Strip Search Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Praise for

  Shelley Bradley and Bound and Determined

  "With plenty of chick lit wit, this story explores one of my favorite fantasies ... a desperate heroine takes a handsome alpha male hostage. Much sexy fun is had by all. Especially when the yummy captive turns the tables!"

  --Angela Knight

  "Steamier than a Florida night, with characters who will keep you laughing and have you panting for more!"

  --New York Times bestselling author Susan Johnson

  "When Bound and Determined doesn't have you grinning, it will have you grabbing for the nearest fan (or man)!"

  --Jenna Petersen, author of Scandalous

  "A searing, frolicking adventure of suspense, love, and passion!"

  --Lora Leigh,

  author of Megan's Mark

  Berkley Sensation titles by Shelley Bradley

  BOUND AND DETERMINED

  STRIP SEARCH

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudeen Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  STRIP SEARCH

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation edition / July 2006

  Copyright (c) 2006 by Shelley Bradley, LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  eISBN : 978-1-101-00423-4

  BERKLEY SENSATION(r)

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The "B" design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to the memory of

  a great fan and friend,

  Elizabeth Benway.

  You never failed to make me smile

  and touched me with your kindness

  far more than you ever knew.

  I miss you!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With special thanks to Jenna Petersen and Lora Leigh. Both of you contribute to my mental health (in a good way!) by assuring me I'm not writing drek and providing needed laughs when I'm ready to go postal. You share your talent, your time, and your tears with me. I'm so grateful!

  Chapter 1

  "How do you feel about spending every night surrounded by adoring women eager to worship your body?"

  Mark Sullivan stared at his brother-in-law across the desk in the posh Manhattan office as if he'd lost his mind. "Is this a trick question?"

  With a rueful smile, Rafe said, "I got a call from my pal Norton over at the FBI yesterday. He needs a little freelance work done."

  "Really? Is that regulation?"

  "It's a favor. I owe Norton for keeping my ass out of a sling while I was ... bending the law to prevent you from doing ten to twenty in beautiful Leavenworth."

  "Then I owe him, too. Big time. But why don't you want this? He asked for you, right?"

  Rafe hesitated. "This is a little beyond my realm. You know my business is primarily electronic security. This case really needs a CPA, my man, and that's you."

  "Okay. What's up?"

  "Norton wants to send in a civilian, someone who has fewer rules to follow, someone fresh. The FBI has an agent in this location already on a separate case but ... they suspect something is up, that maybe the agent has gone rogue. They haven't heard from this person in nearly three months."

  "Got a name?"

  "Nope." Rafe shook his head. "Norton wouldn't spill it, just in case the agent is even deeper undercover or has temporarily stopped communicating because things are hot. In either event, watch for signs and steer clear."

  "Sure." Mark grinned. "When do we get to the part with the adoring women?"

  "Ha! I knew that would get your attention." The smile slid off Rafe's face. "We'll come back to that. Have a seat."

  Frowning, Mark stared at his sister's husband and lowered himself into a black leather club chair. The jagged Manhattan skyline jutted up into a gray sky, but the sight did nothing to distract him now. Why the secrecy? Why the formality?

  "Okay, I'm sitting. What's this about?"

  "Here's the deal: The Feds are chasing a Mafia connection. Money laundering. If they can figure out where the money is coming from and where it's going, they hope it will net them a big fish."

  "Makes sense." Mark shrugged. "So why are you looking at me like I'm a big game hunter and you're about to tell me guns have been outlawed?"

  " 'The tip came from your ex-wife, Mark. She finally gave up some information about her connection. With her trial starting soon, she's looking for a plea bargain."

  Apparently she valued her plea bargain more than her neck. While he was glad she was finally cooperating, it didn't surprise Mark that Tiffany failed to grasp the fact her freedom would be worth nothing if she was dead. Appreciation for lasting things had never been her strong suit. She'd certainly valued quick, easy money more than their marriage.

  "So what did Tiffany say?" Mark finally asked.

  "She didn't have the guy's name, just a description and the name of the place he worked at the time of their connection. She claims her contact told her he would gain control of the money pipeline
this summer."

  "Okay." Mark realized Rafe held a manila envelope in his hand and wore a reluctant expression. "What's in the envelope?"

  "Nothing, really," Rafe said, looking away and tossing the brownish rectangular envelope on his desk. "Just some papers and ... nothing."

  "Bullshit." Mark stood and crossed the space in three long strides. "When I came to work with you, we agreed up front to complete honesty. Don't go back on your word now, man."

  Rafe rolled his eyes. "Now I know why your sister can sniff out even the tiniest white lie. You trained her too well, damn it. I can't even surprise her for Christmas, while she managed to blow me away with the announcement that she was pregnant."

  "Stop trying to sidetrack me. What's in the envelope?" Mark said through gritted teeth, feeling his temperature rise.

  Whatever it was, Rafe wanted to hide it bad. Since coming to work with his brother-in-law, they'd been nothing but even, equal. After a rocky introduction, they'd settled into a great working and familial relationship.

  So this shit just pissed him off.

  Rafe sighed and reached for the envelope. "Don't look at this. It's really unnecessary. What you need to know is, the guy we're after is Caucasian, stands just at six feet, is somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty-five, has dark brown hair and brown eyes, no distinguishing tattoos or birthmarks."

  "Gee, that narrows the suspects down to ten percent of the male population. Hell, that could almost describe you. Let me see what's in the envelope."

  Without further comment, Rafe sighed and handed Mark the packet.

  First, he withdrew a piece of paper with a candid head-shot taken out on the street during a cloudy day, along with small bio. "Blade Bocelli? This is the guy we're after?"

  "With the description Tiffany provided, I called a PI who owed me a favor. He narrowed the list of suspects down significantly. This is the most viable one. Bocelli is a mid-level thug, but he has a direct line to the upper echelons of the Gamalini Family, we think, through Pietro DiStefano. Bocelli's brother was Mafia, but he went to prison a few years ago for murdering a federal prosecutor. Anyway, it appears Blade Bocelli is the dude the Feds want to nail."

  "Great." Nodding, Mark reached inside again and withdrew an eight-by-ten glossy photo.

  The breath left his body in a single rush. Tiffany.

  Mark stared at the picture of his ex-wife, taken during their marriage, as evidenced by the fact she was wearing the wedding ring he'd put on her finger one rainy November afternoon. She had her skirt hiked up to her hips, her black high heels spread wide and a dark-headed man standing between them, his pants loose about his hips. Black leather stretched across the man's wide back and shoulders as he held Tiffany in place with a white-knuckled grip. In the heat of the moment, her red hair had fallen askew and her mouth opened wide.

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered.

  "You didn't need to see that, Mark. Seriously. I tried--"

  "It's not as if I didn't know she cheated." But it didn't keep the sight of it from curling rage through his stomach. "Some computer tech head, the janitor at the bank, now this guy. That's the least of her crimes, really."

  Tiffany didn't have the power to hurt him now, nearly a year after their divorce. Shock, at times. Annoy, every time.

  She'd only married him to frame him for embezzlement so that she could launder money for the Mafia and take her cut. A year ago, when he'd first learned the truth, it had devastated him. The knowledge he'd meant nothing to her beyond the means to a profit had flattened his heart. He'd loved her--or thought he had.

  Today, she was just a stinging reminder of his failure to see her for what she was, his piss poor ability to recognize what true love wasn't, and his really, really bad taste in women.

  "I'm sorry," Rafe muttered. "Look, if this case is too personal ..."

  Too personal? Being humiliated and duped was personal. Catching the jerk who helped orchestrate his downfall--that sounded like a good time.

  "No, I want it. If this Blade Bocelli is the scumbag who helped Tiffany on her way to prison"--while plowing his way between my ex-wife's thighs--"and he's laundering money, he deserves to do hard time."

  Rafe slapped him on the shoulder. "You're a better man than me. If I saw a picture like that of my wife with another man, I'd dismember him slowly and painfully."

  "My ex-wife, thank you very much. Besides, you don't have anything to worry about. My sister would never do that to you. She loved you, even when you were too stupid to know you reciprocated."

  "Point taken." Rafe smiled. "So, want to hear your cover? This is the part where the adoring women come in."

  Mark tossed the offending picture of Tiffany and her Mafia thug lover onto Rafe's desk. "Finally, a subject of great interest. Lay it on me."

  "You're going to Las Vegas. Blade Bocelli appears to still be living and working at the same Vegas nightclub he started at last year, shortly after it opened."

  "What do we know about the club?"

  "It's called Girls' Night Out. It's actually a male strip joint. Hence the adoring women."

  Mark hesitated. "I'm going in as the accountant, right?"

  Rafe's cat-ate-the-canary smile warned him that something was deeply wrong. "The club is actively seeking dancers. I hope you don't have two left feet."

  Mark stood. "Wipe that freakin' smirk off your face. I'm not going in there as a male stripper and taking off my clothes so bored housewives can shove dollar bills down my G-string."

  "It's our only in."

  Cursing a blue streak, Mark paced to the other side of the room and gazed absently over the midtown view. "I'm a hell of a lot better prepared to demonstrate karate than shake my booty. I've never done anything like that."

  "We have two weeks to prep. I've got a line on someone who's 'retired' from the biz and can teach you what you need to know."

  "But an exotic dancer? C'mon ... be serious."

  "That's the gig. You want to catch this guy or not?"

  Mark stewed in silence, contemplating all the ways he'd make an idiot out of himself on stage wearing nothing but a scrap of cloth with a piece of string up his ass.

  "Oh, and before you answer, let me introduce you to one of the major perks of the case," Rafe said, cutting into his brooding.

  Rafe reached into the packet again, this time to extract yet another photo. Only this one was of a woman in brief denim shorts and a red tank top, holding a pen and a few pieces of paper. Her head was turned toward one shoulder, facing whoever had been holding the camera, her expression look* ing slightly off-guard. Dark hair framed her face, drifted. halfway down her back. Slanted blue eyes looked a bit wide and startled, while full lips parted in question.

  Mark grabbed the photo and stared harder. She had a face beautiful enough to qualify as a starlet's and a body tempting enough to belong to the Devil's daughter. Immediately, his imagination turned unruly. He pictured himself parting her lips--with his tongue, with his cock. Her cleavage peeked out above her tank top, and his pants grew a tad too tight as he thought about peeling it off, holding her pert breasts in his hands, and kissing her nipples. Brown? Pink? Coral? Didn't matter. He wanted her.

  "I thought she might get your attention."

  "Who is she?" Mark demanded.

  "The club's owner, famous New York party girl Nicola DiStefano, Pietro DiStefano's niece and ... your new boss."

  A smile crept across his face. "Seriously?"

  "Before you start thinking about what a cushy assignment this is, there's one catch: The Feds think it's likely Nicki is in the dark about her club being used by Bocelli to launder money, probably for her uncle, a big-time Mafia man. But they don't know for certain that she's unaware, so she can't know her place is being investigated."

  "No problem. I'll maintain my cover."

  "Which reminds me, you'll be going in as Mark Gabriel.

  I'm having a phony driver's license and Social Security card made for you as we speak. But it's a bit more com
plicated than that. You've got to get into her club's books and study them. Find out what's going on, see if there are any patterns, try to glean who might be behind it all. To do that, you'll have to earn her trust."

  "Earn her trust. How?"

  Rafe sent him a sly grin. "Be creative."

  Mark had ideas, juicy, salivating, lustful ones ... though not deeply ethical. Being a guy, Rafe's mind obviously ran in the same direction.

  "C'mon. What are you suggesting I do, fuck it out of her?"

  "Whatever works."

  He rolled his eyes. "So while I'm working for her, I get her to trust me. Fine. I'll find a way to get it done."

  "It's still not that easy. The job isn't just yours. You still have to ... ah, audition."

  "Bring in the next victim," Nicki DiStefano called with a long-suffering sigh.

  Within moments, her younger half-sister Lucia appeared, thick auburn hair restrained in an elegant French twist and white librarian sweater perched on her shoulders. Nicki laughed as she stared down at herself. The black bra she hadn't realized she was wearing was visible through her yellow tank top, and her diamond navel ring winked in the club's dimmed lights.

  "So how was the first audition?" Lucia asked.

  Nicki pushed aside all thoughts of the ways she and her half-sister were different and realized this was one thing they would agree on wholeheartedly.

  She made a face at Lucia. "Blech! He'd been watching too many old Michael Jackson videos, I think."

  "Really?"

  Lucia laughed, managing to sound so refined and mature, despite being a mere twenty-three, more than three years Nicki's junior. Then again, earning a Ph.D. the same year she could legally drink, rather than learning intimately the inside of every nearby evening hot spot, did make Lucia more mature. Nicki had never finished college ... but she'd sure known every nightclub worth knowing in New York. She grimaced at the realization and shoved the thought away.