Chapter Four
Reid
I’ve been sitting in this car for three hours.
Staking out Volkov’s house.
Waiting for something.
Anything.
And then I see her.
Again.
Second time this week.
Pink skirt.
Too short. Not short enough.
White top.
Sheer. Buttoned low.
Blonde curls.
Thick. Soft.
Made to wrap your fingers in.
Slipping into Vitaly Volkov’s back yard like she owns the place.
Juliet fucking Lovelace.
I remember her.
How could I not?
Sweet smile.
Soft voice.
Eyes that said I know exactly what you think I did, and you’ll never prove it.
Grimm called her a person of interest in the Tammy Walters case.
I called her a goddamn person of my interest.
Because she walked out of that station like she’d never committed a crime in her life.
And now?
Now she’s breaking into the home of a man connected to my current case.
I should get out of this car.
Should stop her.
Question her.
Find out what the hell she’s doing.
But I don’t.
Because I want to watch.
While I wait, I flip to the page with my notes on her.
Doodle in the margins.
Gut says she’s not connected to Oksana.
Or Walters.
Heart disagrees.
Cock’s got its own opinion entirely.
I draw a question mark.
She’s watched Volkov.
At the bakery.
While he shops.
Always from a distance.
Like she’s casing him too.
Is he connected to the Walters case?
Or her lover Orion?
“What do you want, Juliet?”
When she comes out an hour later, she looks different.
Hair’s mussed.
Lips redder. Like she’s been kissed.
Or like she kissed something.
She keeps glancing back, eyes sharp as hell.
I have to force myself not to slouch lower in my seat, like I’m some rookie tailing a mark for the first time.
Her, Volkov, Orion, a whole damn clusterfuck of broken, pretty people orbiting murder and obsession.
I wonder what she tastes like.
What her laugh sounds like when she’s not on the prowl.
What she’d do if she knew I was watching.
Bet she’d make a show of it.
Lift her skirt.
Flash me those thighs.
Dare me to come take a bite.
She moves down the street like she knows she’s being watched.
She probably likes it.
Hell, I like it.
It scratches something primal in me.
My cock is halfway hard and I haven’t even seen her face up close.
I scribble some bullshit in my notebook about surveillance and then draw a heart next to her description.
She slides into her car and disappears into traffic.
I follow.
Vitaly can wait.
She’s the real case I want to solve.
A few minutes later, she’s having lunch under the umbrella tables at the burger shop with Orion and someone else I recognize.
Callum fucking Anderson?
Suspect in at least ten murder cases. More assault charges than I can count. Grand theft.
Slippery bastard. Nothing sticks.
Dangerous as hell.
“Who the fuck are you, Juliet Lovelace?”
I scribble Callum in the notebook.
Orion feeds her a fry.
It’s fucking obscene.
Foreplay disguised as fast food.
Callum leans in.
Licks her mouth.
Jesus Christ.
They’re worshiping her.
I sip my coffee.
Shift in my seat.
Imagine her sucking my fingers while she eats. Picture pulling her into my lap. That little skirt a flimsy layer between us.
“You like it rough, don’t you? Got a thing for bad boys.”
After they eat, they all part ways.
Orion and Callum could be connected to Vitaly.
Or Oksana.
I trail her. A few car lengths back.
No lights. No radio.
Just me, my instincts and the gut-deep certainty that if I blink, I’ll miss what she really is.
It’s just information. Part of the profile.
I’m not… stalking her.
This is surveillance.
This is necessary.
My job.
She parks at a grocery store.
Not a dive bar. Not some seedy back alley.
A goddamn neighborhood market with too-clean tiles and cartoon fruit painted on the windows.
She’s inside five minutes before I even convince myself to move.
Just inside, I spot her.
Picking out apples.
Smiling at the clerk.
Arguing with some guy.
Dark hair. Silver at the temples.
Too old for her.
Or maybe not.
The way she looks at him says otherwise.
She nudges him in the ribs with her elbow and sticks her tongue out.
He flicks her forehead.
She laughs.
Holds up two bags of shredded cheese, mozzarella and cheddar, and the guy shrugs.
She frowns like it’s a personal betrayal, then tosses both in the cart.
He kisses the top of her head.
Not a quick brush.
Not a friendly lean-in.
He kisses her.
Like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Like it’s his place to do it.
Who the fuck is this one?
She was eating with Orion and Callum less than an hour ago and the way they looked at her like they’d set the world on fire if she asked?
That was nothing.
And now this?
That’s three.
Three men.
And they all treat her like she’s theirs.
How many does she have?
I’m not judging.
I’m not.
I’m just cataloging. Evaluating.
Definitely not imagining dragging her into my lap like the others never existed.
How many does she have?
And why the hell does it bother me so much?
They exit twenty minutes later, bags in his arms.
She’s not carrying a damn thing.
Just sipping from a bottled iced coffee like she didn’t break into someone’s backyard.
Someone wrapped up with a money launderer.
Her.
Already a person of interest in a murder.
He walks her to a car, says something that makes her laugh.
Fuck.
That laugh grabs me right by the balls.
She leans in, kisses his cheek, and tugs on his sleeve like she doesn’t want to let go.
A pit opens in my stomach.
He tosses the groceries in a car.
I note the tag.
Because if he’s linked with her, he could be tied to Vitaly.
But more so because who the fuck is he to her?
He walks her to her car.
Another fucking kiss.
Then she’s off.
So I follow.
Again.
Because there’s something off here.
Because she’s adorable.
Disarming.
Designed to be underestimated.
Because my senses say Juliet Lovelace is too dangerous to be left unsupervised.
And I want to be the one doing the supervising.
This time we hit the highway.
She drives responsibly.
Easy to tail.
We get off two towns over.
The mall exit.
Are we fucking shopping again?
Is this what murderers do on the weekend?
Lunch with two suspect men. Then shopping for apples and cheese. Now the mall.
I need to pull Callum’s file.
Don’t think Orion has one. Just some notes in the Walters case.
Can’t place them. Wasn’t my case.
Grocery store guy?
I’ll run him later.
She pulls into the mall.
Parks near the second level department store entrance.
I park.
Kill the engine.
Sit there like an idiot, staring at the doors.
Tell myself this is surveillance.
Professional.
Necessary.
I’m gathering intel on a person of interest.
Not stalking some blonde in a pink skirt who probably murders people for fun.
I’m in plain clothes. Stake out attire.
Jeans. Dark shirt.
Nothing that screams cop.
I brush my fingers through my hair.
Straighten my collar.
Like I’m going on a fucking date instead of tailing a suspect.
Need a new pair of jeans anyway.
That’s what I’ll tell Grimm if this blows up in my face.
I step out of the car.
Lock it.
And follow Juliet Lovelace into the mall.
She stops at the lingerie section.
Of fucking course she does.
Pink lace. White silk.
She holds up a bra, considers it, shakes her head.
Too boring, probably.
She picks something else.
Bright pink. Little bows.
I watch her stroke the fabric.
Wonder which one of her men will see it first.
Wonder if I could be number four.
She glances over her shoulder.
Not at me. Not directly.
But close enough that my heart kicks up.
Close enough that I step behind a rack of jeans and pretend I’m shopping.
Because if she catches me now, if she recognizes me from the station, I’ve got nothing.
No excuse.
No cover story.
Just a detective who followed a suspect into a mall.
And couldn’t look away.