Detective Remington frickin’ hates the missing persons detail, but a cold fury builds in the pit of his stomach when he realizes that over the past three months six boys have disappeared from the smaller communities that surround the greater Phoenix area. All reported to be runaways looking to escape their shitty lives, but Remy’s starting to put together a different picture and he doesn’t like it one damn bit.
Inspector Jamie Mainwaring stares at the six reports, willing them to make sense. Six boys, six months, all from just outside of London, which meant six different investigations. All of the boys were between the ages of ten and fifteen, all purportedly runaways from dysfunctional families. Something was rotten in Denmark.
There are always runaways. Every small town loses them—every big city collects them. Kids look for freedom and discover they have more to lose than they ever thought possible. London and Phoenix, culture and cowboys, nothing linking these two sprawling metropolitan areas. Nothing except a hit on a computer data search.
Two cops, one a cowboy, the other a Lord. A secret government agency, human trafficking, and a blazing hot mutual distraction.
What the hell have Remington and Mainwaring gotten themselves into?
Jamie squeezed some jell out onto his fingers and then rubbed his hands together before feathering them through his hair. Pulling at strands of hair here and there, he ponced about with it until he was happy with the tousled spikes that looked as though he hadn’t even touched them. He padded into the bedroom and took his black shirt, shot with a fine vertical silver thread, down from the hanger and pulled it on. Then he grabbed his tightest jeans and spent the next several minutes trying to wrestle them up his legs. He slipped his feet into some funky looking biker boots he’d bought earlier that day and gazed at himself in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.
He wasn’t a particularly vain man, he had too much going on to pay too much attention to how he looked, but the reflection staring back at him was most definitely hot. Could it be that we took a little extra care because Remy is our escort tonight? “Oh fuck off,” he muttered and slammed the wardrobe door with a rattle.
Squaring his shoulders, Jamie walked back out into the living area and paused mid-step. Remy was standing by the window and the lamp in the corner of the room perfectly back-lit the gorgeous man. He was wearing dark blue jeans, his resident cowboy boots, and an olive green silk shirt that clung to his broad shoulders. Jamie wished that he had a camera in his hand, because Remy was way past handsome, he was beautiful. Then he turned around and ruined it all.
“I feel like a fuckin’ model!” Rolling his eyes, Jamie groaned as perfect Remy was replaced with thirteen-year-old Remy, with a sulky expression and a stance that said, “I don’t wanna.”
“Get a grip,” Jamie snapped, picking up one of the key cards and squeezing it into his back pocket. “Forsythe wants me to have a public fall out with my family. I think we both know that my mother hates behavior that she deems unbecoming to someone with title. And since she already thinks I picked you up in a bar, we’re just going to go and have a good time and make sure we get paparazzi’d. It’ll hit the society pages first thing in the morning and she’ll have a fit over her Weetabix. Job done.” He wandered across the room and stroked a finger down the ‘v’ of skin on show in the open neck of Remy’s shirt, enjoying the discomfort on the other man’s face. “Oh, and one more thing. Would you mind removing the stick from your arse for just one night? You might surprise yourself and have a good time.” He lifted an eyebrow sardonically and mumbled beneath his breath, “Stranger things have happened.”
* * *
Standing at the bar, the beat of the music reverberating through his shoes, Jamie couldn’t help his smirk. At first he’d thought Remy was just fidgeting aimlessly beside him, but low and behold, the stoic detective was actually dancing. Very slightly, the movement barely discernible, but dancing nonetheless. Well, who’da thunk it? The cowboy has rhythm.
“Okay, Fred Astaire,” Jamie said leaning up to press his lips close to Remy’s ear so he would be heard. “I’ve spotted at least five representatives of the tabloid paparazzi in the fifteen minutes since we arrived. The guy at the end of the bar trying not to look at us is the same one who snapped me leaving here the other night. No, don’t look, for God’s sake.” He reached up and slid his fingers into Remy’s hair to keep his gaze trained firmly on him. “Let’s hit the dance floor and give him a good show.”
“A show? Whatever you say, Boss.” Jamie gasped at the satisfaction in Remy’s eyes as the big man grabbed him around the waist and hauled him up against a firm chest.Jamie found himself weaving through the crowd of gyrating bodies, his wrist firmly clasped in Remy’s fingers. Heat unfurled in his belly at the intent in Remy’s gaze as he glanced at him over his shoulder while they made their way to the dance floor. Why do I get the feeling that I just lit the touch paper and forgot to stand well back?
CONTINENTAL DIVIDE (Separate Ways Series, Book One) - the coming together of two writers on different continents, and the coming together of two men who are definitely going to get more than they bargained for. Available now at AMAZON