Stripped. Julie Leto

      “Well, now you do. Have a date. With me. I’ll bring the tequila and you bring the dreams.”

      “I don’t drink tequila,” Josie shouted as Lilith pushed her way out of the apartment building and into the sultry Chicago-in-August afternoon.

      “Good! More for me.”

      And she had a feeling that after this encounter she was going to need every last drop.

      2

      HE COULD FEEL HER EYES. As slowly and as nonchalantly as possible, Mac peeled his back off the one-way mirror, certain Lilith had arrived and was on the other side of the deceptive glass. Close. With her palm pressed against the barrier. Her warmth, her spiced perfume, permeated the window with no more effort than a wisp of smoke through a screen.

      He’d made a colossal mistake in calling her.

      But he couldn’t turn back now.

      “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pogo Goins insisted, his eyes redder and droopier than they had been four hours ago when he’d come in. Goins was coming down off his high, which to Mac was both good and bad. On one hand, a little clarity on his part might help him keep his facts straight. On the other, good old Pogo might soon be lucid enough to figure out they had no reason to hold him and he had no reason to answer their questions. “I just want my ride back, got it?”

      The interrogation—now being run by Rick and his partner, Det. Barbara Walters, with Mac observing in the background—had been going on for nearly an hour. Why Pogo hadn’t called for his attorney yet, Mac couldn’t begin to guess. Likely because they hadn’t accused him of anything. In fact, they’d catered to the guy, bringing him all the cigarettes and doughnuts necessary to appease a serious hangover. They’d shot the shit since this morning, stringing him along with leads on his beloved stolen vehicle. But criminals came in two types: those smart enough to keep their traps shut until their lawyers showed up and those stupid enough to think they could deal with the cops without legal counsel. He could only hope that Pogo fell into the second group today.

      Technically Pogo hadn’t done anything wrong. This time. He simply had information—possibly information he didn’t even know he had.

      They’d had a tip.

      Nothing more than a vague inference.

      Which was why they had to proceed with caution.

      Which was why Mac had called Lilith.

      Which was why he was heading to Flanagan’s on the River right after work for a stiff drink.

      “My, my, don’t you look delicious from behind.”

      Mac nearly swung around, but he held steady. He was wearing an earpiece, but even the mechanical device couldn’t dull the intensity of Lilith’s sultry voice.

      She even wolf-whistled. She nearly deafened his left ear.

      He stretched his hands into his blazer pockets, somewhat obstructing her view of his ass. What he couldn’t do was respond. If Goins got even a hint that Mac was taking help from the other side of the one-way, the interview would be over.

      “Mr. Goins,” he said, alerting his detectives to the fact that Lilith had arrived, “I’m real sorry that your car got jacked and that you’ve been here so long. I know you’ve given us all the information you can recall.”

      God, he hated playing good cop.

      “Yeah, yeah,” Goins replied. “I mean, the snacks and cigs have rocked, but I think maybe I need to get going, you know?”

      “He’s nervous,” Lilith said.

      No shit.

      “We’ve really been trying to cut down on the petty crimes in your area,” Mac said. “I mean, guy like you, on the straight and narrow for, what, a year now?”

      Goins nodded, his greasy hair swiping along the sides of his razor-sharp cheeks. “I’m clean, man. You can ask my PO. Nothing dirty on me…nothing dirty around me.”

      “You know he’s lying, right?” Lilith interjected. “This is boring. And it’s hot in here. Why don’t you take off your jacket? I could take off my blouse. It’ll be fun.”

      He was going to kill her.

      “We know you’ve been clean, Pogo,” Mac reassured, attempting to ignore the instantaneous image of a bare-breasted Lilith, licking her lips lasciviously, anticipating the strike of pleasure she’d experience when he took her nipples into his mouth. Moisture swelled on his tongue. He swallowed hard. With conviction.

      Conviction. Yeah. Cop word. Remind him of the job. Of the point of calling Lilith in the first place.

      Though Pogo had been more relaxed with the other detectives, Mac couldn’t ask Rick or Barbara to plug in with Lilith. Not because he feared she’d tease them mercilessly with her nonstop sexual suggestions, but because he was skirting all kinds of protocols by using a psychic in the first place, especially for a case that had little to bolster it except one vague tip. If anyone got heat from the chief or the new mayor for bringing a civilian into the investigation, it would be him.

      Mac patted Pogo on the shoulder. “We know you’re one of the good guys now, Pogo. Word is out you’re not in the game anymore. That’s why we’re all pissed about this punk stealing your ride. Here you are trying to get your life back together and you lose your transportation to work. Where are you working again?”

      Pogo’s crooked front teeth chewed on his scarred bottom lip. “I’m driving trucks. For my cousin.”

      Barbara tilted her head to the side, her bright blue eyes sparkling with just enough feminine interest to mask the not-so-subtle crinkle of her nose. “Which cousin is that again?”

      “Larry. He’s got six rigs. Small stuff. But he makes clean money, okay? Nothing shady.”

      “He’s telling the truth about Larry,” Lilith interjected. “But he’s nervous. The word trucks got him. Fish in that direction, hot stuff. See what you can catch.”

      The “hot stuff” notwithstanding, at last Lilith had offered something useful. Maybe the cousin, Larry, was on the up-and-up, but someone else in the operation possibly wasn’t.

      “Is that where your car got jacked? At the truck yard?”

      Goins swallowed deeply.

      Lilith whistled softly. “Ooh, that one registered on the Richter scale. Have you ever noticed that the word jacked is sexy? Why is that?”

      Mac growled.

      Lilith sighed. “Keep going back to the car.”

      “We’ve got to establish scene of the crime, right?” Mac asked. “You look a little nervous. You don’t have to be nervous, Pogo. You’re here just as a citizen who has been victimized by a growing criminal element. But we can’t help you if you don’t tell us the whole truth.”

      “Can you blame him, boss?” Rick offered, taking the tack of—what?—better cop to Mac’s good cop? The way they’d all been catering to this criminal lowlife made Mac’s stomach turn, but the ends simply had to justify the means. “Mr. Goins has been in here as a suspect. Probably doesn’t trust us. I mean, if I were him, I wouldn’t trust us.”

      In Mac’s ear, Lilith cursed. Instinctively Mac’s neck jerked, but Goins’s suddenly sullen expression kept him steady. Mac watched the man’s lips pull tight across his teeth, and when he shook his head, sweat dripped off the stringy strands of his hair. Mac expected Lilith to break in with some sort of insight, though he hoped she’d keep strictly to business. He didn’t know why he bothered with such an unrealistic expectation. The sound of her voice, coupled with her sexy commentary, were playing cruel tricks on his body. She’d always had a knack for banter that ping-ponged between serious insight and naughty suggestions—suggestions she’d make good