The Pleasure Palace. Evangeline Anderson

tion> The Pleasure Palace

      The Pleasure Palace

      EVANGELINE ANDERSON

      APHRODISIA

       KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Contents

      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

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      1

      “C’mon, darlin, I jus’ wan’ a lil’ sugar pussy. I’m only topside on this rock for twenty-four hours. You don’t wan’ me to go away lonely, now do ya?” He had a thick Centaurian accent and had obviously been drinking all night so the words came out in a drawling slur. Shaina McCullough suddenly found herself pinned against the crumbling gray concrete with the disgusting drunk leering in her face. “Jus’ a lil’ sugar pussy…” he repeated and she turned her head in revulsion as his foul breath, thick with gin fumes, washed over her.

      That was it; she couldn’t stand it any more. Determined to teach him a lesson, Shaina struggled to get her right hand behind her back and grab the mini-tazer that was taped there. Cursing the stupid skintight design of her skirt that made it impossible to carry anything in the pockets, her fingers wiggled beneath the low-slung waistband of the leather mini, feeling for the small, lipstick-shaped tube. She intended to whip it out and shove it straight into the drunk Centaurian’s balls—all three of them. A good sharp jolt in the nads ought to discourage him, since he didn’t seem to know how to take no for an answer. At the very least it would teach him not to bother innocent-looking girls who turned out to be Peace Control Officers.

      “Hey baby, I knew you’d come around.” The drunk had managed to pull the magno-tabs of her crop top apart and was currently trying to get off her demi-bra. His breath was making her want to retch. Shaina fumbled grimly for the tazer. Where was it? She had taped it to the small of her back right before leaving the station, but now her searching fingers found nothing but a smooth expanse of skin—it was gone. The drunk had one hand inside her bra now and was mauling her right breast. Shaina was sure she’d have to take a scalding anti-bac shower that night to even begin to feel clean again.

      “Get off me!” she yelled, beginning to feel a little panicky. Okay, it was time to call for backup. The drunk Centaurian might not be the serial rapist she was looking for but she was going to be in serious trouble if she didn’t get him off her pronto. One thick knee was pressing between her thighs, trying to spread her legs as Shaina reached for the autojewel, actually a link to her backup, nestled securely in her belly button. But the drunk’s potbelly was plastered against her own flat stomach too firmly to admit so much as a micron between them, let alone her questing fingers. She tried to push him away, but he was all over her, a suffocating, reeking flesh blanket.

      Oh, this could not be happening after all her careful training and months of preparation for a case like this, Shaina thought despairingly. It was supposed to be her big break. What would Ty think if he could see her now?

      As if to answer her question, a deep male voice came from the depths of the alley behind them.

      “Hey, buddy, I don’t think you’re this lady’s type. Why don’t you back off and get out of here?” Shaina’s heart sank. She knew that voice. It belonged to Brent Tyson, the senior officer who had trained her not so many months ago. Damn it all to hell, what was he doing here? She’d almost rather be mauled by this disgusting drunk than have her ex-partner witness her failure.

      The drunk in question was paying no attention to the commanding voice behind him. “Find yer own, mister. I was here first,” he mumbled, still pawing at her bra. He had exposed both breasts now and he was working on spreading her thighs. Thankfully, the tightness of the micro-mini actually worked in her favor there, making it impossible for her legs to part more than a few inches. Shaina continued to try and wriggle free with no success.

      “Fine, we’ll do it your way,” Ty said pleasantly. Suddenly, the drunk was dragged off her and Shaina was left leaning against the cold concrete wall, gasping with effort and off balance in her ridiculous thigh-high imitation lizardskin boots. Not for the first time, she cursed the stupid costume, which was supposed to make her look like a university student out for a night on the town. She stumbled a few steps and fell to the dirty, gravel-strewn ground, cutting her palms in the process, and looked up in time to see Ty’s fist connect with the drunk’s face. The punch wiped the leering grin off in a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone. Blood that was nearly black began pouring down the Centaurian’s face. He dropped his bottle of gin and cupped his nose, bellowing in hurt confusion.

      “Whyth you do that?” he gasped, his eyes flaring orange with pain. “That hurth, you thon of a bith!” He added a few choice words in his native tongue that Shaina couldn’t begin to make out, although their meaning was pretty clear.

      “Wouldn’t have had to if you’d backed off when the lady asked you to,” Tyson replied, still in that same, pleasant, no-nonsense tone of voice. He casually smoothed back his thick black hair with one large hand and waited to see if the drunk had had enough. Apparently, he hadn’t. With an inarticulate howl, he came stumbling forward, clearly meaning to tackle Tyson and take him to the ground. This time, Ty didn’t even bother to punch him. He just stepped out of the way and let the Centaurian run headfirst into the opposite wall of the alley, knocking himself out cold.

      Without missing a beat, Tyson turned back to Shaina, who was still kneeling on the ground, feeling stunned. “Upsy-daisy, sweetheart.” He hooked one capable hand under her arm and levered her to her feet as though she weighed next to nothing. Angrily, Shaina shook him off.

      “Damn it, Ty, what are you doing here?” She gazed at her former partner with disgust. As always, he looked immaculate, as though he was about to attend a meeting instead of punching out drunk Centaurians in a dark alley in the seedy port district. Shaina couldn’t stop her eyes from traveling up his muscular legs and thighs clad in skintight black trousers, to the broad chest and wide shoulders in a crisp white button-up shirt. He hadn’t even gotten dirty in the short fight, she noticed with disgust. Brent Tyson had a striking, hawklike face and his distinctive amber eyes were glinting with amusement and maybe something else as he stared at her in the dim light of the alley.

      “What am I doing here? Saving your sweet little ass, McCullough. At least that’s what it looks like from here.” He grinned at her. That self-satisfied smirk Shaina couldn’t stand, showing sharp, white teeth in the half light of the alley. Ty was half D’Lonian. Usually, aside from the amber eyes and golden-tan skin, you really couldn’t tell. But when he grinned like that, it showed. That grin made