Authors: Lacey Alexander
Praise for Lacey Alexander
“THE QUEEN OF ROMANTIC KINK.”—Wild on Books
Praise for the H.O.T. Cops
Bad Girl by Night
“I could not put this hot book down . . . and oh, my was this hot! It is so smoldering
with passion and heat.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Sizzling scenes . . . an intriguing read.”
“Begins with a ménage a trois and keeps on sizzling.”
“This was the most erotic book I’ve read to date.”
“Ms. Alexander knows how to capture a reader’s attention. . . . This story is smokin’
—Coffee Time Romance
“Moving . . . tender and sexually adventurous.”
“Starts off scorching and only continues to fan the flames of passion . . . Lacey
Alexander unleashes all her erotic writing prowess.”
—A Romance Review
“Quite an emotional ride.”
—The Season of Romance
What She Needs
WINNER OF THE HOLT MEDALLION AWARD
“Buckle up and hold on tight. Impossibly hot!”
—Fallen Angel Reviews (5 Angels)
“One very hot, sexy, and erotic book.”
“Prepare to be swept away on an erotic journey of sexual awakening.”
—The Romance Studio (5 Hearts)
“An ultraheated erotic romance. The heat is on.”
—The Best Reviews
“This book sizzles.”
—Erotic Romance Writers
“Each sex scene is more varied—and hotter—than the last.”
The Bikini Diaries
WRITE TOUCH AWARD WINNER AND COLORADO AWARD OF EXCELLENCE FINALIST
“Hot, sizzling, and sexy! Lacey Alexander definitely will scorch your senses.”
—Romance Junkies (5 Blue Ribbons)
Sacramento Book Review
“With intriguing characters, [a] fast-paced story line, and tight writing, plus a
host of naughty sexual adventures, Ms. Alexander delivers a powerful story.”
—Love Romances & More (4½ Hearts)
“[A] phenomenal book. Do yourself a huge favor and buy everything Lacey Alexander
has ever written. You won’t regret it.”
—TwoLips Reviews (5 Lips)
“[The] most erotic book I have read. Lacey Alexander has written a no-holds-barred
romp of sexual delights . . . a profound book.”
Seven Nights of Sin
WRITE TOUCH AWARD WINNER
“Lacey Alexander’s books bring out the good little bad girl in all of us. Unforgettable
‘oh, yeah, do that again please’
sort of way.”
—Michelle Buonfiglio, myLifetime.com
“Thoroughly tantalizing, with magnetic characters, a sizzling plot and raw sensuality,
this book will have you fanning yourself long after the last page!”
And Further Praise for Lacey Alexander
“[A]n exceptionally talented author who . . . pens the most arousing sexual scenes
that you could never imagine.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“Lacey Alexander has given readers . . . hot, erotic romance with no holds barred.”
“One of the most talented, straightforward, imaginative writers in erotic romance
—The Road to Romance
“Lacey Alexander just ‘wowed’ me! Incredibly hot!”
—Romance Reader at Heart (Top Pick)
“An intoxicating erotic writer . . . sexual discovery at its best.”
“Lacey Alexander’s characters . . . are so compelling and lifelike.”
—Coffee Time Romance
“Lacey Alexander takes blissful hedonism to a whole new level in this blazingly brazen,
passionately erotic love story!”
Also by Lacey Alexander
H.O.T. Cops Novels
Bad Girl by Night
Party of Three
Seven Nights of Sin
The Bikini Diaries
What She Needs
GIVE IN TO ME
A H.O.T. COPS NOVEL
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
Published by New American Library, a division of
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Lacey Alexander, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
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Purchase only authorized editions.
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Give in to me: a H.O.T. cops novel/Lacey Alexander.
Set in Centaur MT
Designed by Alissa Amell
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling.
pril Pediston regretted her business suit the moment she stepped into the Café Tropico,
which, she instantly realized, was less a café and more your garden variety bar and
dance club. Not nearly as trendy—or classy—as most Ocean Drive establishments, the
Café Tropico had clearly been here a while, though she got the idea its heyday had
long since passed.
“Table for two,” she told the skinny twenty-something hostess clad in a baby doll
tank and ultrashort cutoff jeans. She couldn’t help noticing the girl hadn’t bothered
with a bra, and her nipples jutted prominently against the snug fabric. And the slightly
perplexed look on the girl’s face as she led April to a table assured her that she
appeared just as out of place as she felt. But she’d come straight from work and she
was here on business, so she hadn’t given it a thought. Meetings outside the office
were generally held at places where . . . well, where she wasn’t usually greeted by
someone wearing so little.
Warm night air—punctuated with just the hint of a soft breeze blowing in from South
Beach—permeated the partially open-air restaurant and reminded April that summer was
descending on Miami. She’d always meant to move away—to someplace cooler, calmer.
However, the feeling was vague and her fate long since accepted. She couldn’t really
leave—too many people here depended on her. And still, despite being raised here,
she’d never felt she fit in in Miami any more than she fit in at the Café Tropico.
Across the room, intimidating guys with tattoos and goatees drank beer and shot pool,
the clack of the balls cutting through her thoughts, while a band set up instruments
and sound equipment at a small stage in the distance. She was just beginning to wonder
whether the Café Tropico actually served food—she hadn’t eaten, assuming this was
a dinner meeting—when the braless hostess returned with a menu and a glass of water,
informing her a waitress would be with her in a minute.
“I’m meeting someone,” she replied, “so . . . oh, here she is now.”
She’d just looked up to see Kayla Gonzalez crossing the floor toward her, passing
by one of several potted palm trees that actually gave the place a little tropical
ambience. Kayla wore jeans and a tight tank top, her gaze—and entire countenance—as
haggard as the last time April had seen her two years ago. Hair that had been black
the last time April had worked with Kayla was now long and platinum blond with dark
brown roots an inch long.
As April greeted her, the other woman tried to smile, but the gesture didn’t reach
“Shall we order dinner before we talk business?” April suggested. She’d been on the
run today and had eaten only a granola bar for lunch.
When Kayla looked hesitant, though, April realized that indeed dinner
been on this evening’s agenda for the other woman. “I . . . probably shouldn’t.”
Thinking maybe it was a matter of money, April smiled and said, “My treat.”
As Kayla blinked, April saw remnants of youthful beauty pass through her eyes. Whereas
April was thirty-three, Kayla probably wasn’t yet thirty, but she looked far older.
“That’s awful nice of you, but . . . I was hopin’ we could get right down to business.
I don’t have much time.”
April held back her sigh. Dinner would wait—whatever legal matter Kayla had called
her here to discuss was clearly weighing on her. “Sure,” April said. “What can I do
Kayla tossed quick, furtive glances back and forth across the room as if to make sure
no one was watching as she leaned across the small table and said, just loud enough
to be heard above the other noise in the room, “I want a divorce.”
April wasn’t entirely surprised at this news, and in fact, she suspected it would
be the smartest move Kayla would ever make. The last time she’d represented Kayla—connecting
via a women-helping-women group through which she did pro bono work—Kayla had been
accused of stealing valuable equipment from the warehouse where she’d worked as a
receptionist. April had built a case proving that Kayla couldn’t have done it—not
only because she’d had an alibi, but she was physically too small to have lifted and
transported the generators and other heavy items taken. And though Kayla had maintained
her innocence throughout, April had been torn between believing Kayla had just been
a convenient target and worrying that Kayla’s husband had been involved in the theft.
She’d met Juan Gonzalez only once, but he’d made a terrible impression, striking April
as mentally and possibly physically abusive.
Even so, April had to inform her, “Kayla, I wish I could help you, but I’m not a divorce
lawyer. That’s not the kind of work I do. Though I can connect you with someone else
through Women Helping Women.”
Kayla’s eyes clouded over so darkly that April felt it in her gut. “But . . . I wanted
. That’s why I called you on my own and didn’t go through the service—I didn’t want
nobody else. You were so nice to me before. And you don’t make me feel like . . .
trash.” She whispered the last word as if it were an obscenity.
As a pang of empathy shot through April’s core, she reached out to touch Kayla’s hand
on the table. “Kayla, you shouldn’t ever let
make you feel like trash.”
Yet Kayla’s expression stayed downcast, and even as April thought of a colleague,
Ellen, who handled divorces for disenfranchised women for free, she knew the other
attorney did sometimes intimidate her less-confident clients. She never stopped to
remember how fragile some of them were. And April couldn’t forget how difficult it
had seemed for Kayla to even look her in the eye when they’d first met two years ago.
If Kayla was comfortable with her but wouldn’t have that luxury with someone else . . .
well, she didn’t want to be responsible for the poor woman postponing her divorce,
especially if her husband
“Please,” Kayla added then. “I really need your help.”
April let out a breath and said, “I’ll need to get some guidance from my colleague.”
Though hopefully it would be a simple thing, something cut-and-dried and easy for
all involved. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll be my lawyer again?” Kayla asked, her eyes suddenly brightening.
April nodded reluctantly. “Sure.”
After which Kayla thanked her profusely, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “That’s
such a relief,” she went on. “I’m strung out enough over this without havin’ to get
to know somebody new. And like I said, you’ve always been so nice.”
I really don’t need something like this added to my plate. But if it will get you
away from your scumbag of a husband a little faster, how can I say no?
“I’m glad to help,” she said instead. “Now, does your husband know you want a divorce?”
Fresh panic seemed to seize Kayla’s body—she tensed visibly. “God, no. He’ll kill
April knew enough about women like Kayla to realize she wasn’t exaggerating. So she
spoke calmly, hoping to calm Kayla as well. “We’ll come up with a plan for telling
him, preferably on the phone, after you have someplace else to stay. But first, as
I said, I’ll need to speak with my colleague—then we’ll talk about how to move forward.
Does that sound okay?”
And April began to feel a little relaxed, perhaps for both of them. Or maybe she was
just tired. And hungry. And now that she felt their business had officially concluded . . .
“You know,” she said, “I’m really starving, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to order
dinner. You’re more than welcome to join me if you’d like.”
As before, Kayla glanced nervously around the bar, which April realized had begun
to get more crowded just in the few minutes since they’d started talking. Why was
Kayla so paranoid? Did people here know her? Or her husband? Maybe it hadn’t occurred
to Kayla that April would stand out in the crowd so much in her professional attire,
possibly drawing more attention to them than Kayla had bargained for.
“Or if you need to leave,” April added, wanting to give her an easy out, “that’s no
problem at all.”
Kayla glanced to a clock behind the bar before she said, “Um, I guess I can hang out
for a few more minutes.”
* * *
ogan Wolfe sat at the bar nursing a beer. The pretty girl behind the bar—who couldn’t
have been a day over twenty-two—was making conversation, asking him questions about
his job as a police officer, but she was too young for him. He’d never used to pay
attention to things like that, but he guessed things had changed lately.
Maybe he was finally growing up.
Or maybe it was about Mira.
Mira was an old girlfriend whose heart he’d once broken—and she’d returned the favor
last summer. It hadn’t been her fault, and though he’d never really talked to anyone
about it, the truth was that he’d spent quite a bit of time after that pining for
her. Another first: Rogan Wolfe, pining for a woman. He’d pined, in fact, until he’d
realized he needed to make a change—a big one. He’d needed to get out of Charlevoix,
Michigan, the same small lakeside town where they’d both lived—and he’d needed something
exciting to take his mind off her. So he’d come down to Miami to visit his friend
Colt, and he’d applied for a job at the Miami Police Department while he was here.
A month later, he’d turned in his Charlevoix badge and started patrolling South Beach.
And the change had been exactly what he needed. Miami was hot sun, hot music, hot
girls—and action, action, action. Around the time he’d last seen Mira, he’d begun
to think that the point had finally arrived in his life when he needed more than just
a pretty face and a smokin’ body; he’d started thinking he actually wanted a little
substance in a relationship, someone he could envision a real future with. But thanks
to how things had ended with her, that notion had been short-lived.
He’d tried to commit emotionally to Mira—and he’d ended up feeling kicked in the teeth
by the experience. So it had been easy to decide he’d been doing things right in the
first place—right for him anyway—by keeping things light and hot and fun when it came
to women. And that’s what he intended to do from now on. And Miami Beach was the perfect
place for light and hot and fun.
Though the truth was . . . women, dating, fucking—they hadn’t been high on his priority
list since he’d come south. Sure, he’d found someone to hook up with a few times—God
knew his sex drive hadn’t faded after Mira—but mostly he’d thrown himself into his
job. Which was why he was here tonight, working undercover. Undercover and not officially
on the clock. And maybe it was why—even if he was up for good times with fun women—he
was no longer interested in twenty-two-year-olds.
Remembering why he was here, he pushed the beer aside, not wanting to let alcohol
dull his senses. He might not always play by the rules, but that didn’t equal being
In fact, since hitting South Beach, Rogan had felt more inspired by his work than
ever before. After spending the first dozen years of his career in small-town Michigan,
he’d found his calling in Miami. In Miami, things were happening: crimes were being
committed and there were true bad guys who needed to be taken down. A place like Miami,
Rogan now knew, had a lot to do with why he took satisfaction in being a cop.
A few minutes ago, the Café Tropico had been mostly empty and he’d been keeping a
low profile at the bar, but now that it was filling up and the band was getting ready
to play, he felt safe to casually shift on his stool and take a look around the open-air
room. He was hoping Junior Martinez and his sidekick, Juan Gonzalez, would show up
The bar’s owner, Dennis Isaacs, whom Rogan had gotten casually friendly with since
working this area and sometimes stopping by for a meal when he was on duty, suspected
the two of selling drugs out of a back room. Dennis had let them know they weren’t
welcome here, more than once, but he was an older man and the two thugs were comfortable
pushing their weight around. The pretty bartender was Dennis’s niece and though she
was far from being as pure as the driven snow, she and some other workers at the café
knew he was trying to help Dennis out and had been instructed to keep things on the
down-low if anyone, like Martinez or Gonzalez, came asking any questions about him.
The Café Tropico wasn’t fancy and had certainly seen better days, but it was a decent
place. Besides possessing tidbits of old Miami charm if you looked hard enough, it
was also one of the few spots on Ocean Drive where you could walk in and get a burger
without busting your wallet. And Rogan wanted it to
a decent place.
Coming to Miami had lit a fresh fire under him, sharpened the edges on what had almost
become a dull occupation. And so now he found himself going unofficially undercover,
taking a special interest in this situation off the clock in hopes of bringing down
a couple of dealers, even if they were low level. Best case scenario—he could end
up getting promoted to detective. Worst? Well, even if he wasn’t completely playing
by the rules, if he was successful in taking some drugs and a couple of losers off
helped out a local business owner at the same time, he just didn’t think his captain
would come down on him too hard.
The room was filled with the same people he would expect—a few tourists in shorts
ate burritos or cheeseburgers while they waited for the classic rock cover band to
start. Some club hoppers—younger and more slickly dressed—had stopped in for an early
drink before moving on to the trendier establishments up the block. A middle-aged
couple Rogan thought he’d seen here before did some salsa dancing to the Latin music
that had just begun to play over the loudspeakers a few minutes ago, warming people
up for the band. So what if the Latin tunes would clash with the band’s songs? It
was that kinda place—more about easy grub and alcohol than about sticking to a theme.