Heat (The Stark Affair Book 1) Read online

  Heat:

  The Stark Affair Book 1

  by

  Skylar Cross

  Copyright 2014 D2Rev Publishing / Skylar Cross

  First edition

  October 22, 2014

  Cover design: Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)

  Story/Concept Editing: Cathy Yardley (rockyourwriting.com)

  Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com).

  Promotion: Brina Courtney and Rachel Marks at Mark My Words Book Publicity (markmywordsbookpublicity.com)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Morgan Black, Brina Courtney, Rachel Marks, Cathy Yardley, Missy Borucki, Letitia Hasser, Dede Nesbitt, Kayla Ann Bennerotte, Babel Td, all the amazing bloggers who support me, and everyone who reads my books and cheers me on. I so appreciate you.

  Chapter 1

  Sofia

  I knew I was in trouble the moment I first saw Colton Stark’s eyes.

  They glare up at me from a headshot on LaTashia’s iPad. He’s sitting—hands clasped around a pair of leather gloves—looking upward, all pensive and determined like he’s accepting a challenge.

  Zing!

  Shit, was that a wet spark firing up in my panties?

  Fuck, it was. Goddamn. I cross and recross my legs.

  Weird. Rich, billionaire playboys born with silver spoons in their mouths usually don’t do jackshit for me.

  LaTashia and I sit at an outdoor table at the top end of Ocean Drive, having just finished a delectable lunch from BLT Steak at The Betsy Hotel.

  “Know him?” LaTashia asks, gesturing to the picture of Colton Stark on her iPad.

  Today she’s all professional in a black suit with pinstripes. Expensive shoes. Badge and gun hidden in her purse. Lustrous black skin, broad shoulders, a strong chin, and kind eyes that morph into vicious spears the moment you irritate her.

  LaTashia Washington is my role model. Lieutenant at forty, head of the Organized Crime Section (OCS) at forty-five. To me she’s a mentor, having promoted me to OCS, at age twenty-four, last year. Not to mention giving me some sorely needed tough love and discipline along the way.

  Why are we meeting outside the office?

  LaTashia takes a sip of her coffee. She shoots a serious squint at me.

  “I know of him,” I say. “How can you not? Stark Technology has been around forever.”

  “Used to be Stark Technology. Now it’s Stark Worldwide. Branched out into biopharmaceuticals, aerospace research, and water filtration systems.

  “Capitalism at its finest. Only other fact I know about Colton Stark is that every cokehead tramp in Miami goes to his club down the street just for a chance to suck his cock. Can’t remember the name of it…”

  “Heat.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. How fucking original.”

  LaTashia frowns. “Sofia, we haven’t talked recently about your profanity issues. Do we need to revisit that subject again?”

  I clear my throat. “No. Sorry.” I take a sip of my coffee.

  “We believe Stark Worldwide is involved in some narcotics shipments from Colombia. We’ve actually suspected it for many years, but never got the evidence.”

  “This guy?” I laugh. “No fucking way.” LaTashia frowns again. “Sorry, I mean no way. He’s more of a magazine model. Probably gets mani-pedis in between $5,000 bottles of Krug at the VIP table.”

  “Well, that’s the question. We’re not sure Colton Stark himself is involved. Or even knows. We do suspect, however, that he’s up to something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s just it. We don’t know. There is a lot of money moving around inside Stark Worldwide. Some of it ends up in a series of shelf companies owned personally by Colton Stark, while some is transferred into offshore accounts and then funneled somewhere else.”

  “What does that mean in English?”

  “Colton Stark is stealing from his own company. Millions of dollars that would have gone unnoticed if it weren’t for our new whiz kid who identified the complicated algorithm Colton uses. It’s quite brilliant, actually. Designed it himself.”

  “Why would Colton Stark steal money from his own company?”

  “That’s the question. We don’t know. We’re not even sure if it’s related to the suspected drug trafficking. Seems to be separate because it happens at different times.

  I flip the screen. Another shot of Colton Stark glaring into the camera.

  Zing!

  “This guy?” I say, then cough and clear my throat. “Looks like all he knows how to do is pose.”

  “On the contrary. Top of his class at MIT. Degree in computer science and engineering. Father wanted him to go to Yale but he has a gift for math. Claims he sees everything in formulas and algorithms. Like that guy from A Beautiful Mind—only without the hallucinations. Even designed his own operating system for his graduating thesis.”

  “Hm, for such a smart guy he seems to spend a lot of time squandering his skills.”

  “His hands are tied by the Board his father set up before he died. Colton Stark only owns 49% of Stark Worldwide. While he is the majority shareholder, most company decisions are made by Jasper van der Voort, his father’s best friend and Chairman of the Board.”

  “Ooh... Daddy didn’t trust little Colty, did he?”

  “Apparently not.”

  I look out at the ocean. The bright turquoise waves glow as they hit the shore, shiny white reflections of October sunlight dancing on their caps.

  “LaTashia, I need to ask. Why are we meeting way out here on SoBe?”

  She takes a sip of her latte and glances out at the park, squinting. Some kids are setting up a volleyball net on the grass under the palm trees.

  “I’m not supposed to be telling you this,” she says, “but there is an Inter-Agency Task Force operation going on. They have people on the inside of Stark Worldwide. We’ve been sharing intel with them, but every time they get close to nabbing a shipment, it vanishes.”

  “Oh my God, you think we have an informant on our team?”

  “There’s no evidence, but I smell a rat. Could be any member of the task force. FBI. DEA. Coast Guard. Us. I don’t want to think it’s us, but I am now forced to operate with that possibility.”

  LaTashia earned the nickname “The Cleaver” for cleaning house her first year. Looks like it’s time to do another sweep.

  “Sofia, I need to ask you a favor. It’s personal.”

  “Anything, Lieutenant. You know that. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be losing my mind in the Pit.”

  “You’d have lost it already. You were a ticking time bomb when I pulled you into OCS.”

  “Yeah.” I get a flash of the dead girl on the landing, as clear as if I were looking at her right now. Then I shake my head to make it dissolve. It never fully dissolves, though.

  “Sofia, what I’m about to ask you is... not an assignment. It’s a favor. If you say no, I understand perfectly.”

  “You want me to get to know him?”

  She nods while biting her lower lip. “Well, I know he isn’t your type.”

  “My type?”

  “Either hyper-masculine men or
runway model girls.”

  I smile. “What can I say? Life is short. I want to experience it all.”

  “But you’re definitely his type.”

  “He likes tomboy bitch cops with short fuses and profanity issues?”

  LaTashia grins. “No, Latinas. Latinas with... assets.”

  “You mean Puerto Rican girls with big butts?”

  She shrugs. “You say potato, I say pa-ta-tah.”

  “Lieutenant, you’re serious? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not your typical nightclub party girl.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed. But Sofia, you’re a detective now. A good one. I know you’ve never been deep undercover, but you’ve shown promise on your assignments. This is a little out of character for you, I admit, but I would appreciate it greatly. Nothing too intense. Maybe go to his club... attract his attention... get him talking after a few drinks. Get to know what makes him tick. We don’t know what motivates him. If we could figure that out, maybe we could figure out what he’s doing with the money. Not to mention who’s blowing our cover.”

  I look over at the kids setting up the volleyball net. One side isn’t secure enough. It’s going to fall as soon as someone taps the top.

  “I can take him down,” I say.

  “Sofia, I don’t want you to take him down. I’m just looking for information. Put your gun away. Leave it at home. Just get me some insight. Discreetly. Nobody can know about this. I’m not asking you to sleep with him or anything.”

  “Him? Ha, I would never sleep with a guy like him! I don’t do criminals.”

  Chapter 2

  Sofia

  LaTashia has a meeting in Doral so I go back to the office. Right away, I know somebody has been at my cubicle.

  I don’t bring home to work and vice versa, like other people. My space is purposely sparse. No pictures. Nothing thumb-tacked to the wall.

  Which makes it easy for me to notice that two paper clips are askew and the push-pins are not in the same pattern as when I left.

  Who the fuck would open my drawer?

  I look around. Nobody meets my eyes.

  I put my bag down on the floor, under the desk.

  I login to my computer and check email. I make a few replies, then pull out my Ops Folder.

  But before I go into my usual routine, I can’t help but be perplexed about something. I look around before I click on Internet Explorer. I Google “Colton Stark,” then click on Images. Several pictures pop up.

  Zing!

  Oh God. What the fuck? There it is again. Another fucking moist spark down below, as those gorgeous blue eyes look out at me.

  Fuck, Sofia, get control of yourself!

  I take a deep breath and count backwards from 500... 499... 498. By the time I get to 490, I’m usually centered again. All good.

  Then I return to the pictures. In one, he’s stepping out of his Bentley Continental GT in front of his palatial Vizcaya-like estate. Shiny dark suit with a blue tie. Windsor knot. Handkerchief. Again, looking up at something.

  I stare more intently, trying to figure him out. My head sinks into my cupped left hand.

  There’s something about his face. Don’t know what it is. A symmetry. Square jaw. Thick masculine lips. An intensity that is all man. Most humans seem to be randomly thrown together, but this guy looks like somebody designed him. I could study that face for days. Maybe make a sculpture of it.

  I click the next image. Unshaven in a casual blue shirt with a Latina girl leaning her head on his shoulder.

  Zing!

  Oh my God! This can’t be happening. It’s so unlike me. I am not attracted to pasty, rich, white boys.

  Not at all.

  “Whatcha doing?” says a male voice.

  I make a throaty gasp as I nearly jump out of my skin. Simultaneously, I click the window closed and look up at Mike Everly’s smirk.

  “Scare much?” Mike says.

  “Don’t fucking sneak up on people, asshole!” I say.

  “Ooooh, somebody’s in a mood. Time of month?”

  I extend my middle finger to his face.

  Mike is my former partner. We rode overnights in the Pit together before I moved up to OCS. Six months later, LaTashia took him up too, based on my recommendation.

  “Suck it, chica dura.” He smiles and chews his gum. “Hey, want to do lunch?”

  I look up at him. Mike is a short, good-looking guy with slicked back black hair. Wiry frame. Pale with bright red cheeks. Tougher than he looks. We had sex once, while drunk, after busting an infamous coke dealer.

  Both of us woke up knowing it was a huge mistake.

  Huge. Fucking. Mistake.

  Now I cringe every time I see his wife and kids.

  “Naw, I already ate,” I say. “But thanks.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  I’m about to say The Betsy Hotel but stop myself.

  “Checkers.”

  “You had a Checkerburger with Cheese without me? God, you have no respect for Four-Victor-Eight anymore, do you?”

  Four-Victor-Eight was our old patrol car.

  “Nope. Just you, cabrón,” I say, checking my iPhone. Five texts from Kristy. She wants to make dinner at my place. Shit.

  “Oh, come on!” Mike says. “You still think about me.”

  “Pfft. Was you that made me switch teams.”

  “Yeah, right. You been playing for all teams since the first tuft of hair on your infield. But seriously, what are you working on? Anything good?”

  “Couple of leads. Some boring surveillance.”

  My eyes fall on the napkin protruding from my bag. The Betsy Hotel is emblazoned in gold on it. Mike looks down at it.

  I send Kristy a text:

  Fine

  “How’s it going with Miley Cyrus?” he says.

  “Mike, don’t you have fucking work to do?” I say as I sneak the napkin out of my bag and into the wastebasket.

  “I do, but I have my priorities. It wouldn’t be Monday without getting a rise out of my muñequita Sofia. But seriously, I think you and Kristy should send a photo of both of you together to TMZ. They’ll report right away that Michelle Rodriguez is now dating Miley Cyrus.”

  “Kristy looks like Kristy. And, I do not look like Michelle Rodriguez! You, on the other hand, are a dead-ringer for Boy George—only in a cheaper dress.”

  “Cute.”

  “Now, Mike, leave me the fuck alone or I don’t know on what social media site the pictures I have of your tiny penis might find themselves.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Pulling up the pic now. You have five seconds.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Four... three... two... “

  Mike flips me two birds behind his back and heads back to his cubicle.

  I look at the clock. 1:06pm. I need to formulate a plan for Colton Stark, but I can’t do it here. Too many eyes. LaTashia wants me to be discreet.

  So, I catch up on my giant stack of paperwork for two hours and leave the office at three.

  That gives me some research time before Kristy shows up for dinner.

  That will be nice, right? Won’t it?

  Sure.

  That will be nice. Kristy is nice.

  Right?

  Chapter 3

  Sofia

  First thing I do when I get home is take off my zoot suit. It’s part of my job to look ladylike, but I think best when I’m in my sleeveless T’s and gym shorts.

  First on my Colton Stark “to-do” list is to call an expert in becoming a nightclub party girl. I sit on the couch, pick up my cell, go to Contacts, and tap Jorge.

  “What did Dad say to piss you off now?” says my big brother when he picks up.

  “Nothing,” I say. “And, how about ‘Hello, Sofia, how are you?’”

  “Well, it’s something. You never call. You always text.”

  “You’re very perceptive, for a floral designer.”

  “My dad and my sister are cops
. What do you expect?”

  I smile. “Jorge, I need your help with an assignment.”

  “An assignment? Me? Sweetie, I’m no good at cop stuff. You know that. Dad certainly knows that.”

  My stomach growls. I get up off the couch. “Jorge, this is right up your alley. I need to attract a man.”

  “Now we’re talking. That’s my specialty. Although I’m not so sure I can do much for you.”

  “Fuck you.” I walk into my apartment’s tiny kitchen.

  “A man this time, huh? God, I wish you would just pick a team and stick with it.”

  I open up my refrigerator. One piece of Kraft American cheese in a wrapper and three bottles of Zephyrhills. I grab the cheese and one of the waters.

  “It’s an assignment!” I say as I rip the plastic off the slice of cheese.

  “Is he hot?”

  I sit back on the couch and take a bite of the cheese. “Um... most people seem to think so.”

  “If you fail, which is highly likely, can I get a crack at him?”

  “He isn’t gay, Jorge.”

  “He hasn’t met me yet.”

  “Look, I’m serious! I need to become a ditzy party girl in a hot dress with fancy shoes.”

  “And I need to become a Texas preacher teaching Bible classes in a blue polyester suit. Not going to happen, sister.”

  I finish the cheese slice. My stomach growls again. I sip some water. “Jorge, I’m serious. I need your help. Are you free tomorrow morning, say ten?”

  “Fine. Ten o’clock. Meet me at the boutique.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  “My fee is naked pics of this guy.”

  “Whatever.”

  I click off and open my Mac laptop. I Google “Colton Stark” again. This time I read some of the articles written about him. Wall Street Journal. The Financial Times. Forbes.

  Oddly, none of them paint him as the genius LaTashia described to me. Their focus is mostly on Stark Worldwide.

  Then I find another set of Colton Stark “lifestyle” articles. Maxim. FHM. GQ. Lots of lavish photos.