“Well, you’re definitely making up for the slow start,” Warner mocks by way of greeting.
“That was Viktor Petrov’s fucking wife!” I exclaim, the phone tucked under my chin as I turn the shower on. “The one Sinclair had an informant on before she went missing.”
“Yeah, I caught that.”
“You should see the scar on her face, Warner. It’s bad.”
“Knife?”
“Hard to say, but I’m guessing yeah. How she ended up on a ranch in Sisters, Oregon, though . . .” Running from her ex, likely.
“We’re doing background checks on all of them. Alex, the sheriff, Jesse Welles. I take it the car detail is a bust?”
“Yeah, looks like it’s all legit. I took some pics of the cars. I’ll send them your way to add to the files. I’ve got to get ready for tonight.”
“ ’kay. Bob and Franky are on. Watch yourself. And can you try to get something useful for once?”
“Shut up.” I smile as I hang up, strip, and climb into the shower, washing the day’s sweat and dirt from horseback riding from my body. Thinking about Luke. About his smile, his laugh, his piercing eyes, his full, plump lips . . .
My phone starts ringing, pulling me from the shower.
“Warner says you’re with the target again tonight?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” I fumble with the tap and grab a towel, caught off guard by Sinclair and his abruptness. Not even a hello. “Heading over there soon.”
“Good. I want you to push hard on the Petrov angle.”
“You think she has intel on the ring?” I know she does, but I’m not admitting to it out loud.
“Maybe. But I’m looking for solid leverage that we can use to make 12 flip on 24.”
“It’s an abuse case where a dickhead got what he deserved,” I blurt out.
“And more, I’m guessing. The property’s listed under a ‘Water Fitzergald.’ Willed to her a year ago.”
Huh. “So, she’s using a fake name.” I guess that explains Luke’s confusion when he was introducing us.
“That or the real Water Fitzergald is buried in a deep hole on that massive, valuable plot of land.”
I frown. “I don’t see it.” That would mean I read her wrong. I’m never that wrong about someone.
Sinclair chuckles and it’s not at all warm. “Well, excuse me if I’ve seen a lot more in my twenty-plus years in the Bureau than you’ve seen in your two minutes of handcuffing local crackheads,” he snaps. “Stop questioning me and start digging. I’m guessing that sheriff is culpable, too. For all we know, 12 and his friend tampered with Petrov’s car and they’re the reason he’s dead. Both of them have the know-how. If we can get 12 on a murder rap, he’ll be singing Markov’s name from the holding cell within a day.”
Even as Sinclair talks, my head’s shaking, Alex’s words, the look in her eyes as they passed over Luke, cycling through my mind. He saved her life. In the short time that I spent with her today, my gut says she was telling the truth—that she needed to be saved.
But, at what cost?
Oh God, what if Sinclair’s right? Am I going to help hang a murder around Luke’s neck? No . . . I’ve met murderers. Even without proof, someone like me can see it in their eyes—the instability, the danger. There’s none of that in Luke’s eyes. I don’t believe he’s capable.
I grit my teeth. There’s no point arguing. This call is all about posturing and personal agendas. I’m nothing but a soldier, expected to do as I’m told. This is the part about my job that I despise.
“Okay, I’ll do what I can.”
“No, you’ll do what you have to,” Sinclair corrects, his tone slow and clear and screaming “read between the lines.” “We’ve poured too much money and time into this case to lose it.”
“Got it.”
It’s foreign, experiencing Luke’s home as an invited guest walking through his door, instead of a lurker hiding behind a curtain. From my condo, it’s just surveillance detail on another target.
But the moment I step through the solid wood door—my nose hit with the scent of sandalwood, my eyes admiring the mixed patterns and fabrics and perfectly positioned artwork that screams “decorator,” my ears lulled by the surround-sound rhythmic music—I feel like a switch goes off.
The switch that says I’m on the job.
“I hope you don’t mind that I brought him.” The second I release Stanley from his leash, his snout hits the ground and he takes off like a hound. “I felt guilty leaving him all evening after being cooped up all day.”
“Nope. Maybe that’ll keep Licks busy.”
I peer up to meet Luke’s eyes and boyish grin as he takes in the sheer black blouse and simple miniskirt I chose for tonight. I need to dress to keep his attention, after all. “You look nice,” he offers, his voice low and gravelly. He steps in close and I hold my breath, expecting him to lean in and kiss me.
Hoping he does.
But instead, he slides his hands into mine and pulls me into the kitchen, walking backward, his bare feet padding softly against the hard wood. He somehow makes a pair of dark blue jeans and plain gray T-shirt look expensive. He smells expensive, too. And irresistible, I admit, inhaling deeply.
“So . . . what’s for dinner?” I warily eye the collection of opened cans and torn packages set out over the kitchen island. An iPad sits in its holder next to it all, open to what looks like a recipe page.
He seizes the sides of my waist and hoists me onto a bar stool, his arm flexing beautifully. “Doesn’t matter. Tonight’s my turn to cook, so you’re going to eat whatever I make.”
“I thought the deal was meatball sandwiches?”
“I can’t win that, so I’ve revised our deal.”
“With Chef Boyardee?”
“With Chef Boyardee,” he repeats with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’m classing it up.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I mutter dryly, holding up the jar of pickles and ketchup.
He ignores me, handing me a glass of red wine. “Here. Drink this and shut up while I make my specialty Italian meal.”
“I can do that.” At twenty-six, I probably drink a tad more than I should. That’s another one of those stereotypes that no cop wants to admit to but is unfortunately a real side effect of the job for many of us. “Though I may need a lot more to stomach what you’re about to serve me.”
“Are you kidding? This is the best. I should really bottle it and sell it by the case.” I watch his back with admiration as he passes the wooden spoon through the skillet over the stove. Every appliance in here appears pristine and brand new, never used.
“I wasn’t allowed to eat it growing up.”
That stops him dead. “What kind of horrible parents would do that to a kid?”
“Ones who believe in only homemade.” I chuckle. “They grew up in Italy, so that’s what they know. Old school.”
“So . . . what, that means—”
“No Chef Boyardee, no Kraft dinner, no Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.”
The honest, shocked look splayed across his face makes me laugh. “I didn’t think there were people like that in this country.”
“There are. I was a child deprived of fattening, crappy food. Such a sad life.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head absently, checking the recipe several times and then, with the awkward movements of a person who has no clue what he’s doing in the kitchen, begins measuring out the shredded cheese and mustard. “I’m surprised, given what you said your dad does, that they wouldn’t be more progressive.”
What my dad does.
He means what Rain’s parents are like, and here I’ve been talking about what Clara’s parents are like.
Shit. My heart rate spikes. Warner’s going to grill me for risking my cover when he listens to this later.
Thankfully I’m saved from an answer. “There was this week that Alex stayed with Jesse and me after Viktor bashed her up good. We came home to dinner every night. I thought I had died, I was so happy. She’s a dynamite cook.”
Alex. Sinclair’s words jump out at me. Begrudgingly, I ask, “So, how did she end up all the way out there?”
“Sheer luck.” Luke licks a dab of sauce off his fingers as he stirs the pan, the simple action stirring flutters in my lower belly. Or maybe it’s him in the kitchen, in general. He said he hates cooking and yet he’s going to all this effort for me. Even my ex-boyfriend, David, who told me he loved me after a month of dating, never cooked for me. Not once.
I take another long sip of my wine. My body is already warming with the effects of the alcohol. It’s too easy to forget myself, to relax and enjoy my company. I need to watch myself. While getting drunk isn’t a career ender, it’s definitely frowned upon when it comes time for the court case. Any evidence that I gather outside of what’s recorded on the wire will be riddled with holes by the time a defense lawyer’s done with me.
Knowing this, I still can’t seem to control myself. Perhaps it’s my subconscious, sabotaging my ability to gather hard evidence against Luke.
“She said she owned the ranch?”
“Yup.” He throws some buns on a plate.
“Did she buy it after she divorced her ex?”
“She didn’t divorce him. He died.” He frowns. “Why so many questions about Alex?”
Shit. “Sorry, I’m being nosy. I’m just really curious. She seems like such a strong girl, after everything she’s been through. And she’s so happy. I just hope that I can be like her, too, one day.” I keep rambling until I sense him relax. That’s what a good undercover does—talks herself out of corners.
“Because of what your ex did to you,” he says softly, delivering a plate full of some strange concoction in front of me, and topping my wine up. “You’ll get there. I’ll help you in any way I can.” Sincere blue eyes gaze into mine.
I can tell that he means what he says.
A ring from his pocket breaks the spell. He quickly scans it and then drops it back in his pocket without answering. “Rain, meet Cheeseburger-roni.”
Knowing that the soft interrogation has to be dropped for now, I focus on my meal, poking it with a fork. “How am I supposed to eat this?”
“Shit,” Luke mumbles through a mouthful as a gob hits the floor. He snaps his fingers. Stanley, the faster and arguably smarter, beats the bulldog, cleaning the hardwood with his tongue.
“Like that, I guess,” I say, laughing. “Well, you have Stanley’s approval.”
“Do I have yours?” He watches me take a bite using my fork.
“Not bad,” I admit, washing it down with more wine, flashing him a smile. “I still win, though.”
“Oh yeah? And what do you win?” His eyes dip down to my mouth, stealing a heartbeat. I like having Luke’s attention, his interest. His affections. Too much.
When I don’t answer, he merely smiles, taking a drink.
“Water?” I glance at the clear liquid.
“Rust got me on vodka. It’s pretty much all I drink now. When I’m not drinking twenty-thousand-dollar-a-shot scotch, that is.”
“Vodka and Chef Boyardee.” I make a gagging sound, earning his roar of laughter.
We finish dinner in comfortable silence, sharing frequent glances and smiles, both dogs waiting patiently by our legs for another accident. I’m sliding the piece of soggy bun into my mouth when his phone rings yet again.
He offers me an apology and answers. “Yeah?” A pause and then his eyes flicker to me.
I’m immediately off the stool, collecting plates and heading for the sink, using it as an excuse to stay within earshot while looking preoccupied.
Luke grabs onto my forearm with a frown. “No, don’t worry about it,” he says to me, nodding toward the living room. “Go and relax.” Then into the phone, “No one. Just . . . a friend.”
I earn another twenty seconds of hovering time by pouring another glass. It’s the Bureau’s fault if I get drunk tonight.
“No . . . I can’t . . . not tonight. I’m busy . . . No!” Aside from when Stanley bit him, I don’t think I’ve heard him snap. “Tomorrow . . . Yeah. No . . . Tomorrow.”
Still within earshot, I float over toward a wall of pictures with mismatched frames that match in that perfectly eclectic way. The faces that stare back at me are all ones that I’ve seen before, that sit within the safe in my condo. His sister, both as a bright-eyed, plump-lipped little girl who you want to put on a shelf and simply stare at, and as the curvy blond who garners plenty of attention; his mother, both as the knockout that ensnared Luke’s father and as the sallow-faced, haggard-looking woman she has become.
My eyes are transfixed on Luke, though, through many stages of his life. The little boy in pajamas who sits in his grandpa’s lap, skinny legs dangling over the side of the burgundy armchair, a swirl of cigarette smoke creating a grainy haze above their heads. The gangly preteen boy sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game, his uncle’s arm thrown over his shoulder, that wide, innocent grin stretching across his face. The tall, lean young man in a blue graduation cap and gown, flanked by his mom and sister on one side, his uncle on the other.
Basically, all the versions of Luke that aren’t within my case files.
The human side of him, which always gets lost in the ugly.
A small lump forms in my throat as I step away from the pictures and shift toward the windows in Luke’s cozy, dimly lit living room.
I’d hate to see what prison does to him.
The call doesn’t last much longer, though, and I’ve gotten nothing out of it, other than that someone’s trying to get Luke to go somewhere or do something, and he’s refusing. I assume, to be with me. I wonder who the someone is.
That small voice in the back of my mind whispers female names. I shush them away, because there’s no room for jealousy here. “So that’s what my condo looks like from your angle,” I call out over my shoulder.
Dishes clatter into the sink. “Shielded and uninviting? Yeah.”
“Some of us aren’t exhibitionists . . .”
A pause. “Are you admitting to watching me?”
“No.”
The floor creaks with his approach but I don’t turn around. “So what have you seen?” There’s no suspicion in his voice. Only playfulness.
I relax. “Besides a certain black-haired friend?”
He groans. “I knew that’d come up again. Yeah. Besides that?”
I hesitate, but then can’t help myself. I’ve never been shy. I can’t be in my job. “You should probably not shower after dark.” Flashes of the night I caught him bare-assed and heading into his shower hit me, and my cheeks flush. While I’ll admit that I’ve seen that, there’s no way I’ll admit to camping out every night since, hoping to catch another glimpse.
“Why? I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Yeah, clearly.” But don’t you, Luke?
Heat from his chest radiates off of him, warming my back as he leans in, his breath rolling over my ear. “I don’t think you minded.”
My entire face burns up, not because we’re talking about it, not because he’s right, but because Franky and Bill are listening to this. I’ve had wires on me while I’ve flirted before. Heck, I had a case only eight months ago where I had to entice this sixty-year-old guy in the lobby lounge of the D.C. Ritz into selling me some cocaine. He was obese, sweating profusely, and reeked of cigars and beer, and for two hours my cover team listened to him tell me all the dirty things he wanted to do to my body up in his hotel room. I had to play along, encouraging it, getting him so worked up in his seat that he willingly pulled his stash out of his pocket and said all the magical words I needed to hear to nail him with a Class A felony. He was looking at twenty years in jail and at his age, that’s a death sentence. It took all of twenty minutes to get him to plea bargain with the name of his supplier.
The guys teased me about some of the dirty shit I said for months after, taping newspaper clippings of sex phone operator jobs that I’d be great at to my Jeep’s windshield. I never cared because I didn’t mean a word of it.
But now with Luke pressing against me, I’d do anything not to have a wire on.
Luke settles his hands onto my shoulders, and his fingertips begin tracing the outline of my collarbone in a slow, seductive rhythm. “I remember this one night when your bedroom blinds were open . . .”
Shit. Of course he’s going to bring that up. “That must have been another condo.”
His chuckle tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “No, it was definitely yours. I remem—”
Deny! Deny! Deny! I spin around. My one hand covertly smothers my pendant, my other flies up to cover his mouth, stifling his words and the proof of what I had to do to capture my target’s attention.
Even in the darkness, his eyes glisten with a mischievous glint, his breathing coming in quick, heavy pulls. Because he knows that I’m well aware of what he’s referring to.
And, by the recognition flashing across his face, he’s figured out that that was no accident.
Roping strong arms around my body until I can feel every contour, every ridge, every hard part of him, he leans down and settles his mouth on mine, my fingers the only thing separating our lips.
If I could think straight, I’d come up with an excuse to stop this. My thumb wouldn’t be hovering over the tiny switch on the backside of my pendant.
But all I’m thinking about is how good Luke feels, and how much I’m starting to like him. And how much I want this to happen.
I switch the wire off and slip my fingers free.
Luke’s large frame swallows me up as soft, full lips land on mine, with an odd mix of tenderness and need that wasn’t there the first two times he kissed me now radiating off him. It’s intoxicating enough to dissolve the last of my focus, as I let myself be consumed by all of him. Until I’m no longer a cop and Luke isn’t who he is. I’m just a twenty-six-year-old girl with feelings and needs who’s attracted to this beautiful man.
For the first time, I let my hands wander shamelessly over his body—over cut arms, and a solid chest, and strong shoulders. My fingers coil through the curls at the nape of his neck; his hair is even softer than I imagined, and I’ve imagined it a lot.
His arms tighten, pulling me in even closer against him, until his groin is digging into me. I can feel how much he wants me, and it only turns me on more. A smooth hand slips under the back of my shirt, grazing the small of my back, just the slight touch of his fingertips on my bare skin sending shivers through every sensitive spot on my body.
I know I don’t have long. The little voice in the back of my head screams that I have to restrain myself. I can’t let this go too far, too fast, or it’ll up the stakes for the next time. But on the other hand, I want to make the most of these moments with him because I won’t get them again. That’s why I don’t stop him when he shifts back toward the window, until I feel the cool glass against my skin. Shifting his feet in between mine, my legs naturally move to accommodate his body as it presses up against me.
It isn’t until his hand slides up the length of my thigh, under my skirt, that reality sinks in.
I break away from his mouth to whisper, “Slow down.”
His mouth finds my neck, his body pressing up harder, his fingers curling around the side of my panties. This has gone too far. “Luke!”
A sudden bang sounds at the door. Stanley and Licks bolt up and run over to dance in front of it, howling at the top of their lungs in a horrendous choir.
It finally grabs Luke’s attention, though, a wild, confused look clearing the heady haze from his eyes. “What the hell?” He checks the clock on the TV on his way to the door. He leans up to the peephole. “Seriously?” Luke throws open the door to find Franky standing there in a pair of jeans and a bomber jacket, a pizza box balanced in his hand.
“That’ll be twenty-two forty,” he says, his eyes surveying the condo with lightning-quick speed, zeroing in on me.
“We didn’t order pizza.”
“Yeah you did,” Franky argues, matter-of-factly.
“No.” Luke pauses. “Well, I didn’t. Unless . . .” He glances back. “Was dinner really that bad?”
I smile and shake my head. “Don’t get me started on shitty fast-food pizza.”
Franky holds up a piece of paper and scrunches his face up. Glancing at the door, and then back at the paper, he begins apologizing. “Aw, man. I’m so sorry. This dyslexia, you know? It makes me fuck numbers up sometimes. Between that and the sporadic hearing loss . . .” His eyes dart to me, and I hear the message loud and clear.
Feigning shock by opening my eyes wide, I quickly switch my wire back on, Luke’s attention still on Franky.
“No worries,” Luke says.
“Sorry about that. Good evening, miss.” He salutes and leaves. I wonder which condo isn’t getting their pizza tonight.
Luke throws his door shut and pauses to rub the back of his head, a look of bewilderment on his face. He shakes it off with a laugh. “Well, that was weird.”
Now that the haze has dispelled from around my head, I’m able to see more clearly. “Listen, I should probably get going.”
“Wait.” Luke levels me with a pleading look that I can’t peel my eyes from. “I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have let it go that far. You’re just so . . . Shit.” He hangs his head and closes his eyes, guilt radiating off him.
“It’s okay. Really.” I close the distance and collect his hand in mine, lifting his knuckles to my lips in the lightest kiss, one that hopefully no one can hear.
“I won’t let that happen again, I promise. Just stay. Watch a movie with me . . .” He begins leading me backward, away from the front door. He nods toward Stanley, sitting beside Licks on a giant denim dog bed again, now that the excitement is over. “Come on. Stanley really wants to stay, see?”
“Stanley’s licking his own junk.”
“Well, you definitely don’t want to interrupt him while he’s doing that.”
“Fine. A movie and nothing else.” I drop into the couch.
“Finish this off.” I quietly watch him empty the last of the wine into my glass, my gaze wandering as he turns his focus to the plasma on the wall. The surprise guest didn’t completely kill it for him, based on the prominent bulge in his jeans. Is that why he wants me to stay? If so, he’s persistent, I’ll give him that much.
“What kind of movie do you want?” I look up to find him smirking, full well knowing where my attention just was.
My cheeks burn. “Whatever you want.”
Diving into the couch beside me, he hooks an arm around my shoulders and scrolls through a list of shows he’s recorded on the DVR, finally landing on one.
“No.”
“What? Why not? Don’t you think it’s a brilliant concept?”
“Filming people while they wander around the jungle naked is not brilliant. It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Fine.” He keeps scrolling until he reaches a string of American Idol episodes.
“Chef Boyardee and reality TV? Seriously, are you twelve? Give me that!” I yank the remote from his hand and begin scanning the movie channels, looking for something that’s at least vaguely stimulating to my brain. Wondering how the hell anyone could be grooming this guy to run an international car theft ring.
He’s nothing but amused, easily relinquishing control, seemingly happy to twirl the ends of my hair and let me choose some action adventure with robots and dinosaurs and a hot male actor.
Luke keeps his word, pulling me against his side and holding me through the movie. Trying for nothing more than an occasional kiss against my temple. Just like I’d expect from any decent, loving boyfriend.
“What the hell happened in there?”
I brace myself against Warner’s harsh tone. “He pulled me in for a kiss and I guess the wire switched off when our chests rubbed together.”
“What was he doing, lying on top of you?”
“No! And stop yelling at me!”
“I’m going to call Sinclair and pull you off.”
“Go ahead and try!” I catch a reflection of my face in my bedroom mirror; I’m wearing a hideous sneer. “Because I can guarantee you Sinclair won’t take issue with anything that happens, as long as he gets what he wants.”
There’s a moment’s pause, and when Warner speaks again, he’s unnaturally calm. “Why do you say that? Did he tell you that?”
“Basically. He called me before I went over.”
Warner’s heavy sigh swirls into my ear. “I almost walked out of another case tonight when Bill called me.”
“Look, I’m fine. The case is fine. We’re all fine.”
“Are you sure? He didn’t . . .”
“No. I didn’t let it go too far.” I totally let it go too far. “You need to relax a bit. Go get some sleep. You sound exhausted.” The guy never stops working.
I hang up with Warner and head straight for my window, opening a section of the blinds. Just like I promised Luke I’d do. He wanted to walk me home but I made him stay, on the condition that I’d wave to him from my room so he’d know I was safe.
Sure enough, there he is, waiting. Lights on. Changed into a pair of track pants, I assume for his daily obsessive workout.
Shirtless.
My heart rate jumps. I simply stand there with my arms over my chest, admiring the view. Glad that there’s a street and two flights of stairs between me and that right now.
What? he mouths, corded arms stretched out to either side of him, a smirk curling his lips. Knowing exactly how attractive he is.
I can play this game.
It’s a dangerous game.
The adrenaline junkie in me—it’s in all undercovers—likes dangerous games.
My fingers move quickly as I unbutton my blouse and let it drop to my feet. A quick glance to the condo beside Luke—the only one that might have an awkwardly angled view into my bedroom to see what I’m doing right now—confirms that no one else is watching. Taking a deep breath, I reach one arm behind me to unclasp my bra while my other hand hits the button for the blinds. They revolve shut just as I let the lace fall.
I dare peek around the edge. And giggle. Luke’s head is bowed and pressed up against the glass. Track pants don’t hide much.
I switch off the lights and spend the next hour spying on Luke, as he attempts to get his usual crunches and push-ups in and ends up heading into the shower.
I probably shouldn’t have done that.
