by Tami Lund
“The rest is coming on Thursday,” Kyra explained. “This room and the master upstairs are the only ones with beds right now. You can have either one.” She fidgeted, twisted her hands together, and shifted her gaze to stare at the wall.
He suspected she really wanted the master, and he honestly didn’t care, but he was curious as to why. “Let’s go take a look upstairs,” he suggested, and he almost laughed at the way her face fell as she turned around and led him up a gorgeous, recently refinished wooden staircase.
At the top of the stairs, there were two small bedrooms to the right, a bathroom straight ahead, and a master suite to the left. It was twice the size of the room downstairs, with a giant window and a window seat flanked on both sides by floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves that, like the staircase, looked freshly refinished.
There was a separate walk-in closet and a private door leading to the bathroom shared by the other two bedrooms. This room contained a sleek cherry wood dresser in addition to the mattress and box springs. He arched his brows and she flushed.
“These were the only items we could get off the floor at the furniture rental place. The rest had to be ordered. I told you, it’ll be here on Thursday. So, are you okay with the room downstairs?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I couldn’t care less. What’s so special about this room? The window seat?” he guessed.
Her flush deepened. “I always wanted one,” she admitted. “My parents had one in their bedroom, and I used to curl up in my dad’s lap every night so he could read me a bedtime story on that window seat. Most of the time, I fell asleep and he had to carry me to bed.”
He felt a surprising pang of jealousy for the idealistic childhood he never had. He turned and headed downstairs. “The window seat’s all yours, babe,” he called out as he walked away.
Once downstairs in the kitchen, he pulled the bottle of Jack out of the cupboard next to the fridge. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did have a drinking problem.
He carried the bottle into his temporary bedroom and closed the door on the memories of the delicious dinner, the strangely enjoyable grocery shopping trip, the stupid story about being read a bedtime story every night of her perfect childhood, curled up in her father’s lap.
He twisted off the cap and drank.
Chapter Four
Not surprisingly, he woke with a killer headache. He rolled off the too-soft mattress and stumbled into the bathroom. He sorted through the cabinet and was annoyed there weren’t any pain pills. Muttering a curse, he shuffled into the dining room. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that indicated either no one was home or they were sleeping.
Irritable and pissed off from the hangover and the memories of last night, Quinn headed upstairs. Making no attempt at quiet, he fumbled around in the medicine cabinet in Kyra’s temporary bathroom. It annoyed him further that she’d already unpacked her luggage and that her bathroom looked like someone lived here, whereas his contained his unopened shaving kit and the towels she’d obviously put there, and that was it.
He found a bottle of ibuprofen and swallowed three with a mouthful of water he drank straight from the tap. Then he opened the door leading to the master bedroom, mostly just because he was in a bad mood and was therefore in the mood to pick a fight with his new roommate.
And maybe he was just enough of a bastard to be damned curious to see what she looked like first thing in the morning.
But she wasn’t there. Her bed was made, her empty suitcase tucked into the closet along with her clothing, which was all hung up, as if she intended to make this place home for a while. Shaking his head, he headed back downstairs.
In the living room, he caught sight of a door he hadn’t noticed the day before. It was tucked into a corner underneath the staircase, and was slightly ajar. His curiosity piqued, he pulled the door wide open. It revealed a set of stairs leading into a basement. He could hear sounds drifting upward, indicating someone was down there. A steady womp, womp, womp reached his ears, someone hitting something at regular intervals, he’d guess. What the hell Kyra was doing in the basement?
“Holy shit,” he said a minute later when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
The finished basement had been turned into a home gym. Mirrors hung on one wall. A mat was spread in one corner; a punching bag hung from the ceiling in another. There was also a rowing machine, a treadmill, and a full selection of free weights.
She abruptly stopped punishing the punching bag and whipped around to face him. Her hair was—as usual—pulled into a ponytail. She had on no makeup, and she barely wore any clothing, either, although he supposed a sports bra and a pair of spandex shorts was probably par for the course when one was working out in one’s basement.
He silently cursed himself and adjusted his crotch. Kyra’s chest rose and fell, slick with sweat, as she caught her breath after what had obviously been a rigorous round with the punching bag.
“No wonder it hurt when you punched me yesterday,” he commented as he eyed her contoured arms and sculpted abdomen. “Was this here already?” he asked as he wandered over to inspect the free weights.
“No. This is all mine. Most of it’s been in storage since I moved to Detroit. My apartment’s too small to fit all this and furniture too.” A reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
Quinn decided not to bust her chops too much over the fact that she’d chosen to move the home gym in first, over actual furniture. “I’d have moved all this in here too,” he admitted.
“You work out?” she asked, and he also decided not to take offense. He thought he looked pretty buff, personally. Of course he worked out.
“Mostly free weights,” he said, and he sat on the bench and did a couple of quick curls. The ibuprofen was doing its job. His headache was receding. An hour or so down here, and he’d probably be back to normal.
“But I like to spar with the other guys when I use the gym at the office,” he added as he continued to do arm curls.
“I like to spar too.”
He gave her a surprised look. “Yeah?” He considered his words before he offered. “I’m not 100 percent at the moment. Want to go a round?”
Her mouth curled into a sneer. “I could go a round even if you were at 100 percent,” she challenged, and so he stood and did a few stretches, working out the kinks.
“Got another pair of gloves?”
She tossed him a pair of boxing gloves.
“Nice,” he said as he pulled them over his hands and discovered they fit amazingly well. Obviously, she was used to sparing with male opponents.
They both danced around for a few minutes, stretching, warming up, gauging their opponent. She took the first swing, and he easily dodged it. He reciprocated, and she dodged his swing. He grinned as he discovered he was enjoying himself.
That was when she caught him with a left hook. Instead of getting angry, like he often did when he sparred at the office gym, he was still enjoying himself.
Who would have imagined?
They sparred until they were both drenched with sweat and breathing heavily. Quinn was forced to take a water break, as he was still dehydrated from consuming too much Jack Daniels the night before. She’d set up a mini fridge down here, and it was stocked with bottled water. He chugged two bottles while Kyra drank one, and then they went back to sparring.
Boxing shifted into wrestling, and they took turns trying to pin one another, which turned Quinn on like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Even Phoebe at her most creative had never given him a boner quite this hard. The damn thing kept getting in the way, too. He was surprised Kyra hadn’t noticed it. Or if she did, she was doing a good job of pretending otherwise.
He flipped her onto her back, straddled her hips, and pinned her wrists to the mat. She looked annoyed. He deliberately rolled his hips, letting her feel his erection, and her look morphed into surprise. He bent his head, intent on kissing her, but before he could make contact, she wiggled free, tossed him off her, and scra
mbled to her feet.
“That’s not funny,” she all but snarled at him as she snagged a towel from a nearby bench and wiped her face.
He rolled to his feet and grabbed the other towel so he could wipe his own brow. “I wasn’t laughing,” he replied.
Suddenly, she was in his face, stabbing her finger into his chest, her face a mask of fury. “This is an assignment, Daniels. Got it? Just an assignment. We are pretending. We are not hooking up. We are not kissing anymore. We are not doing a damn thing except closing this goddamned case. Do you understand me?”
“Fucking relax, Sanders,” he snapped back as he shoved her finger away from his chest. “We’re on the same page. I’m not interested in you, either. But I am a guy, so excuse me for getting turned on when a woman lies down and acts like she wants it from me.”
She punched him. Hard. He supposed he deserved it.
• • •
“What the hell happened to you?”
Quinn gingerly touched his swollen jaw and then dropped into the chair across from Nico’s desk. “Sparring,” he said shortly.
“What’s the other guy look like?”
Blond. Skinny. Tall. Hot. And pissed off.
“Got in a lucky one,” he muttered.
“How’s the case?”
Quinn leaned back in his chair and bit back a sigh. “Making progress. I think we’ve hooked her.” He proceeded to fill Nico in on the latest development with Kyra’s case, taking malicious enjoyment in knowing he hadn’t even briefed her yet, and it was her damn case. But considering she’d given him the cold shoulder since their sparring match yesterday morning, he decided to hell with her. He wasn’t about to make the first move. Not again.
“Kyra handling it okay?” Nico’s question broke through his angry thoughts. He blinked owlishly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this case. It’s been hanging over her head for damn near two years now. I want to know if she is managing it without issue.”
Well, there was the case file and meeting the perp for the first time. Then the grocery trip, the dinner, the story about the window seat. Discovering the fully functioning workout room in the basement. The sparring match. Her right hook. He touched his jaw again.
“Fine. She’s handling it just fine.”
• • •
“I can’t do it, Nico.”
“Do what?”
“This case. Quinn. I can’t live with him. We have to figure something else out.”
Nico leaned back in his chair and studied her. “What did he do?”
No way was she telling her boss what happened in the basement the day before. No damn way. She’d already been down this road once, with her previous director in Dallas.
“He’s just an ass,” she said. “He’s hard to live with.”
“It’s only been two days. And it’s a case, Kyra. You’re pretending.”
“I know,” she said miserably. The problem was, Quinn’s erection, the way he’d pinned her to the mat and leaned in for a kiss, that hadn’t been pretending. A man couldn’t pretend to be turned on like that. It bothered her because she’d been turned on too. Thank God she’d caught herself the scant moment before he kissed her. Because the scariest part was, she had wanted it. Their first kiss—purely for show to lure Whitney Bianca to meet them—had taken her by surprise, but she hadn’t been impartial to it, either.
She shouldn’t be attracted to Quinn for any multitude of reasons, the asinine comment when they’d sparred not withstanding.
The surprising discovery at the church that he gave a secret damn about someone other than himself certainly didn’t turn her off. Unfortunately.
Neither did his shapely biceps. The scruff on his face when he didn’t shave for a couple of days. His ass in the jeans he’d worn when he left the house this morning.
Despite all of this, there was one giant red flag. They worked together. No matter what happened or where this case went, she knew she needed to put a lid on her attraction.
I can’t do that again.
She squirmed in her seat while Nico looked at her expectantly.
“You know how he is,” she finally said.
“Yeah, I do. And I know he’s good at closing cases, too. And I know this case has been hanging over your head for too long. You need to close it, and Quinn can help you do it.”
“I can do it alone.”
“Not according to Quinn.”
Her head shot up and she gave Nico a questioning look. He nodded.
“He gave me his report already, earlier this morning. Said the perp has already reached out to him. She’s hooked.”
“What?”
• • •
The house rattled as she slammed the door into the wall.
“Daniels,” she barked, storming through the living room. “Where the hell are you? We need to talk. Now.” She was so angry, she was shaking. How dare he approach her perp without bringing it to her attention first? Damn him. He had no right.
“Back here, honey.”
Honey?
Hesitant now, Kyra headed toward the glass sunroom that jutted off the kitchen, where Quinn’s voice seemed to come from. He was indeed sitting in there, looking oddly masculine despite the brightly colored cabbage-like flowers on the seat cushions and the white wicker furniture the previous owners had left behind. She personally envisioned more of a comfortable wrap-around couch and a square coffee table in this room, but that hadn’t been in the Bureau’s budget.
He sat next to Whitney Bianca, who perched on the edge of the seat cushion, much too closely to Kyra’s temporary partner.
Whitney wore a white sundress with a halter top and a flared skirt. The dress complemented her lightly tanned skin and her bleached blond hair, which was styled into heavily hairsprayed fat curls. Her lips were burgundy and shiny, and a matching skinny belt and heels completed the outfit. She looked like a sexed-up 1950s housewife.
As Kyra watched, Whitney smiled and leaned forward, giving both Kyra and Quinn an eyeful of smooth, ample cleavage. She lifted her gaze as Kyra walked into the room, and then very deliberately placed her hand on Quinn’s knee.
Kyra hesitated in the doorway and narrowed her eyes. The memories of what happened to her case back in Dallas—another man, another knee—hit her like a physical blow. She pressed her palm against the door frame and tried to convince herself this was not the same situation.
“Hello, Kyra,” Whitney said with sugar and honey in her voice. “Quinn and I were just discussing the fact that the two of you don’t have a retirement plan.”
Her anger was instantly replaced with adrenaline-pumping excitement. Whitney really was hooked. Forcing herself to step into her role, Kyra feigned an innocent look.
“Well, we haven’t been married for very long.” She hoped she sounded sweet, innocent, newly wed. What the hell did a newlywed sound like, anyway?
Whitney waved that comment away. “It’s never too early to start planning for your future. I assume you intend to have children?”
Kyra felt her face warm. Of course, she wanted kids—just not with Quinn. There had been another man, another life, and conversations about children. A little over a year ago, Kyra had thought she had it all, but Whitney Bianca had destroyed her glass house with one well-aimed stone.
Stay in your role, Sanders. “Well, not right away,” she said with a forced giggle she hoped sounded genuine.
Quinn watched her steadily as he added, “We have lots of friends who already have kids, and they keep telling us to take our time, because our lives will never be the same again.”
Whitney nodded sagely. “You should still start saving now. Eventually, you’ll have college to pay for, weddings, retirement. Trust me, you need to sock away that money now, while you actually have it to sock away.”
“Whitney’s a financial planner,” he mentioned helpfully.
“Quinn gave me a peek into your financials,” Whitney added. “I hope you don’t
mind.”
Kyra did not react. She felt Whitney was baiting her, although she could not imagine why. Whitney had no idea she was the agent who had been thwarted a year ago.
“Anyway,” Whitney continued after a brief pause. “The two of you live significantly beneath your means. You have a great deal you could invest right now. You are in a much better position than most couples your age.”
Quinn leaned back against the flowered cushion and draped his arm across the back of the couch. “Blame Kyra,” he said, looking at her from under half-closed lids. “She’s the financial expert in our relationship. If you want to talk investing, you need to talk to her. It’s all Greek to me.”
Whitney let out a throaty laugh. Her hand squeezed his knee. “I think you sell yourself short. Although if that is really the case, I urge you to reconsider your choices. One partner should never rely entirely on the other to control something as important as money.”
“I trust her. Implicitly.” He stared at Kyra as he said it. She stared back, unsure what to say, what to do. How to feel. Why did this feel so real?
“Another mistake,” Whitney lightly chided. “Never trust another human being entirely. It’s dangerous.”
It was just like before. Well, not entirely. In Dallas, Whitney hadn’t realized the guy she’d seduced was Kyra’s man.
But right now, she did. And as far as Whitney was concerned, she and Quinn were newly married, which meant he should be off limits. Yet here the homewrecker was, flirting, offering herself up. The woman wasn’t even being subtle. Kyra had seen it two days ago, too, but she’d been so flustered by the way Quinn had been acting toward her, she hadn’t fully comprehended her emotions until now.
Whitney lifted gracefully to her feet. “Could I use your bathroom?” she asked.
“Right through there, to the left,” Quinn said, waving at the entrance to the dining room.
Kyra stepped into the sunroom so Whitney could pass, and then she watched the woman walk away. When she turned back to Quinn, his face was impassive.
