long.”
“That’s because you’ve been too busy flaunting your wedding plans,” Joel retorted. “You’ve been torturing anyone who’d listen.” He was joking, but he knew Trish well enough to know how she’d take it.
Trish’s face softened. “Only six weeks now. Can you believe how quickly the time has flown?”
Joel knew what she meant. He wondered whether it was a function of growing older that time seemed to speed up. Then he had to smile to himself. Listen to me. Growing older. I’m only thirty-four. To hear me you’d think I was this ancient wreck.