Undercover Heat

by Tami Lund

  Oh, but wait. He wasn’t with Kyra. According to her, he never really had been. They’d—what did she call it?—scratched a mutual itch. He shook his head at the ludicrousness of it all. Dumped before they even really started a relationship, and in the way a guy would do it, no less. The only thing missing were the words “It isn’t you, it’s me.”

  The woman in question loomed in the entrance between the kitchen and the sunroom. “Found those tax documents,” she said as she waved a sheaf of papers and strode into the room. Her smile was brittle, her eyes cold, but when she chose a seat, she sat between him and Whitney. Whitney had to quickly shuffle to the side to avoid being squashed. Quinn held his ground, all but daring her to sit in his lap.

  She squeezed instead into the small space between them.

  “Where were we, then?” Kyra asked.

  Whitney accepted the papers as a flash of annoyance crossed her face. Quinn leaned forward, purposefully crowding Kyra. She stiffened. He casually rested his hand on her knee as he pretended to be interested in whatever Whitney was doing.

  Two could play at this game, even if he didn’t even understand the game.

  • • •

  “What the hell was that?” she demanded after Whitney finally vacated the premises.

  “Financial planning,” Quinn quipped. He’d already uncapped the Jack Daniels. “Or working a case, whichever you want to call it.”

  “I’m talking about you,” she said as she stabbed her finger into the air. “There was no reason you had to … to touch me so much,” she blustered.

  Quinn took a swig from the bottle. “Thought we were married,” he pointed out. “Newlyweds. Acting the part, remember?”

  “You were doing that on purpose, and it had nothing to do with acting like we were married,” she shot back.

  He decided not to argue with her since she was right. He had been doing it on purpose. Partially, he just liked to touch her. Partially, he liked to know that he affected her, that she still wanted him even though she’d made some stupid mental decision that they should stay away from one another. He offered her the bottle. It worked last time.

  “Hell, no,” she said, her voice dripping with disgust. She turned and stormed away. Quinn watched her go as he lifted the bottle to his lips once again. His memories of what happened last time they split a bottle of Jack were clearly fonder than hers were.

  • • •

  She was still awake when he stumbled upstairs to bed. She’d curled up in the window seat with a book that was a guaranteed page-turner, so that she would not be asleep in the bed when he decided to call it a night. After what transpired between them today and the fact that Quinn was downstairs drinking himself into oblivion, she had no idea what to expect from him. Would he pass out on the couch? Would he come upstairs and try to tease her into having sex with him again?

  She was more afraid of the latter. She knew damn well that if she were asleep in that bed and Quinn rolled into it, she would probably be the one to attack him, not the other way around.

  The sex had been undeniably fabulous. But it was the sharing, Quinn opening up and telling her the horrible tale of how his mother died, that got to Kyra. Given his quiet, hesitant delivery, he clearly hadn’t told many people about what happened, and she felt special that he chose to tell her. She now understood what he meant by baggage.

  Which was one of many, many reasons they could no longer play house in quite that way. While she felt reasonably certain she could handle his baggage, could he handle hers? Quinn wasn’t a relationship guy, and he clung to his asshole persona like a protective cloak. Would he even be willing to try? She had no doubt that when this case was over, they would part ways and the only time they would speak of what happened was when Quinn was at the bar, drunk, and trying to impress his fellow agents. She couldn’t take the humiliation, not a second time.

  There was also Whitney. As stupid as it was, this case was personal for Kyra. Whitney had stolen Keith, and Kyra would be damned if she would let the woman steal Quinn too. Considering how beautiful and devious Whitney was, the only way to keep that from happening was if Kyra did not develop feelings for Quinn. And the only way to keep that from happening was to cut off whatever the hell had transpired between them the night before.

  She caught a brief glimpse of him as he crossed from the top of the stairs into the bathroom. He again didn’t close the door when he peed. Kyra found herself smiling because while Quinn probably thought nothing of it, to her, that small action showed a sense of intimacy. He was clearly comfortable enough around her to not bother hiding behind a closed door.

  And then she frowned, because she did not want Quinn to feel comfortable enough to not bother closing doors. She needed to keep him at arm’s length, and believing he felt subconsciously intimate with her would not help.

  She heard the water running in the sink, the splashing while he washed his hands and brushed his teeth. She figured she’d find water spots all over the sink in the morning. She wanted to get annoyed about it, but she couldn’t.

  Then he was in the hallway, lurching toward the bedroom, and she sucked in a breath and held it. He barely spared a glance for where she sat in the window seat, turning instead to the bed. As he stripped out of his clothing, Kyra sucked in another breath when he was down to his boxers, waiting to see if he would stop there or climb into the bed naked. How would she possibly be able to resist him if he was sleeping naked next to her all night?

  She slowly let the breath leak out as he slid between the sheets, underwear intact. She noticed that he sprawled across the bed, taking up far more than his fair share of space—did he do that on purpose?

  “You can relax.” His voice suddenly boomed into the quiet. “I didn’t have anyone to split the bottle with me, so I drank the whole thing. Pretty sure I’m too drunk to do anything tonight. Your virtue is safe.”

  She frowned because it wasn’t her virtue she was afraid of losing. Unfortunately, her heart wasn’t very good at listening and following instructions.

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn was the first to wake the next morning. The splitting headache and full bladder propelled him from sleep whether he wanted to or not.

  I need to stop doing this. He rolled out of bed carefully so as not to disturb his platonic bed buddy. He was in just a pissy enough mood to want to wake her, but his head hurt so damn bad that even if she were to suggest a round of morning sex, he wasn’t sure he was quite up to the task. He was pretty certain the only other viable option at the moment would be arguing, and he sure as hell wasn’t interested in doing that with her.

  After doing the necessities in the bathroom, he returned to the bedroom and stood over the bed. How could someone look so damn good while they slept? How was that even interesting?

  Yet it was. He was fascinated. Enthralled even by the way she curled into the fetal position, one hand curled under her chin, the other stretched across the bed, as if she were reaching for him. As if she liked having him in her bed, even if she refused to actually do anything about it. He was sick of waking up with a hangover, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he had to crawl into bed with her every night till the end of this case and not be able to scratch their mutual itch.

  They needed to wrap up this damn case.

  Would that matter? Her reluctance to carry on an affair with him was tied to her case, he knew it. The way she’d acted toward Whitney Bianca when that woman flirted with him spoke louder than any verbal explanation Kyra might have given. Besides, she didn’t have any other baggage.

  She’d been raised right, a good old-fashioned Southern belle with married parents who were both professionals outside the home. A dad who read to her every night of her childhood. A mom who encouraged her to do whatever the hell she wanted to do with her life.

  There were no issues in her personal past. He knew, because he’d investigated after she’d looked into his records. At the time, he’d only wanted to get back at her for invading his priv
acy. Now, it made him curious. What the hell had Whitney Bianca done to Kyra, and why was it affecting whether or not Quinn got laid?

  He turned away from her sleeping form, pulled a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt out of the drawer where Kyra had so thoughtfully put them away, and then headed downstairs. He stood in the kitchen, guzzling water as he stared out the windows that overlooked the back of Whitney Bianca’s home. He reviewed the case file in his head, going over the details that were there—and the questions left unanswered. Then, instead of heading to the basement gym like he originally intended, he pulled on his sneakers and went for a jog.

  The neighborhood was bustling with activity at this time of day. It was a weekday in spring. School was in session, and adults had to head to their eight-to-five jobs. There were a handful of other lone joggers like him, and just as many young women pushing strollers as their gazes swept over his person, letting him know they liked what they saw.

  Even young moms liked a little danger in their lives, it would seem. He knew that had to be the case because he was hung over, he didn’t smile, and he hadn’t shaved in days. That was besides the bruise from when Kyra had punched him, which was now turning an unattractive shade of yellow. He probably looked like a serial killer.

  He liked this neighborhood, he decided, as his sharp, all-seeing gaze scoped out the eclectic mix of houses, most situated on postage-sized lots, nearly all with well-manicured lawns and flowerbeds. Did Kyra have plans for the flowerbeds surrounding their temporary home? Probably. She seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the concept of playing house, even if she didn’t particularly like the guy with whom she was forced to play it.

  He ran three blocks to the north, rounded the corner and ran another three blocks, before heading back west, essentially running a wide oval around his house. He wanted to get the big picture of the land, and the jog was helping to sweat the remnants of alcohol out of his system.

  He was more than ready to dig up some breakfast, but before heading back to the bungalow, he detoured so he could jog past Whitney Bianca’s house.

  The house was far too large for the tiny lot on which it was located. It was three stories high and flanked by driveways on either side. A detached garage pressed against the back left corner of the lot, and the small amount of backyard contained thick grass that had been double mowed, so it looked like there were diamonds carved into the lawn.

  The brown-on-brown house had a nice-sized covered front porch, but then again so did most of the houses in this neighborhood. It was that kind of neighborhood. He’d bet his last dollar that everyone knew everyone in this place. He’d also bet that Kyra had grown up in a place like this. He sure as hell hadn’t. His family had lived on the wrong side of the tracks on purpose, because neighbors over there didn’t ask questions when Mom was sporting a black eye as she walked her kid to the bus stop in the morning.

  The shrubbery lining the front of the house was comprised of manicured boxwood bushes. There were no flowers. According to the case file, Whitney had moved in about six months ago. She was renting the place month by month from a couple who had been temporarily transferred to Germany due to the husband’s job. It was clear to Quinn that she was in town to hit a couple of marks, and then she would pull up roots and move on.

  What was really interesting, though, was that when she’d lived in Dallas, her residence had been permanent. She’d lived there for fifteen years and owned her home. According to the background check, she’d started out legit, but the assumption was that somewhere down the line, she’d gotten greedy and began a series of lucrative Ponzi schemes. The feds become aware, Kyra had been assigned to the case, and all had been going like clockwork—until Whitney fled in the middle of the night, just as Kyra was about to nab her.

  It was definitely inside information. Kyra admitted as much, but she hadn’t given him any insight as to who or how. Quinn would have to delve deeper into that aspect when he returned from his jog. If somebody in the Dallas office leaked info to Whitney, they needed to go down too.

  He deliberately jogged at a slow pace, just in case Whitney happened to look out her window. If she stepped out onto the porch and waved and offered him a cup of coffee, he’d take her up on it. He wanted to see the inside of her house. He didn’t know if it would give him any additional clues, but he wasn’t one to leave any stone uncovered.

  There were two cars parked in the driveway. One was a silver Jag, which he knew to be Whitney’s car. The other was a yellow, piece-of-shit foreign vehicle—Quinn was as loyal to his country as he was to the Bureau—with Michigan plates. He memorized the plate number so he could run it through the system later. Then he continued on, jogging around the block and back to his house.

  The smell of frying bacon and eggs assaulted his senses when he stepped inside. His stomach growled. Hot damn, the woman was an animal in bed and she cooked breakfast too? Oh, wait. Shaking his head at his stupid thoughts, Quinn toed off his shoes and walked to the kitchen doorway.

  Kyra stood over the stove. Her hair was down around her shoulders, which he liked. It was straight, with just the hint of a wave at the ends, and he recalled how silky it felt against his skin.

  She wore a simple pair of sweatpants and a pink T-shirt. Her feet were bare and there was no makeup on her face. He wanted to step up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist, and rub his erection against her ass. He wanted to touch her breasts, her face, the back of her knees. He wanted to whisper naughty words into her ear, words that would make her giggle and moan all at the same time.

  Christ, he had it bad.

  He adjusted his swollen package and turned away from the sight. Kyra stopped him.

  “I’m making breakfast,” she said. “How do you like your eggs?”

  Burned, because we’re too busy screwing each other to care.

  “Over easy,” he grunted. “I’m going to take a quick shower first.”

  It was quick, because he was so damn hot for the woman, it took all of two minutes to jerk himself off while he imagined he was pistoning into her instead.

  • • •

  He’d shaved. He smelled like the lavender soap she’d put in the shower. He’d dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a navy T-shirt with “USA” embroidered over the left breast pocket. All he needed was an American-made beer and to lean against his American-made truck and he’d be a shoo-in for a television commercial model.

  Would he find that funny? Quinn was so quiet this morning, she couldn’t gauge his mood. She was reasonably confident he wasn’t in a bad mood, because he wasn’t snapping or glaring at her. But neither was he really talking.

  They ate breakfast mostly in silence, sitting across from one another at the dining room table. He began clearing the table without being asked and didn’t say a word when Kyra stood up and helped. She almost quipped that in her family, when one person cooked, the other had to clean, but she was afraid to be too friendly because she was unsure of what he was thinking.

  After breakfast, he pulled out his FBI-issue laptop and sat back down at the dining room table, presumably to work. When he asked to see the file on the Whitney Bianca case, she finally asked him what he was doing.

  “Research,” he said without taking his eyes off the screen. “You said you suspected she had inside information. I think you’re right, and we need to look at that angle. Just because she moved to Detroit does not mean she has completely cut off her internal source.”

  Kyra went to the bedroom and retrieved the case file. When she returned to the dining room, she placed it on the table and said, “My director looked into that aspect personally.”

  Actually, he’d informed her that there was no way in hell Keith would have blown her case. And when Kyra pushed, he said, “Fine. I’ll talk to him.” The next day, she’d gotten pulled into the director’s office. “He’s clean, Kyra. Other than breaking my policy and having a relationship with you, Keith Oshard hasn’t don’t anything wrong. He’s been a good agent for damn near twenty y
ears. Don’t fuck his life up by spreading rumors.”

  When it was all said and done, Keith’s name wasn’t even mentioned in the file.

  “Maybe he missed something,” Quinn suggested.

  Kyra blew out a breath. Part of her did not want to rehash what happened in Dallas. Well, all of her didn’t. But if Quinn had an idea that could close this case for good—

  “And even if he didn’t, maybe we try that angle anyway.”

  “What angle?”

  “The inside information angle. I’m sure it did not escape your notice that our perp has been making moves on me,” he drawled.

  “I noticed.” She cleared her throat. She couldn’t help but notice. It had been like reliving the whole thing with Keith, except this time, she’d been boiling mad instead of hurt, and she’d reacted in a way that was wholly inappropriate for the situation. She was supposed to stay away from Quinn—for her own sanity—and instead she’d pranced right over to the couch and practically sat in his lap.

  While it had been initially worth it to see Whitney’s reaction, having to endure Quinn feeling her up every chance he got had been utter torture. She would have liked nothing more than to push him down onto his back on that couch and consecrate that piece of furniture. Hadn’t he been the one to say something about newlyweds purposely having sex on every piece of furniture in the house?

  “I say we use that to our advantage.” He stood up, paced to the window. “She obviously didn’t know you were the one who nearly caught her down in Dallas,”

  It wasn’t a question, but when he turned around and arched his brow, she replied, “No. Not unless the informant told her.”

  She didn’t think Keith would have done that. He had wanted a piece of ass, but he also wanted to keep his job. She knew Whitney figured out the feds were after her through Keith, but Kyra had always assumed it had been accidental, that Keith had said something during the throes of passion. He used to talk in his sleep, but to her, the words had never been intelligible. Maybe Whitney had been better at deciphering what he said. Either way, Kyra was certain it had not been deliberate.