Zaccaro
Amarie Avant
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Untitled
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
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About the Author
48. LeAnna Aria Jones
Copyright © 2016 by Nicole Dunlap as Amarie Avant. All rights reserved
Publisher: Blu Savant Press
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book, including those inspired by real people, are fake. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other–except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All rights reserved
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1
Detective Valentino Evan Zaccaro
“What the fuck are you doing, Evan? Evan?” My partner, Tyrone, snaps in the tiny bud connected to my ear. “Zaccaro, do not engage. Don’t fucking en–”
Tyrone’s cussing me out is doused into the piss-temperature beer where I just flicked the tiny bud. He’s sitting in an unmarked SUV about a block away from the dive bar I’m currently darkening a corner of. The owner allowed us to tap into the cameras all over this shitty ass place, so Tyrone is viewing the beginning of a shit storm.
Across the room is my mark, Riker. He’s built like a linebacker, and doesn’t have an ounce of respect, not even for his own. It curls my insides, knowing that Riker murdered his own biological mother in cold blood after a few rookie cops attempted to question her a few years ago for calling emergency services. His crew had been cooking meth in the basement of her house which started a fire. This was before he’d acquired land and placed a chemist on the payroll.
Since I am a narc detective, Riker is at the top of the list of fuckers that I need to put away. But here I am, about to break protocol for another reason.
Riker’s sitting at the bar with a young woman dressed in yellow. The tart came into the bar about twenty minutes ago with another friend, dressed in red. While the broad in red appeared to handle her own, I noticed Riker taking a liking to the one in yellow. He just slipped her a fucking mickie.
My eyes narrow as he touches her shoulder. I start over to the bar, and it's as if my presence has been made. At least by the females who begin to eye-fuck me, mentally undressing my all black tailor suit. They hadn’t noticed before, and their greedy eyes say as much.
On a mission, I step toward the unknowing young woman. Riker is going to make me, I've hauled his ass into the precinct on a few occasions, and he's not your average dumbass criminal. Hence, his ability to walk freely.
“Sweetheart,” I turn to The Lamb. She pauses, toxic drink at her lips, and hasn’t yet taken a single sip. Our eyes connect. For just a nanosecond, strategy isn't second nature. Yes, she had a great ass when I watched her walk in, but I assumed Riker chose her over the big tit one in the red dress because this one seemed too innocent.
Mocha eyes. Big, mocha eyes that warm you to the core. Plush, pink lips with a hint of gloss, and this sheer innocence. A bad ass shape fills out her yellow dress, which makes the dark golden complexion of her soft skin pop. I almost call her Lamb. “Lam–Come on, sweetheart, it's time to go home now.”
Her pearly teeth scour over her bottom lip, and my cock knocks against my pants as if to retort, ‘Hello, Dumb Fuck, let’s screw her.’
As a behavioral analyst, it takes even me by surprise when The Lamb murmurs, “Okay, babe.”
Her gaze sears me with questions. Instead of inquiring who I am, she places down the spiked drink, and then holds out a hand. My rough, callused fingers wrap around her tiny, soft ones. It’s as if her single touch has made me lose my fucking mind. Riker makes no move to engage, and take back his treat. And I am more interested in escorting her safely outside, than keeping an eye on my mine.
We get outside. A salted, Venice Beach breeze feathers her long, thick hair, and she has to push away a few kinky strands from that huge, innocent gaze.
I place my hands on my head, letting it all sink in, the fact that this warm, soft body before me will breathe another day. The smoggy, dank Los Angeles breeze has brought her closer to me, her sweetness.
Before I can speak, the tart’s voice damn near blows me away. Her tone is a sensual rasp, but the pitch is increased with interest.
“So, what was that all about?” Those gorgeous eyes twinkle as if she's a fan of playing games. “I read people. The two of you have some serious hate for each other. He stole your chick, you wanted to extract revenge?”
A scoff hardly exits my mouth when she begins to play out the entire scenario. “No, better revenge would have been to take off the suit jacket and get your hands dirty. I honestly walked out of here on pins and needles hoping that one of you made the first move. Granted, I’d have to step away from you rather hastily, but a good bar fight, is in fact a good bar fight.”
I glance back at the bar. Riker is no doubt leaving through the employee exit. And suit? Her tone fluctuated in a particular manner.
I hold out my hand. “Evan Zaccaro,
