Faking It. Stefanie London

like you were on the rise, and then suddenly I hear you’ve taken off.”

      Speaking of things to file under “shit not to think about...”

      “I’m a free spirit, baby.” I use the smile that comes naturally to me—the one that’s been convincing people for years that I don’t give a crap about anything. “I go wherever the whim takes me.”

      She shakes her head and concentrates on her meal. In the silence, I watch her. I liked Anderson the second we crossed paths in our first week at the academy. She’s smart—if a little traditional in her approach to things—and she’s calm in a crisis. I’ve seen her outrun some of the fittest men I know to take down a bad guy. I’ve seen her talk herself out of dangerous situations and I’ve seen her stick up for some of the most vulnerable people in the communities we serve. Despite my teasing, I respect her a hell of a lot. She deserves to be a detective.

      And I can’t take my eyes off her.

      “Who’s staring now?” She smirks at me with a self-satisfied expression that’s a flashing cape to a bull.

      “You have a little something...” I lean forward to point at an imaginary spot on her cheek and when she moves I flick her nose with my finger.

      “You’re such a child,” she says, rolling her eyes. But that doesn’t stop her dabbing at the imaginary spot with a napkin. “Fine, let’s try it your way tonight. Romantic walk in the garden...but we might want to bring a bucket in case I need to puke from the pressure of pretending to be attracted to you.”

      “Who’s the child now?” I mutter, stacking the empty containers and stifling the grin that wants to burst forth. If I’m going to be back in Australia, then at least I have some fun to distract me from the growing list of things I don’t want to think about.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Hannah

      THERE’S A SURPRISING amount of garden space out the back of 21 Love Street, considering we’re in South Melbourne. From what I’ve read on the building, this used to be a big warehouse lot that was rezoned to accommodate residential construction. The original building was torn down, but instead of filling the space with a huge apartment tower, they went for quality over quantity. It makes for a nice change from the other massive towers popping up all over the city, which are slowly blotting out the light in increasingly cluttered streets.

      There’s a shared barbeque area with tables and chairs adorned with striped cushions. A curved path leads to a communal vegetable garden already budding with zucchini and thick bushes of thyme and mint. I take a moment to crouch down and breathe in the enticing scent. A lemon tree fills one corner, bursting with yellow fruit. Several lemons lie on the ground, half-consumed by some creature who must have stumbled across the bounty.

      That’s when I notice a small single-door gate next to the tree. Between the darkness of the evening sky and the fullness of the lemon tree, it’s somewhat concealed.

      “See that?” I turn to Owen. “It would be pretty easy to slip in and out here at night without being seen.”

      The sky isn’t too dark yet—but soon it will be. There aren’t many lights in the garden, beyond the barbeque area and the entrance to the building that houses the indoor swimming pool. This part of the yard is shadowy and private.

      “I’m assuming it’s locked,” Owen says, taking a closer inspection. “There’s a latch and a padlock, so it’s not accessible with the key cards.”

      “That means it’s not for resident use. What’s behind it?”

      Owen jumps up and wraps his hands over the edge of the fence, hoisting himself up. I suck in a breath at the sight of his muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his jumper. He’s always been fit, but the last few years have filled his body out in a way that sets off a warm burn in my stomach. He’s broader in the shoulders, fuller in the arms, rounder in the butt. But his waist is still sharply defined in that delightful V shape that tells me he hits the gym regularly.

      “An alleyway,” he confirms and I nod, hoping he hasn’t caught me looking again. “We’ll take a look down there tomorrow, see if there’s any evidence of people hanging around.”

      “So there’s four ways into the property that I’ve seen—front entrance, car park, loading bay and this door.” I tick the options off my fingers. “I doubt they’re hauling bags of jewels and cash in and out via the front door. If we’re talking about the kind of money that Ridgeway mentioned...they’re not sneaking that through in a gym bag.”

      “And the car park has as much surveillance as the front entrance. There’s cameras all over,” Owen adds. “In the loading dock, too. This might be a hand-off point.”

      We know jewels are coming into this building thanks to a diamond cuff that had been fitted with a tracker. Unfortunately, the person who’d stolen the cuff from the small exhibit where it was being shown as “bait” had done a good job skirting the surveillance cameras. After that, the trail went cold.

      The current estimation is that the thieves lift the items and bring them to 21 Love Street where a jeweller strips the gems out. Then the gems are sold either individually or in lots and residual metal from the settings and chains is sold to a gold buyer who melts it down.

      By that method, there are no pieces of evidence floating around which might provide a trail back to the operation. It’s smart. And while it might not provide the same kind of cash as other criminal activities—such as drug production or trafficking—it’s a good place for would-be criminals to cut their teeth. The larger worry was that the Romano crime family had a new figurehead. This case wasn’t simply about stopping theft. It was about gathering information so we could go after the bigger problem. But there wouldn’t be budget for a task force unless we could prove that the Romano crime family was back in action.

      “Someone’s watching us,” Owen says quietly.

      The words cause goose bumps to ripple over my skin as my brain switches to high-alert. It’s like the air has dropped a few degrees, and suddenly I’m conscious of every little detail around me—the whisper-quiet sound of footsteps on grass, the scent of cigarette smoke coiling into the air, the shifting shadows of the lemon tree as a breeze causes the leaves to shudder in the wind.

      “Kiss me,” he says.

      “What?” I resist the urge to turn and look at whatever he can see behind me.

      Owen’s fingers encircle my wrist and he pulls me closer, further into the dark shadow of the lemon tree. “We’re a newlywed couple out for a romantic stroll...so let’s look romantic.”

      Shit. I have no idea what he can see and I hate being the one in a vulnerable position. But protecting the cover always comes first—before my comfort zone, before my own desires. Only now, the cover and my desires converge, and I wind my arms around Owen’s neck. He takes a step back and hits the fence, allowing me to pin him there.

      We don’t have to kiss, not really. Holding my head close to his would have been enough to maintain our position as horny newlyweds, but my lips part before I can logic my way out of doing what I’ve dreamed of since I was a fresh-faced academy trainee. I press my mouth to his and his fingers tighten at my waist, pulling me closer. His lips are firm and his grip is confident and his tongue slides along mine in a way that makes my knees buckle. God, he tastes even better than he smells—like earth and man and a hint of spice. Delicious.

      My fingers drive through his hair, fisting the lengths so I can hold myself upright. I don’t protest as his hands slide down my back and cup my ass, because there’s not a single cell in my body that doesn’t want this. I’ve kissed a few guys before—some of them weren’t bad. One or two were good kissers.

      But Owen is a master. He kneads me in a rhythmic way that makes my sex throb, like