by Tami Lund
“Was that on purpose?” she asked.
He raised his brow in a questioning look and did not say anything.
“You know what I’m talking about,” she said. She gave an impatient wave at the doorway leading into the dining room.
“I know the walls are thin and that voices carry through heat ducts,” he responded, and she got the hint and fell silent. When Whitney returned, Kyra still stood just inside the room and Quinn still lounged on the flowered wicker sofa.
“Do you have visitors?” Whitney asked, looking at them expectantly. “I noticed your guest room looks as if someone is sleeping there.”
Quinn looked irritated for a split second, and then he surged to his feet and stepped across the room, where he draped his arm around Kyra’s shoulders and gave Whitney a lopsided grin.
“First fight,” he quipped. “Can you believe it? The first night in our new home. I hope that isn’t a bad omen.”
Whitney no doubt hoped it was a bad omen. “I hope it wasn’t her who gave you that bruise.” She reached out, as if she intended to caress his jaw. Kyra bristled.
Quinn took a half step away and shifted his jaw muscles before stating, “Yeah, right. You think a girl could do this?” He rolled his eyes and added, “I was actually waiting for Kyra to get home so we could make up.” He curled the arm that was wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close so he could drop a kiss onto her forehead. She fought hard to keep from wincing.
“I couldn’t ever imagine sending you to sleep in another room,” Whitney commented. She fluttered her eyelashes and pursed her lips, as if preparing for a kiss.
Kyra wanted to pop her on the kisser. Whether she and Quinn were playacting or not, it was infuriating that the other woman assumed Kyra was responsible for making her new husband sleep in the guest room.
“Trust me, I deserved it,” he replied. He kept his arm firmly wrapped around Kyra’s shoulders, but his gaze stayed on Whitney. “If she had punched me, she would have been well within her right to do it.”
Kyra stared at him. Sure, they were supposed to be pretending, but she couldn’t help but wonder if—
“I was being a real ass,” he added.
Was he—apologizing for what happened in the basement?
“But it’s all good now.” He winked broadly for Whitney’s benefit. “I’m going to work harder at being less of a bastard, and she’s going to work harder at forgiving me my faults. Right, babe?”
“Er …”
Quinn chuckled and kissed her forehead again.
“I think we’d definitely be interested in discussing how you can invest our money, Whitney, but maybe we can do it at another time?” He sounded hopeful, a devoted husband eager to have some alone time with his wife.
“Of course,” Whitney said smoothly. “You know where I live. I’ll catch up with you two later,” she promised, and then she let herself out the door that led onto the deck.
Quinn tapped the bottom of Kyra’s chin until she looked him in the face. The bruising on his jaw was pretty noticeable. She probably should not have hit him as hard as she did.
“Kiss me,” he murmured quietly, and he sounded awfully damn sincere. Too sincere.
We’re just pretending.
“Why? She’s gone.”
“She’s watching. Kiss me. And mean it.”
“Quinn, I—” He cut her off by cupping her face, slanting his mouth over hers and teasing at her lips with his tongue. Surprise caused her to open her lips, and he took full advantage and thrust his tongue inside. If this was purely for show, they were certainly going overboard, but the fact of the matter was Quinn was a hell of a kisser, and it had been far too long since she had felt the stirrings of lust whenever he launched a stunt like this.
They were supposed to be pretending they were newlyweds, after all.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and fisted one hand in his hair while the other grasped the collar of his shirt, as she canted her head and kissed him back the way a woman should.
Quinn broke the kiss and took a deep breath. “Okay, she’s gone. And damn, I want to fuck you right now.”
Kyra stepped out of his embrace and shook her head. “I highly doubt we have to go quite to those lengths to convince the woman we’re a happily married couple.”
“I don’t give a hot damn about her right now. I’m serious.”
She moved further away, needing space between them. “No, you aren’t. You’re just reacting to the kiss. Getting turned on is a perfectly normal reaction to kissing.”
He did not argue her point. “I need to move my stuff upstairs,” he said instead.
She gave a start and immediately started shaking her head. He waved at the wall, behind which was his bedroom and the only bathroom on the first level of the house.
“We can’t let something like that happen again. It will blow our cover. I can’t believe she bought what I said, frankly. Newlywed couples do not sleep in separate beds the first night in a new home. They bang like bunnies in every room of the house, and then they fall into bed, exhausted. The same bed.”
“You sound awfully knowledgeable about this subject,” she commented as she followed him into the guest room.
“I have friends, acquaintances who’ve been in the situation,” he said shortly, and he began shoving clothes into his duffel bag.
“This really isn’t necessary. Just keep the door closed.”
He rounded on her. “You want this case closed, Sanders? You need to do whatever it takes to get there. Even if that includes sleeping with me.” He grabbed the duffel bag and strode past her into the bathroom, where he grabbed his shaving kit and then left the room.
She chased after him up the stairs. “Sleep with you? No way. You take one of the other bedrooms if you have to be up here.”
He ignored her. He walked into the master bedroom, Kyra’s sanctuary, and dropped his duffel bag and shaving kit onto the bed. She’d already made it her own, and she was embarrassed that he now knew that. But ever since moving to Detroit—actually, ever since the case went sour down in Dallas—she’d craved a home, a place she could feel safe and comfortable and could step away from the rest of the world for a while.
“We need a TV in here.”
“We do not need a TV in the bedroom.”
Quinn gave her his raised eyebrow expression. “You have other plans for how we can use our time in here?”
“Sleeping,” she retorted. “In separate beds.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Neither of the other rooms up here will fit that giant mattress and box spring downstairs. And by the way, just so we’re clear: I don’t want to sleep with you, either. But that woman is conniving and devious, and she will see through our façade in ten seconds flat unless we make it damned real. This is your case, Sanders. You make the decision.” He turned and exited the room.
• • •
He lied. He did want to sleep with her. He wanted to sleep with her so badly his balls ached. And by sleep, he meant fuck her brains out, make her scream his name, give her the greatest orgasm of her damn life.
Kyra Sanders, of all the women in the world. She was not his type. She was exactly the sort of woman he needed to stay away from. Quinn wanted nothing to do with happily ever after or any of the other shit associated with dating the same woman for any length of time, and Kyra was that kind of woman.
He knew she was, even though really, he knew precious little about her. But the fact that she refused to consider hooking up with any of the other agents in the office—and Quinn knew he wasn’t the only one who’d hit on her—and given her perfect, fairytale childhood, the parents who were still together and, as far as she implied, happy, well, what else should he assume? People raised in that sort of environment wanted to have that same life for themselves when they grew up. It was only natural.
For all the highly inappropriate things he wanted to do with her, he knew damn well that to give in to his desires was to start something that went
far beyond the agreement he had with Phoebe.
It didn’t help to know that Kyra wanted him, too. That kiss proved it. Whatever the words coming from her mouth, the woman desired him nearly as badly as he desired her.
Which sucked, because he needed her to be the one to force him to keep his distance. Punching him in the face obviously wasn’t working. He needed her to put on a goddamned chastity belt. He needed her to close this damn case, so he could get the hell away from her before he did something even stupider than what happened when they sparred yesterday. Or that kiss. He definitely needed to not ever kiss her again.
While she logged onto her laptop to check email, he headed downstairs to take advantage of the home gym she’d set up. He wasn’t remotely surprised she did not join him. He was pretty sure they were going to have to set up a workout schedule so they never ended up in the basement at the same time. Just the thought of her in that tiny sports bra and those ass-hugging Spandex shorts made him hard all over again. Despite the throbbing pain in his jaw.
He grabbed a towel and wiped his face while at the same time snatching up his phone from where he’d laid it on a small table near the base of the stairs. He stabbed at the screen until Phoebe’s name popped up.
“Are you drunk in the middle of a weekday, Quinn?” He could hear the amusement in her voice.
“No. What the hell makes you ask that?”
“Because you only call me when you’re drunk.”
“That’s not true,” he protested, but it was true. He felt slightly guilty for his actions.
Phoebe, to her credit, did not argue with him. “I assume, despite the fact that you aren’t drunk, that you are calling for the regular reason. And unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you at the moment. I have a job too.”
Quinn grumbled a few choice curses.
“Nor can I accommodate you later this evening,” Phoebe went on to say. “I actually have a date tonight.”
“A date?” He was so surprised, he blurted the words.
She laughed. “Contrary to the relationship you and I had, that is not how I intend to spend the rest of my life. Like most normal adults, I would like to find my Mr. Right and settle down someday. And you and I both know you are not my Mr. Right.”
“I’m not anybody’s Mr. Right.” If Phoebe was going off the market, what the hell was he supposed to do? They’d had the perfect relationship, in his opinion: straight sex, nothing else, and they had both been satisfied with that situation. He had a feeling finding another woman like her was going to be damn near impossible.
There was Kyra.
No. Not in a million years.
“Sure you are, Quinn. I am a firm believer there is someone for everyone out there. You just have to find her.”
“I don’t want to find her.”
“Why not?”
“Come on, Phoebe. You don’t even really know me, but you know me better than anyone else does. You said yourself that I have a pile of fucked-up baggage no woman would be willing to take on.”
“Actually, I said I wouldn’t take it on. But that’s just me.”
“No one could handle my baggage.”
“You’re wrong. Baggage or not, there’s a good man in there somewhere. You just have to decide to let him out. And when you do, I bet your baggage doesn’t seem quite so big, nor will the woman care. She will be happy to handle it. Look, I gotta go. I need to get back to work. I’ll let you know if the date doesn’t work out. Bye, Quinn.”
She disconnected the call, and he stood there, staring at the wall, trying not to contemplate her words. A small sound caused him to turn his head, and he spotted Kyra, hovering on the stairs, a sheepish look on her face.
“What?” he said with a growl.
“Everybody has baggage, you know,” she said, clearly having overheard his side of the conversation.
“Don’t go there, Sanders. Trust me, you do not want to.” He pushed past her and headed upstairs to take a shower.
Chapter Five
Later that night, he fell asleep on the couch in the living room, much to Kyra’s relief. The very last thing she needed in her life was Quinn Daniels in her bed. It was the very last thing she needed, because it was becoming the very thing she wanted.
Quinn Daniels, for crying out loud.
The next day, she paid a visit to Raquel.
“How’s the undercover assignment going?” Raquel asked, as she let Kyra cuddle the baby.
“I think the perp’s interested,” Kyra said, in between cooing at the bright-eyed little girl. “In both our fake financials and Quinn.”
Raquel furrowed her brow. “Isn’t that what happened last time?” Raquel was the only one besides their boss, Nico, who knew what happened in Dallas.
“Yes, but this time, I’m prepared for it.”
“Does Quinn know?”
“Only what was in the file. He’s smart, though. His first comment after reading the file was that Whitney had inside information.”
“He is smart. Unfortunately, he does a great job of hiding his intelligence behind a bottle of booze. It’s almost like he wants everyone to underestimate him.”
“I overheard him on the phone yesterday. He said he had a bunch of baggage no woman would want to take on.”
Raquel gave her a surprised look. “He said that? I had no idea Quinn was even interested in having a real relationship with a woman.”
She shrugged. “I have no idea who he was talking to. A brother, maybe?”
Raquel shook her head. “I’m pretty sure he’s an only child. But he’s right. He does have a great deal of baggage.”
“Like what?”
“Ask him,” she suggested. “It isn’t my place to say.”
“Come on, Raquel. You know he won’t tell me. Maybe if I know, it will help us get along better. We aren’t doing a fabulous job of it at the moment.”
Her friend hesitated. “Ask him,” she said again. “If he wants to tell you, he will.”
Asking him would be a waste of her breath. He’d never tell her about his past. Hell, he didn’t even want his co-workers to know his heart was big enough to just show up and unload heavy food boxes for an elderly priest. Actually, he probably didn’t want any of them to believe he even had a heart at all.
Raquel was right about him hiding behind the booze. How many Monday mornings had Kyra sat at her desk and tried to tune it out while Court or Baxter or one of the other agents teased Quinn about how wasted he’d gotten the weekend before?
Why the hell was he so secretive? Why the hell was he so worried about showing his true self to the people he worked with, people with whom, essentially, he should be able to trust his life?
Since Raquel wouldn’t tell her, and she knew better than to bother asking Quinn, she chose an alternate route. After she returned to the bungalow the government had rented for her case, she researched Quinn Daniels, using the extensive FBI network she had at her fingertips. She curled up on the window seat in the master bedroom, and with her laptop perched on her thighs, she typed in her access code to get past the security surrounding the information, then she sat back and began to read.
The story was so riveting, she didn’t even hear him until his hand came down onto the top of her laptop, slamming it closed.
“Hey,” she protested as he towered over her, looking more furious than she ever thought possible. Her eyes widened and she resisted the urge to shrink away.
“My file is private,” he said. “Stay the fuck out of my life.”
“H-how did you know?”
His eyes were spitting fire. “You think I wasn’t going to set up so that if anyone tried to get into my personal file, I would be notified? How much did you read?”
She swallowed. “Enough. I’m so sorry, Quinn.”
“Don’t give me your goddamn sympathy,” he snarled. “I don’t need it.” He turned and strode from the room.
She found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking Jack Daniels
straight from the bottle. She waited until he took a breath and then said, “Can I have a hit?”
He was clearly surprised by her request. He probably expected her to condemn him for turning to alcohol. But after reading that file, she honestly couldn’t blame him for wanting to numb the pain once in a while.
He offered her the bottle. “Not surprising that file would get to you,” he commented as he watched her take a swig.
Kyra gasped and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That file would get to anybody.”
Quinn grabbed the Jack back, took another swallow. “Not anybody. Plenty of people in this world live through what I did. Trust me, I’ve seen them. But you—that world has to be completely foreign to you. Anybody whose daddy read her a bedtime story every damn night of her childhood has no fucking concept of what my childhood was like.”
She pulled the bottle from his hand. “Nope. But I can be a good listener, if you want to talk about it.”
He scowled. “I talked plenty enough to the shrinks. I’m over it.”
She snorted and took one more drink. “Yeah, I can tell.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She flapped her hand. “You’re afraid of women.”
A surprised laugh burst from his mouth. “I’m not afraid of women, Sanders. Far from it.”
“You’re afraid of me,” she amended. “That’s why you’re such an ass to me. Trying to push me away. You’re afraid of what will happen if you don’t.”
Quinn watched her through those half-closed eyes. Bedroom eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware that she was moving into dangerous territory.
“I have a pretty good idea of what would happen if I didn’t push you away. And trust me, I’m not afraid of that.”
Kyra took another slug of whiskey.
“You’re going to get drunk, Sanders.”
She offered him the bottle. “So are you, Daniels.”
He obligingly took a swallow, watching her as he did so. She stared back, unflinching. He lowered the bottle to the counter. “What are you looking for here, Kyra?”
She shrugged and lowered her gaze. “I want you to know that I don’t feel sorry for you. I mean, I feel sorry for the kid you were, but I don’t feel sorry for you. You’re an adult. You know how to make your own decisions, despite your past.”
