Sonia’s sharp eyes flicked from Pink to Flynn, back to Pink again, before she shot an inquiring look at Flynn.  They’d tangled up the sheets about a year ago. It had been one of those “letting off steam after a high-speed pursuit” kind of unions. “Jackson,” Flynn said, acknowledging her.

“Ryker,” she responded.

He felt Pink’s eyes on him and knew that if he looked down at her, she’d know. So he kept his eyes averted.

The silence that had descended around them at her greeting, and the correct assumption from the guys and Pink that Flynn and Sonia had had a fling, was louder than an explosion. Flynn had to hand it to Pink, though; she stood comfortable in her own skin as she met each man’s gaze and Sonia’s with an unwavering one of her own.  One of Justin’s men, Maddox Price, who had been at the bachelor party, turned just as he was pouring a cup of coffee.  His jaw dropped as he halted his action midstream.  Flynn’s mood deteriorated.  When Price flashed his megawatt smile, Flynn’s hands fisted.

“Hello again, Wild Style,” Price said, his voice low and gravelly. The tone left no doubt about what he was thinking.

“Miss Fuentes to you, Price,” Flynn growled.

Price set the coffeepot back on the burner, then his coffee cup next to it, never taking his eyes off Pink.  “Miss Fuentes,” he said stepping toward her, extending his right hand.  “Maddox Price at your service.”

Flynn just bet he was.  Probably getting a hard-on remembering what was under her top.  Son of a bitch!

Pink smiled, a slight blush pinkening her cheeks.  As she shook his hand, she batted her eyelashes.  “Thank you, Mr. Price,” she said softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Flynn could have sworn he heard the guys behind him inhale painfully.  Yeah, she had that effect on each one of them.  Flynn cursed himself for bringing her here.  It bugged the shit out of him that Justin and Maddox had seen her half-naked, giving him a lap dance.

Damn it all to hell. It was too late now, and despite his feelings, he knew he had made the right call.

That didn’t prevent Flynn from spearing Price with a glare that had no effect on him at all. The bastard kept Pink’s hand in his and stood grinning at her like the fool he was.  Flynn knew exactly what was going through the guy’s mind’s eye.  Justin’s too, even though Justin had a steady girl. How could any red-blooded man get the vision of Pink’s lush tits out of his head?

Clearing his throat, Flynn moved toward the interloper, but said for all of the gathered men and woman, “I explained to Miss Fuentes that I’d be introducing her to a group of professionals.”

In unison they nodded, agreeing quickly, dragging their eyes from her and back to their tablets on the conference table.  When Price continued to hold Pink’s hand, she smiled and tactfully disengaged. Then she moved to stand beside Flynn, giving the impression to the room that she was with him.

Shooting Price a stay-the-hell-away glare, Flynn pulled out a chair beside him and indicated Pink sit there.  When she did, Flynn pushed her in and continued, “Miss Fuentes has a problem that we may be able to help her with and she in turn may be able to help us out with a problem of our own.”

Taking the seat beside her, Flynn made it clear she was under his protection. Justin nodded and moved around to the head of the table and his laptop.  “Miss Fuentes, is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes, as long as you reciprocate.”

He smiled.  “I’ll answer what I can for you.”

“Okay, then ask away.”

“How long have you been working at the Surf’s Up club on O’Farrell?”

“Three months.”

He made a notation, then looked up and asked, “What are your duties there?”

“I cocktail and as of this past Saturday, I was promoted to stripper.” She said the words as if she were promoted to head accountant.  No embarrassment or explanation, just a simple statement of fact.

Flynn cringed inside, but watched the reaction of the assembled task force members at the table.  Each one of them, including Jackson, had their poker face on.  Good thing, because he wasn’t in the mood to call one of them out for a snicker or sneer.

“As a stripper, what are your duties?”

Folding her hands on the table she said candidly, “Well, most of the girls dance and strip on stage, but Andre just wants me to do private parties for now.  Like the one you, Maddox, and Flynn attended Saturday night.”

Justin cleared his throat, Price had the decency to look up at the ceiling and Flynn was fighting a mighty hard- on.  Everything about Saturday night flooded his memory banks.

“Do we need specifics, Justin, or can we just move on?” Flynn bit out.

“I’d like to know the specifics,” Jackson said, sitting forward.

Flynn opened his mouth to tell her to back down, but Pink put her hand on his, squeezed it, and said, “I’d be happy to explain, Officer Jackson.”

“It’s sergeant,” Jackson corrected.

“Sergeant Jackson,” Pink said, sweeping her gaze across the antagonistic woman’s face, then to her left hand where there was no wedding ring. “Would you like a demonstration on how to get and hold a man’s attention?”

Flynn bit his lip, Price snorted, and Justin smirked before saying, “Let’s move on, shall we?”

Jackson shot Flynn a harsh glare, but sat back, knowing she was going to make a fool out of herself if she pushed.  She might be one of the guys, but none of the men in the room were going to allow her to pick on Pink.

Justin glanced at his laptop, then at Pink.  “Do you have keys to the building?”

“No.  Only Boris, Andre, and Sherry the bookkeeper.”

“What type of access do you have to the interior areas of the club?”

“All areas except Boris’s office.  That’s locked when he isn’t there.”

Making the notation, Justin picked up a thick manila folder from the table. As he came around the table, he sat down beside Pink and opened the folder. It held a stack of 8-by-10 color photos.  He spread them out in front of her and asked, “Do you recognize any of these men by sight or name?”

As she leaned across the table in Flynn’s direction to get a better look at the dozen or so pictures lined up on the tabletop, he tensed when her knee slid against the outside of his thigh.  The contact struck him with the heat of a laser beam.  Despite the full room, he pressed his thigh against hers, enjoying the contact.

“I recognize some of them, but only a few by name.”  She moved three to the side and pointed to the next three photos. “They were in last week.  Boris’s office.  It was very hush-hush, but I took them drinks.  That one called this one Josef; they were talking about a man named Miroslav.  I don’t know the other’s name.”  She moved them aside and as she reached for two more photos, her right breast nudged his forearm. The contact caught them both off guard.  Pink glanced at Flynn, her cheeks flushed.

Flynn steeled himself.  When she bent farther across the table, the pressure of her warmth nearly killed him.  Damn it was hot in that room.  When she pulled two more from the spread and sat back, relief flooded him.  He looked up to find Justin’s brooding gaze on him.

“This is Sasha,” Pink said, pointing to the picture of a dark-haired younger man.  “He comes in every Friday night, likes his vodka warm, and tips well.  Sometimes he comes in with a satchel, but he always leaves with one.  This other guy is Maks.  I think he’s related to Boris, maybe his nephew, because when he comes in and harasses the girls, Andre doesn’t call him out on it. Most of girls have dated him.” She said, air quoting dated.

“Have you?” Jackson asked.

Pink inhaled sharply at the insult.  Flynn turned on his one-afternoon stand.  “You have a problem with me, Jackson, fine but leave Miss Fuentes out of it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ryker.  My question’s legit.  If she’s dating any of these guys, how can we trust her?”