"Shhh." Brooke's smile didn't reach the arctic depths of her eyes.

"Brooke?" Coach Parker's voice bellowed in the quietness of the gym.

"In here, Pops," she chirped.

"I got your message. Something about Cole-" The man's voice broke off. "Brooke." Coach Parker's horrified voice came from close behind Mercy.

"Hi, Grandpa." She stood up, the gun now held in the direction of both of them. "Cole's got an ouchie."

Brooke's attempt at humor sent the burning taste of nausea up Mercy's throat. She kept her hand around Cole's wrist, hoping if he could feel her touch, he could take some reassurance. Though, in truth, she guessed that would be of little value.

"Good God, Brooke. What are you doing?" Coach came to squat on the other side of Cole. He glanced to Mercy who hoped she conveyed in her gaze her desperation to get Cole help.

"Teaching you a lesson." Brooke's saccharine smile sent a wave of rage through Mercy. The little bitch wanted to hurt Cole, a young man who'd done nothing but think she held the moon.

"What are you talking about? For God's sake, put down the gun and we'll call an ambulance."

"No, we're doing this my way."

"Police. Lower your weapon. Hands on your head." Aidan's commanding voice came from the back right corner. The connecting door from the weight room. Of course, he must have snuck in through the gym's back entrance.

Mercy pressed her lips together to keep from crying out in joy at the reassuring sight of him. There's nothing like having a self-indulgent teenage bitch point a gun at you to give you some perspective of what's important in life.

Aidan advanced, arms extended before him with his weapon held in both hands. "Brooke, be smart. Lower your weapon. Hands on your head."

"No," Brooke said in disbelief. Whether that was in relation to her now losing this showdown or disobeying Aidan's order, Mercy had no idea.

"It's over, Brooke. We know about the drugs, about Heather, everything."

Drugs? Heather? Brooke was wrapped up in that?

"Noooooo!" she screamed. "That's all wrong." Shaking her head, she glanced at her grandpa, then Cole and then to Aidan, the gun now held loosely in her hand and pointed away from any target. "I've planned this all for so long. You can't take this moment away from me."

A large orange ball sailed past Mercy's head. With a thud, a basketball crashed into the back of Brooke's knees, sending the girl falling face first to the carpet.

A wave of people in uniforms rushed past Mercy. Cops. They pounced on a sobbing Brooke. She was cuffed and led to the seat some twelve feet away.

Aidan lifted Mercy to her feet as paramedics rushed to Cole's aid.

"Are you hurt?" Aidan ran his hands over her while his gaze swept the length of her body, checking for obvious injuries.

"I'm fine." She allowed him a minute more of scrutiny, then clutched at his hands. "Honestly, Aidan, I'm fine."

"Kid should be okay." One of the paramedics informed Aidan as Cole was lifted onto a gurney. "Head wounds bleed a lot, but the cut wasn't deep. Probably has a concussion."

Aidan said his thanks as Cole was wheeled to the ambulance.

Mercy and Aidan stared at each other a moment before he crushed her against him, holding her so tight she could barely breathe. "I can't believe you left your fucking car."

"What?" She squeaked out from against his chest and pushed with all her might. He allowed her a few inches of breathing room as she glared up at him.

"You promised you would stay in the car. I get here and your driver side door's open. No sign of you." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Can you imagine what went through my mind?"

She stared at him, saw his creased brow, the way his gaze swept over her, as if still checking for any possible injuries. Then the angry retort she'd planned died on her lips.

He was worried. No. He was fucking scared out of his wits.

Because he cared. Big time.

Yes, Aidan had lied to her about his real occupation, but he was undercover, hunting bad guys-or girl, in this case, not setting out to mock her.

So she'd take a chance.

"I think we've put each other through the mill tonight, but if you're prepared to do some serious wooing, then I'm willing to see where dating takes us."

Aidan let out a slow breath before saying in a gruff voice, "I think I'm one lucky bastard." He lowered his head and captured her mouth in a demanding kiss. She parted her lips, wanting his tongue to stroke hers, to offer herself freely to him. As he lifted his head, he nipped her bottom lip. The resulting sting made her blink.

"A taste of how it's gonna feel later in your bedroom when I spank your ass." His hand reached down and squeezed her bottom.

She gasped. What if someone saw? She glanced back over her shoulder, but everyone was busy with their tasks. A plainclothes officer was talking to Coach Parker, who sat on the other side of the room, his face empty of emotion. A broken man.

Mercy felt a stab of sympathy for the grandfather. Whatever his reasons for sending Brooke to the academy she hated so much, Mercy guessed he thought he was doing the right thing. Brooke's actions were her own.

"How about that shot?" Isaac said from behind them.

Mercy and Aidan turned to see the student spinning a basketball on the tip of his finger.

The basketball that had hit back of Brooke's legs. That was Isaac?

"You could have gotten hurt!" She marched over to him, but her scowl melted at the sight of his bruised and swollen face. Another of Brooke's victims.

"No chance. I was surrounded by cops. She fell right on her face. That's what I call a slam dunk." Isaac dropped a kiss on her forehead, before joining the cops in the hallway, no doubt ready to relive his moment of heroism.

But Mercy wasn't so ready to let the matter drop. She fired a look at Aidan. "What he did was dangerous."

Aidan nodded and walked slowly toward her. The determined look in his gaze should have warned her to run. "It was foolish. We had Brooke covered, but he acted without thinking." He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Same as getting out of your car."

"What was I supposed to do? She was screaming for help."

He gathered her in his arms. "We'll debate the ways in which you should have acted later."

"When you're spanking me?" she whispered, only half believing she was actually looking forward to finding out what that entailed.

"That's the plan, gorgeous."

And Lord knew, good things happened when you had a wonderfully sinful and love-filled plan.

The End.

About the Author.

Fiona Archer writes erotic romance filled with masterful Aussie alpha heroes, and teams them with sassy heroines who limit their submissive side to the bedroom. She lives in the sunny environs of Sydney, Australia, and is harassed by a flock of wild cockatoos that take over the back yard each afternoon, demanding their feed. Her favorite hobbies include watching Nathan Fillion on television, shopping for that ever-elusive perfect shade of lipstick, and drinking iced coffee.

www.FionaArcher.com.

Also by Fiona Archer.

King's Bluff, Wyoming.

Chloe's Double Draw.

High-Stakes Loving Surrender to Chance.

Sons of Sydney.

Craving Justice Out now.

Tempting Justice, Coming November, 2016 Riding Justice, Coming early 2017 Defying Justice, Later 2017.

Street Justice.

by Holly S. Roberts.

A Hotter Than Hell Novel.

Street Justice combines a sexy alpha cop, a bohemian woman with a heart of gold, and a half-Shepherd, half-Poodle mix with a leg-humping need to prove who's top dog in the neighborhood. With suspense, humor, and steamy romance, Street Justice will have your alpha-cop fantasies on full alert.

1.

I'm exhausted. Ten straight days of double shifts with no end in sight. We have two dead women identified as known prostitutes, and I'm worried there will be more. Standing from my desk, I stretch and try to alleviate the pain in my middle back from writing this damned report for more than three hours. My joints pop as I bend. I'm getting too old for this, and I'm only thirty-two.

If anyone had told me when I signed up to catch bad guys, that being a cop consisted of eighty percent report writing, ten percent putting up with political bullshit, and ten percent catching bad guys, I would have decided on tree trimming. I come from a long line of men in law enforcement, and they omitted a few details about this job.

I stare down at the words in my report from my standing position.

Victim: Maddy Hilcox.

Gender: female.

Date of Birth: 07/24/1993.

Age: 23 Occupation: Prostitution.

Victim: homicide, aggravated assault, sexual assault Notes: ritualistic knife wounds.

I have another similar report dated three months prior. The ritualistic wounds are the same. The name, birth date, and age are the only differences. No one wants to admit we may have a serial killer on our hands, least of all me. The brass doesn't ever want to hear those words. It makes it harder that the victims are prostitutes. These cases don't garner public sympathy, but with or without the public's help, I swear I'll take this guy down.

I tip my head to the side and relieve some of the ache in my neck, rotate my head forward and then to the other side. I'm just about to sit down again when my phone rings.

"Detective Street," I answer.

"Detective, this is Alphonso from the jail. I have an arrestee here who insists on talking to you."

Alphonso's a good guy, but I don't have time for this shit. "What's he been picked up for?"

"He's a she, and the arrest paperwork says prostitution."

Hell. I guess I'll make time. This could be the break I need. I have no information about the murderer except his MO. The son of a bitch is smart and uses a condom. I have a hunch he shaves himself, too. Fucking Hollywood gives these guys the basics for how to escape detection. It's one of the only things Hollywood gets right. The lab is still isolating DNA on the first body, and with the victim's line of work it will most likely not pay off. The woman sitting in jail better give me something fucking good.

County jail is ten minutes away from the downtown station, where my office is located. I make it in five. The sally port opens and I pull my car inside. I hate this place-the smell of shit and urine seeped into the walls within a month of the new jail's highly publicized opening. It's been eight years now, and those odors are part of the foundation.

I walk over to the lockers and store my gun. This gives me a stupid big-ass key on a large round key ring that I loop onto my belt. They make the ring holding the key to fit around your wrist. I refuse to carry the fucking thing that way and place it on a belt attachment I carry for just this reason.

Alphonso is sitting behind the glass at the first entrance, and I give him a wave. He speaks on his radio, and I'm immediately buzzed through the heavy door, wait for it to close, and hear the buzz of the second door. Gray is the color scheme of choice throughout the entire building-every wall, every door, every counter. You would think they'd use baby-shit yellow to accent the smell.