Page 1 of Undercover Star
Chapter One
"Are you insane?" MatisseVervein stared at the man on the other side of the desk, convinced he couldn't have heard what he thought he had.
His day had begun normally enough until a cop had pulled him over right outside New Scotland Yard and told him he'd been speeding. Matisse had no idea whether that was true or not. He'd been too engrossed listening to the track coming from the Land Rover's sound system to watch the numbers on the dashboard. Never having had a speeding ticket before, Matisse had expected to get away with a slap on the wrist. Instead, the officer had asked him to step out of his car and follow.
He'd been led deep into the famous building, until he ended up in a small, tidy office, where a middle-aged man in a suit introduced himself as Detective Superintendent Timothy Montgomery and offered him a seat.
Montgomery had a friendly smile, and the twinkle in his deep blue eyes could pass for reassuring. He'd confirmed Matisse's identity, but made no mention of speeding fines. Instead, he'd opened his mouth and—
"Did you just ask me to goundercover?" Matisse's voice rose to something close to a screech, but he didn't care. He was a singer, a pop star with a fanbase of millions. He had minders, assistants, stylists,andpersonal shoppers. He didn't... didn't....
"I did ask you that, yes." Montgomery didn't bat an eyelash at his outrage. "Though I didn't quite mean it the way you heard it. We're hunting an art thief who snatches jewellery, often during promotional events or fundraisers. You're a star. You're at home in the environment our thief operates in and you're known to support the arts. Nobody will question your presence at a charity gala. And we could use your help."
"You are insane." Matisse didn't care that he was insulting a senior police officer. The very idea was ludicrous. "I know nothing about police work. I know nothing about how thieves work. I—"
"We wouldn't send you to do this alone," Montgomery placated. "That's not how we work. Why don't you let me introduce you to your... partner?"
Right on cue, the door opened and a man stepped through. Matisse took in brown curls, chocolate-dark eyes, a perfect cupid-bow of a mouth... and his hands started to sweat. His breath caught at the sight of wide shoulders in a rumpled Henley and well-worn denim moulded to strong legs. When the man turned to close the door, one look at the tightest arse this side of Covent Garden sealed the deal.
Matisse was officially, royally, fucked.
Not that the detective super took any notice. He waved the newcomer closer and grinned like the cat that'd gotten the canary. "Come in and meet the rock star, Josh." He turned to Matisse. "This is Detective Inspector Josh Ingram. He's leading this case."
Matisse rubbed his palms over his thighs, glad he'd dressed himself this morning and wasn't wearing leather. Sweaty palms were embarrassing enough. Damp streaks down his thighs would be— He stood and held out his hand. "Matisse Vervein. And I don't do rock."
"That's a shame."
Josh Ingram's throaty rumble was as sexy as his arse. He was half a head taller than Matisse and a good bit wider. Older, too, and he loomed in an enticing way. Matisse wanted to be—
Matisse cut that thought short.
He wasn't out. He couldn'tbeout, doing what he did. And he had no idea whether the walking beefcake in front of him shared his inclination. Given the way he looked at Matisse, as if Matisse were dirt on his scuffed Doc Martens, chances weren't good.
"You like rock? I like rock. I can do rock—I sometimes do—but it's not what most of my fans want to hear." The intense gaze didn't move from his face, and Matisse wanted to hide. Great. Now he was babbling.
"Relax. I don't bite."
That's a shame.Matisse opened his mouth. And closed it again without emitting any sound. Josh Ingram's grip circled his bicep and returned him to his chair. Matisse kept his eyes down. He'd almost outed himself. A replica of Josh's comment had been on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill forth in response. That couldn't happen. He couldn't let it happen.
Desperate to control a situation careening off the rails, Matisse reached for his star persona. His hands were in his lap, his back didn't touch the chair, and neither his voice nor his face gave anything away. "Asking me to help the police is ludicrous. But still... go ahead and talk. I can listen."
––––––––
AT SOME TIME IN THEpast, his boss had earned a PhD in stupid ideas. Josh knew it. Most days, he was okay with it. But this... this was the stupidest idea in the history of stupid ideas.
Josh needed a beer.
He slammed through the door of the place he considered his local, three minutes down the road from Scotland Yard. He didn't live in Westminster, of course, but he spent more time in this joint than in any other. The place felt like a home away from home: calming and soothing. Somewhere to relax.
Right now he was desperate for all of that, never mind it was only lunchtime. A few tourists scattered before him as he stalked to the bar. He tried for an apologetic smile, not sure the lame attempt did much to reassure them.
"And who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?" Chris, the pub's landlord, opened the door to the small, secluded snug the moment he saw Josh, and set a pint of Old Peculier in front of him before Josh had parked his arse on a barstool. The two of them went way back, and Josh could count on Chris not to mince his words. Or to flinch when Josh replied in the same vein.
"Tim fucking Montgomery." Josh drained half the pint in one long swallow. He set the glass back on the bar and dropped his head into his hands. They were alone in the snug and Chris was a good listener. He also knew Josh's boss, another plus when Josh was hanging on to his temper by his fingernails. "It's this case I'm working. We need to move in posh circles, and said posh circles aren't cooperating. So, in his infinite wisdom, Tim's landed me with a fucking baby rock star."
"For real? Who?"
"How the—" Josh dialled it back. It wasn't Chris's fault that Tim had lost the plot. "I dunno," he grumbled. "Some blond kid, barely out of nappies. Matisse something?"
