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Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Romance
Description: Someone was targeting women of power and wealth as victims in an extortion scheme. Certain that whoever it was was intercepting and reprogramming the sexdroids to gather up the blackmail materials, Nash and Rambo were sent in to find the culprit and shut down the extortion ring. Neither of them had expected the trail to lead to Madame Chloe's Social Club. And they sure as hell hadn't expected to find themselves trapped in the undercover role of sexdroids in training! Rating: Spicy/Carnal, multiple sexual partners, adult language and situations, menage a trios.
eBook Publisher: New Concepts Publishing, 2008
eBookwise Release Date: March 2008

79 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [209 KB]
Words: 46998
Reading time: 134-187 min.

Rob Nash enjoyed kicking his heels about as much as he would've enjoyed having his fingernails torn out one by one. After scowling at the chief's closed door for several moments, he flicked a glance at the clock on the wall across the room and settled his shoulders against the wall behind him. He'd been told to report promptly at 4:00. He'd arrived at 3:59. It was already five minutes after.

Dragging his worn note pad from the back pocket of his jeans, he flipped it open and frowned at the notes he'd taken the night before, not because there was anything about the notes that particularly disturbed him but because he had a hell of a time reading his own writing.

He still preferred the old fashioned note pad and pen to the new fangled gadgets most of the other detectives carried around with them--which was just as well since most of the supplies the city furnished them with was a bare minimum of ten years behind the times if not considerably more.

Of course, the city didn't actually provide the PDAs most of the other detectives used. That was a personal expense, but one he figured there was no sense in wasting his hard earned money on. As sure as shit, if he'd bought one of the damned things, some asshole would decide to jump him in the alley and that would be the end of it. The notepad, he could drop, step on--hell kick--and it still worked.

It had its drawbacks--the main one being it generally took him a while to figure out what the fuck he'd written when he finally got around to making out his reports.

Giving up on deciphering his notes after a few minutes, mostly because he was antsy about the purpose of the meeting the chief had called, he dragged out the small, antiquated note pad he'd filched from the duty sergeant's desk. Personally, he couldn't see where the thing could ever have been very useful--which probably explained why nobody made them anymore. The pad wasn't any bigger than the palm of his hand, which meant it must have been for shit for notes, unless somebody wrote really small. Beyond that, although he could see the duty sergeant liked being able to peel the sheets off and stick them all over his desk, he didn't know why anybody would want a writing pad that came apart so easily.

Shrugging mentally, he began doodling on the pad, absently sketching the rookie sitting nearest him at her desk--or, more specifically, the bodacious tits straining against her uniform.

She was a class A bitch, but she had a nice set of knockers and a pretty good ass if it came to that. It might actually be worth a slap and a citation to cop a feel if he could catch her leaning over her desk.

He caught her glaring at him as he flicked another glance at her.

Oh yeah! She wants me, he thought, grinning at her provocatively.

The smile faded as he caught sight of his nemesis, Dirk Rambo, striding confidently across the room, his lip curling in a sneer as he took in the high dollar suit his competition was dressed in.

What kind of name was Dirk Rambo, anyway?

The kind that had his nails done, he answered himself derisively as Rambo slid his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased trousers and cocked one perfectly arched black brow at him.

He'd be willing to bet the son-of-a-bitch got his brows waxed, too.

"Afternoon Nash," Rambo murmured in his hoity toity upper crust accent. "What brings you out of your cave?"

The class A bitch snickered.

Nash ignored her, favoring Rambo with a feral grin. "I was just about to ask you what you were doin' here. It's too early for tea, ain't it? Your date for the ball stand you up?"

Rambo dragged one of his hands from his pants pocket, extended his arm to hike the sleeve of his thousand dollar suit jacket up and checked his five hundred dollar watch. "Nope," he said coolly, slipping his hand back into his trousers. "I'm supposed to pick her up at eight--right after my interview with Cheryl Marks for CWN."

"Ooooh!" Nash cooed. "Is that what the penguin suit's all about? What case did you crack this time? Somebody knock over a pinball machine?"

Rambo gave him a cocky grin that made him want to put his fist through his perfectly even, perfectly white teeth. No way was he going to believe that smile was natural. The bastard must have spent years in a dentist's chair having every tooth aligned with perfect precision. "As a matter of fact it was a tri-state white slavery ring." He looked Nash up and down, taking in every detail from his dirty sneakers, ragged jeans and armless t-shirt to the long blondish/brown hair he had tied into a pony tail beneath his ball cap. "Is that a fashion statement, Nash? Or are you doing undercover as a janitor this week?"

"Ha! Ha!" Nash faked a laugh. "As a matter of fact, I just cracked an international gun running cartel."

Rambo looked him over speculatively. "That a fact?"

"That's a fact, jack!" Nash retorted, grinning more easily now that he realized he'd cracked a bigger case than Mr. My-shit-don't-stink Dirk Charleton Rambo III.

The chief's door swung open abruptly. "Nash! Rambo!" He jerked his head at them to enter and turned away from his door, heading for his desk.

Nash and Rambo eyed one another with a mixture of hostility and distrust like two dogs that had just decided to piss on the same fire hydrant. "After you," Nash said with a wolfish grin.

"Oh no! You're obviously the man of the hour. You first, by all means."

"Get your asses in here!" the chief bellowed.