Free Naked Truth (Crimson Romance) by Tami Lund

to Kennedy. He wasn’t sure what he initially intended to do, since all those things he wanted to do weren’t exactly appropriate in the middle of a public venue, even if it was during a strip show. She stood there looking at him, wearing a sexy little halter top and short skirt and a slightly jealous look on her face, and he had a crazy urge to pull her into his arms—just a hug—and whisper reassurances that she had nothing at all to be jealous of.
    What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t recall ever acting this way about any of his past lays. Why now? Why her?
    The look on her face changed, her brows furrowed, and she looked concerned, jolting Jack back into reality and making him realize he was standing there staring at her like a dumb lovestruck teen.
    The music, the screaming, the job all came into focus in a rush, and he gritted his teeth against the unwelcome intrusion. It pissed him off because all he wanted to do was grab her wrist and drag her from the club, take her home with him, and freaking do something about this ache in his balls.
    But he couldn’t. Whatever the hell was going on in his head, in his personal life, it didn’t matter—couldn’t matter—right now. He had a job to do. He had to dance, he had to protect the other dancers, and he had to find a killer.
    He tried to force himself to turn away, to get back on that stage and dance over to the waiting bachelorette parties, but instinct took over at that point. He grabbed Kennedy’s waist and twisted her around so that she faced the stage. She automatically reached out her hands to catch herself on the edge, and Jack pressed his rock hard erection into her backside as he leaned into her and caught her earlobe between his teeth.
    He whispered in her ear, singing the song’s erotic chorus, and then he released her and leapt back onto the stage.
    More screaming. Vanessa waved a fistful of bills. Kennedy sank into her seat with a bemused look on her face. Ignoring his body’s pleas, Jack turned away from the sight.
    He had a job to do.
    • • •
    He was an FBI agent, so he had easy access to all sorts of information. He wasn’t supposed to use his job connections for personal use, of course, but this time he made an exception. He had to see Kennedy, and therefore, he needed to know where she lived, so he used his government-issue laptop, punched in a series of passwords and fail safes, and without an ounce of guilt, pulled up Kennedy’s address and phone number.
    His blood was running hot, and he was still so damn hard, it was difficult to drive. Luckily, Jack knew New Orleans like he knew the back of his hand, and Kennedy lived in an eclectic neighborhood that wasn’t too far from the downtown entertainment district.
    The dancers were inclined to hang out at the club after closing, drinking and flirting with the handful of girls handpicked for such a privilege, but since Kennedy wasn’t one of them, he wouldn’t have any of it. He talked Cullen into playing the bad guy who bullied everyone into leaving so that he could finally be off the clock. Still, it was three in the morning before Jack was in his truck and heading down the street to Kennedy’s house.
    The house was dark and still when he pulled into the driveway. He double-checked to make sure he had the right address, because he did not want to wake up the wrong people in the middle of the night. Then he dialed her cell phone number. Her voice was sleepy and muffled when she answered.
    “Get out of bed and open the door for me, Kennedy.”
    “Who is this?” she asked, her voice suddenly becoming more alert.
    “Jack. I’m standing on your front porch right now.”
    “You’re—what?” He heard rustling noises, indicative of her climbing out of bed and pulling on a robe or some other garment, and he wondered what she normally wore to bed. Nothing? He shifted uncomfortably.
    “Open the door. Hurry up.”
    He spent half a second fearing that she wasn’t alone, but