by Tami Lund
Undercover Heat
Tami Lund
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2015 by Tami Lund.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8890-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8890-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8891-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8891-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © Shutterstock/Alan Poulson Photography
To Emma and Heather, for the inspiration for Quinn and Kyra’s house.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter One
“A toast!”
“Another one?”
“Shut up, Baxter. If I want to toast all damn night, I will.”
“If you do, you won’t have nearly as much luck in your personal life as you had at work this past week,” Baxter called out from the small crowd gathered around him.
“Good point.” But Quinn lifted the shot glass anyway. “To all the women I’ve never loved but have slept with anyway. May one of you be willing to try again tonight.”
Laughter preceded a chorus of “hear, hear,” before the small group of federal agents lifted their glasses and drank deeply. Quinn tossed back the shot in his hand. And called for another.
“You aren’t even going to be able to walk, let alone hook up with a woman tonight, Daniels,” someone quipped. The dark, cozy pub was just a block from the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Detroit field office and was a favorite after-work hangout.
“I have a better chance than you, Jones.”
The laughter was even louder at that one.
“Another toast,” Quinn Daniels called. Before he could lift his glass, however, the door to the pub opened and the dim light from the street lamps spilled into the room. A tall, lean blond woman stepped inside. She wore a gray pinstriped pantsuit, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore the barest hint of makeup and a frown on her face.
“Kyra Sanders!” Quinn called out as the woman paused just inside the door, probably waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark atmosphere. “A toast to Sanders,” he said. He lifted his shot glass. His cronies all did the same and looked at him expectantly.
Kyra narrowed her eyes and watched him, but did not say a word.
“To the agent with the longest-standing open case in the Detroit office. Hear, hear!”
“Hear, hear!”
“To Kyra!” Another round of cheers. Another round of drinks. She stood by the door, enduring it for a moment before she strode past him, walking on sensible yet not unsexy heels, and bellied up to the bar. She ordered a beer while he stumbled over to stand next to her, swaying slightly on his feet. He figured he was about three sheets to the wind, heading toward four.
Quinn generally kept his personal life—or lack thereof—and his professional life strictly separate. But when a hot blond started working in his office, it was hard to ignore her. Kyra had transferred to the Detroit office some six months prior and thus far had hardly said half a dozen words to him—or any of the other male agents, so far as he could tell.
She was different from the women he normally hit on. More introverted, more—shy. Which, in truth, pissed him off that he was even attracted to her, because those were qualities his mother had, and he had a strict rule to avoid all women who even remotely had anything in common with his late mother.
“A beer? Don’t you want to do a shot with me?” he asked, leering at the chest tucked away behind her standard business suit. No sexy lace, no hint of cleavage for him to ogle.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“That accent of yours sure is sexy.” Had he realized how alluring a drawl could be, he might have considered taking a position in one of the southern offices when he was first starting out with the feds.
“It’s not an accent. Now go away, Quinn. I’m not interested.”
“I’ve heard you aren’t interested in anyone. How come? Don’t swing this way? You and Raquel are best buds, but I know she swings this way, considering she hasn’t stopped smiling since she hooked up with that civilian.”
“Jorge. Her husband’s name is Jorge.”
“What? She up and married that guy?”
Kyra shook her head. “They’ve been married for five years. I’ve been in this office less than six months and even I know that.”
He shrugged. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what everyone else does when they aren’t on the clock.”
She paid for her beer and took a sip before giving him a mock salute with the bottle. “See you around, Quinn.” She moved away from the bar in the opposite direction of where he had been gathered with his cronies. When she slipped into a booth, he sat on the bench opposite her.
Even in his drunken state he recognized a strange attraction to Kyra Sanders, one that was different from the standard desire to sleep with a woman simply because she had tits and nice legs. Actually, it was only when he was sloshed that he was willing to admit to the allure. When he was sober, he stayed the hell away from her.
Tonight, Quinn was trashed. So instead of heading back to the other agents, he followed Kyra. “Where are you going? The party’s over there. We’re celebrating.”
She sighed. “I know you are thrilled to have finally closed that kidnapping case. I’m glad for you. But I’m not really in the mood to be sociable.”
“Why? Because your case is still open? Come on, Sanders. We’re all friends here.”
“I just want to drink my beer alone and in peace, Quinn.”
“Why’d you come to a bar, then?” he slurred. “Hard to be alone in a place like this. In fact, people come here for the express purpose of not being alone.”
“Good point.” She pushed away the barely touched beer and slid out of the booth. “Good night. I’m out of here.”
He snagged her arm before she could slip away. “Why don’t you take me home tonight?” he suggested. “I’ll make sure you wake up alone.” Shit, he really was wasted. Did he just proposition her? Quinn wasn’t at all above taking random women home from bars—in fact, that was his preferred modus operandi—but Kyra Sanders was not that type of woman. Which was one of a dozen reasons he stayed the hell away from her—again, when he was sober.
“You’re a real sleaze, you know that, Quinn?”
He shrugged. “Beats the alternative.”
A peculiar look crawled across her face before she shook her head and it disappeared. “Find someone else,” she suggested as she shook off his hand. “You aren’t my type.”
&nbs
p; She brushed him off and took a step away. Quinn grabbed her arm again. When she lifted that cool blue gaze to his face, he saw trepidation there. He dropped his hand.
“You’ll close your case, Sanders. You’re a good agent. Definitely better than this perp you’ve been chasing.”
Her eyes flared, the apprehension shifting to surprise. He wasn’t one to dole out compliments. Hell, he wasn’t one to talk to her at all. They’d been working out of the same office, their desks a dozen feet apart, for six months, and he hadn’t done anything beyond the obligatory handshake on her first day, when his boss, Nico, walked her around and introduced her to the other field agents.
“Thanks,” she said, and then she left the bar before he could figure out a way to stop her.
• • •
Unlike his promise to Kyra, he wasn’t alone when he woke up the next morning. It was okay, though, because the bed partner was his stand-by fuck buddy, Phoebe Manard. Quinn cracked one eye and waited for it to focus on the shape of the sleeping woman. A mass of dark waves splashed across the pillow. Her big, dark eyes were closed at the moment, and her red, sensual lips were pursed in sleep. One naked breast was revealed by the blanket that had slipped off at some point in the night.
He rolled away from her and muttered a few choice oaths as he struggled out of the bed. It took him a minute to comprehend that he was naked, too. Unabashedly he walked through the room to the bathroom, then pissed without closing the door. He swallowed a handful of pain pills to combat the pounding headache and returned to the bedroom.
Phoebe was awake, lying in the bed, her head propped in her hand. The sheet draped over her waist, revealing beautiful breasts that he had no idea if he’d even touched last night.
“Morning,” she said, her voice a purr.
Quinn rubbed a hand over the stubble coating his chin and walked over to the dresser, grabbed a pair of gym pants, and pulled them over his hips. “I take it I called you at some point last night?”
She smiled as she sat up and dressed. “Apparently, your friends would not let you leave the bar on your own last night. You were too drunk, and they were afraid you would do something stupid. So you called me and I picked you up.”
“Oh. Did we …?” He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t the first time, so he figured Phoebe wouldn’t be insulted.
“Nope. You had good intentions, but you passed out before anything could happen.”
“Huh.” Phoebe was hot as hell and was almost always up for a quick fuck, but his head felt like it was about to explode, dampening any possible interest he might have in making up for last night.
“Can you give me a ride to pick up my truck?” he asked.
She looked into the mirror attached to the dresser and ran a hand through her tangled curls. “You really are an ass, you know that, Quinn? It’s a good thing I know that and have no other expectations.”
“If you don’t like the terms of our relationship, you can just ignore my calls, you know.”
She tossed a saucy look over her shoulder as she headed toward the bathroom. “I didn’t say I didn’t like the terms. You’re pretty fantastic in bed, when you’re not drunk. And I have no desire whatsoever to attempt any sort of real relationship with you. I could not handle your emotional baggage. But just once, I would like you to be grateful when I rescue your ass. Just once.”
She closed the bathroom door.
Emotional baggage. He did not respond to her accusation, because, frankly, she was right. He had a shit-ton of emotional baggage. He wouldn’t wish his issues on anyone.
• • •
He was back home, his truck securely parked in the garage, before the call came. He knew it would, eventually. He just never knew precisely when. For a brief moment, he contemplated not answering, but he was helpless to cut these ties, and so he pressed the button and accepted the charges.
“Closed your case, I see.” The voice was sandpaper rough from too many cigarettes over too many years.
Quinn sometimes wondered if one day, this call would be of a different nature. “I have cancer. I’m dying.” How would he react to a call like that?
“Yeah, I did.” The miserable, love-starved child in him still waited for praise that never came. Never had, never would. And he hated himself a little more each time he hoped.
The man on the line snorted. “You got lucky. The bastard who took those kids was stupid. If it had been me, I would have—” And then Quinn’s father proceeded to tell him exactly how a criminal mastermind would have been able to elude the FBI for so much longer than the man who was now in prison, charged with multiple counts of federal kidnapping and human trafficking. Many parents, many kids, could sleep comfortably now, thanks to Quinn.
Not that his father would ever acknowledge such a thing.
“Are you done yet?” Quinn interrupted. “I have things to do.”
“What? Gloat about your great victory over the criminal class? You’ll never catch us all, you know that, right? Your kind is outnumbered. You’ll always be outnumbered.”
His kind. The good guys. As much as Quinn viewed the world in black and white, so too did his father. As far as he was concerned, it was the one and only thing they had in common.
“That doesn’t mean we won’t keep trying,” he retorted, goaded, as ever, into the same futile argument he’d had with the man for these past seven years. Ever since Lawrence Daniels was finally arrested and thrown into prison.
“You’ll never win,” Larry replied.
“We beat you, didn’t we?” Quinn shot back.
“You got lucky. Everybody gets lucky sometimes.”
Luck had nothing to do with the day his father was arrested. But he knew he would never win this argument. That was about as likely as the Lions, Tigers, Pistons, and Red Wings all winning their respective championships in the same year. Never gonna happen.
“I’ll bank on that sort of luck any time,” he said. “This chat has been enlightening, as always, but I gotta go. Enjoy your incarceration.” He disconnected before his father could come up with a suitable retort that would inevitably pull Quinn into an argument that would leave him even more emotionally drained and no less satisfied with himself, or his life.
He tossed the cell phone onto the kitchen counter and then walked over to the cabinet next to the stove, which housed his liquor assortment. He selected a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, twisted off the cap, and lifted the bottle to his lips. Might as well start the day off right.
At least it would kill the hangover from the night before.
Chapter Two
“We’re good to go.”
“Finally.” Kyra dropped into the cracked faux-leather chair positioned across from the director’s desk. “I am so ready to close this case. You have no idea.”
“Yeah, actually, I do.” The look Nico gave her spoke volumes. He understood because she’d had to give full disclosure when she asked for the transfer from Dallas to Detroit. While her previous director hadn’t bothered to check that the door didn’t slam her in the ass on the way out, her current boss hadn’t wanted to take on another agent without knowing all the facts. All of them.
So, Nico knew she had been chasing the same perp for damn near two years now. Knew the case had been a hairsbreadth away from closing about a year ago. He knew why she hadn’t closed it, too.
Even after everything went sour, when her perp disappeared like smoke, even after her former boss told her to quit chasing shadows and move on with her life, Kyra hadn’t relented. And it paid off. Eight months ago, she’d caught a break, figured out the perp had relocated to the Detroit area. She hadn’t hesitated to put in for a temporary transfer. The director in Dallas likely would have given her a permanent transfer had she asked—he wanted her in his office as much as she wanted to be there—but she hadn’t. Despite the way things went down with her case, her family, her life was still in Dallas. She hadn’t been ready to walk away entirely.
Kyra nodded. “Sorry. Right.
So who’s my partner on this?”
Nico glanced at the computer monitor perched on his desk. “Obviously it needs to be a male agent.”
“Of course. That makes sense.”
“It also makes sense to use someone from the Detroit office, instead of asking someone to come in from out of town.”
“Okay, sure,” she said, not understanding why he felt the need to explain all of this before telling her who would be going undercover with her for the foreseeable future.
“It was actually slim pickings after I had a look at everyone’s caseload. In fact, only one agent currently has a clear desk.”
Suspicion bloomed in her mind. There was only one reason Nico would be so hesitant to come right out and tell her the name of her temporary partner. Suddenly, she shot to her feet.
“No,” she blurted.
“You don’t even know who—”
“Quinn Daniels. He just wrapped up his case on Friday. I ran into him while he was celebrating at the bar. And I repeat: No. I can’t. Find someone else. Anyone else. Please, Nico.”
• • •
“You have a new case.”
“I’m shocked that the criminal element wouldn’t give me at least one full workday to relax.” Quinn’s voice was full of sarcasm, but he was resigned to the fact that he was already back to reading files and sitting stakeouts, just a day after solving his last one.
“You had the weekend.”
“Nice of the bad guys to give me that. What’s the latest crime?”
“Actually, it isn’t a new case,” Nico amended. “You’re going to help somebody else close theirs.”
“What, I’m The Closer now?” he asked, referring to Cullen Lawry from the New Orleans field office, who had a reputation as one of the FBI’s best agents.
Nico shook his head. “More like we needed a specific type of agent who wasn’t in the middle of something else at the moment.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “What type of agent?”
“Male. Looks to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. Doesn’t have a jealous wife at home who might be annoyed by the fact that he’s going to play house with another woman for the next few weeks.”
