Bad Girl by Night Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  About the Author

  Praise for the Novels of Lacey Alexander

  What She Needs

  Winner of the HOLT Medallion Award

  “Lacey Alexander has created a book which literally ‘wows’ the reader. Buckle up and hold on tight. Impossibly hot!”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews (5 Angels)

  “One very hot, sexy, and erotic book. Full of sexual fantasies that will have you flipping the pages to see what will happen next!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Prepare to be swept away on an erotic journey of sexual awakening! The imagery and attention to detail will thrust you right into the sensual fantasies and erotic adventures.... What She Needs is very sensual, erotic, and will open your mind to infinite possibilities!”

  —The Romance Studio (5 Hearts)

  “An ultraheated erotic romance. The heat is on.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “This book sizzles.... Ms. Alexander explores the spectrum of the human sexual experience without embarrassment or ridicule.”

  —Erotic Romance Writers

  “Each sex scene is more varied—and hotter—than the last in this delightful read. Fans of heroes with tragic pasts will swoon over Brent.”

  —Romantic Times (4 Stars)

  The Bikini Diaries

  Write Touch Award Winner and Colorado Award of Excellence Finalist

  “Hot, sizzling, and sexy! Lacey Alexander definitely will scorch your senses.”

  —Romance Junkies (5 Blue Ribbons)

  “Ms. Alexander sweeps away her readers in a sinfully erotic yet surprisingly nongratuitous manner.”

  —Sacramento Book Review

  “With intriguing characters, [a] fast-paced story line, and tight writing, plus a host of naughty sexual adventures, Ms. Alexander delivers a powerful story.”

  —Love Romances & More (4½ Hearts)

  “Truly a phenomenal book. Lacey Alexander is a remarkably gifted author who writes exactly what I want to read, pushing boundaries with titillating sexuality, but never going beyond what’s tasteful.... Do yourself a huge favor and buy everything Lacey Alexander has ever written. You won’t regret it.”

  —TwoLips Reviews (5 Lips)

  “[The] most erotic book I have read. Lacey Alexander has written a noholds-barred romp of sexual delights . . . a profound book.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  “I loved this book. Each sexual act was well written and done extremely well.”

  —Night Owl Romance (5 out of 5, Lifetime Keeper)

  “I was completely swept up in Wendy’s journey.... Lacey Alexander is certainly the queen of what I fondly call ‘romantic kink’!”

  —Wild on Books (5 Bookmarks)

  Seven Nights of Sin

  Write Touch Award Winner

  “Lacey Alexander’s books bring out the good little bad girl in all of us. Unforgettable in an ‘Oh, yeah, do that again, please’ sort of way.”

  —Michelle Buonfiglio, myLifetime.com

  “Thoroughly tantalizing, with magnetic characters, a sizzling plot, and raw sensuality, this book will have you fanning yourself long after the last page!”

  —Romantic Times

  And for Lacey Alexander

  “Ms. Alexander is an exceptionally talented author who, time after time, takes us on extremely erotic journeys that leave us breathless with every turn of the page.... This author pens the most arousing sexual scenes that you could never imagine.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “Lacey Alexander has given readers . . . hot, erotic romance with no holds barred.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Ms. Alexander is probably one of the most talented, straightforward, imaginative writers in erotic romance today.”

  —The Road to Romance

  “Lacey Alexander just ‘wowed’ me! Incredibly hot!”

  —Romance Reader at Heart (Top Pick)

  “Lacey Alexander is a very talented writer.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Lacey Alexander is an intoxicating erotic writer using sensual and sexual prowess to embrace your inner passions and desires. Sexual discovery at its best.”

  —Noveltown

  “Lacey Alexander’s characters . . . are so compelling and lifelike.”

  —Coffee Time Romance

  “Sooo romantic and sexy!”

  —Cupid’s Library Reviews

  “Lacey Alexander takes blissful hedonism to a whole new level in this blazingly brazen, passionately erotic love story!”

  —Ecataromance

  Also by Lacey Alexander

  Voyeur

  Seven Nights of Sin

  The Bikini Diaries

  What She Needs

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson 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 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2011

  Copyright © Lacey Alexander, 2011

  All rights reserved

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Alexander, Lacey.

  Bad girl by night: a H.O.T. cops novel/Lacey Alexander.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51541-9

  1. Women—Sexual behavior—Fiction. 2. Identity (Psychology)—Fiction. 3. Michigan—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.L3539B33 2011

  813ˈ.6—dc22 2011003178

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this bo
ok.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  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 Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Risk! Risk anything! Care no more for the opinions of others, for those voices. Do the hardest thing on earth for you. Act for yourself. Face the truth.

  —Katherine Mansfield

  Chapter 1

  She knew how to do this.

  She got out of the car, body humming, the mere click of her heels over asphalt somehow adding to her anticipation. Was it from the audible evidence that she was moving, getting closer to her destination after two long hours in the car, or was it the reminder of the shoes themselves, the fact that she wore her sexy strappy heels for one purpose and one purpose only?

  The hotel sat along the water in Traverse City—a busy tourist town on Michigan’s west coast—and the architecture said “modern yet warm” with stone pillars and lots of dark wood to remind you where you were: the great outdoors, the “north woods.” Yet boating and hiking were the last things on her mind as she stepped inside and looked around, her gaze homing in immediately on the big oak doors that led to the hotel bar.

  As she walked into the Lodge, curious eyes swept over her dress—red and silky, clingy. Like the rest of the building, the décor was warm, woody, the walls hung with things like old snow skis and hunting vests. A large mural depicting a family of bears spanned the long wall behind the bar, where she calmly, confidently eased up onto a stool. She didn’t mind the eyes she felt watching her—in fact, it heightened the tingle of expectation, the eagerness now stretching through her in a slow-flowing river of heat.

  The gaze of the good-looking bartender, in his late twenties, held no judgment as he said, “What’ll ya have?”

  “A white wine spritzer, please.” Once, she’d started out with cocktails and discovered they made her too drunk, dulled her senses too much. And even simple wine possessed the power to leave her tipsier than she wanted to be right now—watering it down with a little Sprite made it just right. And that was the key to her trips here every few months—making sure everything was just right. “Goldilocks Does Traverse City.”

  The thought should have made her smile, but it didn’t. Nothing about this amused her.

  Acclimating to her surroundings, she glanced around—without being obvious—to get an idea of the bar’s patrons. She spied a creepy-looking old guy watching her from a booth and immediately blocked out the ick factor his gaze delivered. Loads of masculine laughter echoed from a darkish corner somewhere behind her, and the sound heightened her senses. Three college boys ogled her, too, from the end of the bar. Too young. But at least flattering. And if there were other females in the room, she didn’t notice—they were invisible to her right now.

  She could move on to another bar if she had to, but she’d give this one a while first. This was like . . . hunting. And north woods girls understood about hunting—that the best hunters were patient, quiet, still. They let their prey come to them. And then they struck. She knew how to do this.

  Once upon a time, the endeavor had made her nervous—she’d questioned her every move, analyzed everything around her; it had all taken an enormous amount of courage and concentration. The act of walking into a bar, meeting a man, leaving with him, had been accompanied by grave fear. Valid fear. She knew the kinds of bad things that could happen to a woman.

  But each time she drove from Turnbridge to Traverse City, the two-hour commute transformed her even more than it had the time before. She became no less smart than usual, yet she was more in control; she was self-possessed; she was the one who orchestrated the events, ran the show. Fear fell away to be replaced by power. And now, at thirty-two, she could barely remember the fear of those early years—it had disappeared completely. Now the moves came naturally. They took little more effort than breathing.

  The night, the darkness, protected her. So did the low-cut dress, which showed her curves and flashed too much cleavage. Cleavage that made a promise. The shoes, too, were like sexual armor—they turned her into someone tall, willowy; they also made her into a woman unafraid of her needs, bold enough to take what she wanted. Heavily painted eyes provided one more shield, as did her hair. Long honey gold shot through with warmer strands—she normally wore it straight, tucked behind her ears or pulled back into a ponytail, but when she came to Traverse City, she used hot rollers to change it into something wild and tousled.

  The whole ritual, most of it taking place before the mirror above her dresser, made her feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs—the very act of preparation exciting her hours before her goal would be reached. Somehow the long, detailed process—and the rising fever of expectation that came with it—made the whole thing more satisfying in the end.

  A few sips before her glass was drained, another appeared before her on a napkin. She looked up to meet the bartender’s eyes and he gave her a small smile. “From the guys at the end of the bar.”

  She tossed only a cursory glance in their direction. The college boys. One of them was attractive, probably a football star or something equally as egobuilding, judging from the arrogance in his pointed gaze. But in addition to his being too young—which generally meant selfish and clumsy in her experience—she didn’t like him. A little arrogance was one thing, but this guy was overrun with it; it was the most obvious thing about him. “Tell them thanks,” she said to the bartender, “but that I’m meeting someone.”

  The bartender, suddenly her confidant, raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Are you?”

  “I’m sure I will eventually,” she replied, all smooth voice and unwavering self-control.

  His grin said he liked her style—then he headed back to break the news to her youthful admirers.

  She heard the football star mutter, “Shit.” She’d cost them five dollars, after all. And a minute later he and his friends left, clearly seeking greener pastures.

  When a highball glass was plunked down next to her from behind, she turned to see—oh, hell—the old guy. Though he wasn’t as old as she’d first thought—early fifties, maybe—he appeared grizzled, tired for his age. “You look lonely,” he said.

  She knew she looked far more ready than lonely, but that aside, what man thought that was a good pick-up line? “I’m not,” she assured him sharply.

  “Damn, girl—I just came over to say hi, get to know you a little.” He sounded angry, offended. She didn’t care. This was how the game was played—you didn’t have to be nice. She had the idea he’d been drinking for a long time already.

  “I’m meeting someone,” she told him. It was a tried-and-true excuse, easy to remember, and not even technically a lie, since, as she’d told the bartender, she would eventually find the guy who was just right for the night. She always did. She’d never gone home unsuccessful. Not even back in the beginning when her hunting expeditions had also held all that uncertainty and worry. She knew how to do this.

  “You been sittin’ here half an hour,” he pointed out. “You ain’t meetin’ nobody.”

  She met the man’s glassy eyes, stared right through him. Any other time, any other place, she’d feel stupid right now, embarrassed maybe, caught in a fib. But her armor protected her. “It’s really none of your business who I’m meeting or not meeting.” She spoke pointedly. Knew she sounded a little scary. E
njoyed it and sensed it making her nipples a bit harder than they already were.

  The graying man with the tired eyes just swallowed, then moistened his lips as if they were dry. “Whatever,” he finally said—then picked up his glass and turned to walk away, muttering, “Bitch,” as he went.

  “Sorry about that,” the bartender told her as he approached, apparently having heard at least the last part.

  But she just gave a short shake of her head. “No worries.” In her normal life, such an insult would wound her. Here, it was nothing.

  Just then, a good-looking guy with dark hair approached the bar, a few feet to her left. “Can I get a couple more beers?” Sounding good-natured, friendly, as he addressed the bartender, he lowered two empty longnecks to the smooth wood counter. Then he glanced her way and offered a short “Hi.”

  She smiled back without planning it. “Hi.” And the insides of her thighs warmed.

  She watched him then as he chatted with the bartender—he wore stylish jeans, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair was black as coal, soft, thick, and he was due for a trim. He was the self-assured sort of guy who cared about his appearance but didn’t go overboard. What did he do for a living? He looked like . . . an airline pilot, or . . . maybe a photographer. He was smart, focused, professional—but not a suit-and-tie guy.