Lover Undercover Read Online Free PDF Page A

she’d tuned in to the proceedings enough to realize the mistake, one disturbingly observant Detective Trevor McCade stood in front of her, clearly recognizing her as Stacy Roberts, low-flying lap dancer.
    Certain she could do her pathetically small part to help them investigate poor Mr. Long’s death and be on her way, she’d rolled the dice and let the mistake stand. Confessing she’d posed as Stacy would only have raised a bunch of questions and possibly gotten them in trouble with Deuces…and maybe the authorities too? Impersonating someone sounded shady—possibly illegal.
    Little did she know finding the body made her a “person of interest.” Now here she was, involved in a murder investigation, trapped in a lie, facing a detective whose piercing brown eyes told her he knew she wasn’t telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
    Sweating like a fugitive, she pulled into the narrow, stacked parking spot in front of the apartment she and Stacy shared. Their dark apartment, she noted with a scowl. The place would be lit up like the Sunset Strip if Stacy were home. Even at…she glanced at the clock on the dash and groaned…four in the morning. Guilt immediately washed over her. Yes, she’d be sleep-deprived the rest of the day, but at least she’d have a day. Carlton Long couldn’t say the same.
    The patrol car pulled to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Kylie stepped out of the car, forced a smile of thanks to her lips, and waved to the officer behind the wheel. He waved back, but stayed put while she climbed the stairs to their second-floor unit. After opening the door, she waved again and exhaled a long, relieved breath when the black-and-white slowly pulled away.
    She trudged inside, kicked the door shut, and hit the wall switch. Harsh yellow light from the living room’s ugly overhead fixture bounced off cracked, tobacco-stained plaster walls.
    Home sweet home. Stacy and she had done what they could to make the place livable. Cheaply framed but colorful prints of dancers graced the dingy walls. A faded rug they’d found in a thrift store covered scuffed hardwood floors. More secondhand furniture and flea-market finds filled out the rooms.
    She dropped onto their slipcovered sofa, which leaned more toward shabby than chic, and set Stacy’s heavy hot-pink bag on the floor. Every muscle wept with relief. An aggrieved little voice in the back of her mind warned that in less than an hour and a half she had to be showered, changed, and on her way to her 6:00 a.m. yoga class.
    Resting her head on the back of the sofa, she closed her eyes, inhaled for a count of ten, and tried to enter a sitting savasana.
    Where the hell was Stacy?
    Her eyes snapped open as she released the breath in a single, undisciplined burst. Wherever her twin was tonight, she obviously wasn’t coming home, despite—or maybe even because of—Kylie’s demand. Typical. Stacy did exactly as she pleased, whenever she pleased, and left Kylie to deal with the fallout.
    Growing up, Stacy had borne the brunt of the disapproving glares and cruel comments from Two Trout’s vicious gossips, ensuring for the most part they left Kylie alone. In return, she’d assumed the role of Stacy’s behind-the-scenes rescuer, good for everything from completing homework to a 2:00 a.m. pickup from a party three counties away.
    The dynamic didn’t work so well as adults. She loved her sister, and knew Stacy loved her, but they enabled each other’s worst habits. So why had she let Stacy talk her into this ridiculous switch?
    Her mind replayed their conversation from five days earlier.
    Kylie, Deuces is a top-tier club. It’s very exclusive, and competition for featured dancer slots is intense. If you don’t dance my shifts, I’m out of a job.
    Her suggestion that Stacy find another job, preferably one that didn’t involve sliding around a pole half-naked, had fallen on deaf ears.
    Name another gig where I can rake in enough to