LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

  "But why would the Pack make duds?"

  "The Pack didn't. Ryan did."

  Her eyes widened. Quisto nodded. "I still don't know what his game is, but he's more than what he seems. And if you're right, we owe him. A lot."

  "Do you think that call … was him?"

  "I don't know. But it seems … possible. Maybe even probable. What I don't know is why."

  "I wonder if we'll ever have the answer?"

  "I don't know," he said again as he resumed his pacing. "And I don't want to go poking around without knowing what I might stir up."

  "What about your lieutenant?" she asked after a few moments. "Was he angry?"

  "Morgan? Oh, he did his share of chewing. Told me if I ever pulled anything like this again, I'd be sorry. Then told me to take a couple of days off and reflect on my own foolhardiness."

  "Lieutenant Morgan sounds like someone I'd like."

  He grinned at her pointed tone. "He's a good man."

  And then he started pacing again. She watched him for a while, wondering what was eating at him. It seemed everything was turning out as well as it could, under the circumstances.

  Suddenly, right in front of her, he stopped his restless crisscrossing and turned to look at her. Her breath caught; decisiveness was written all over his face. He sat down beside her.

  "Why wouldn't you go last night?"

  She blinked. "What?"

  "You had to know you were in danger. Why wouldn't you just leave?"

  "I…"

  She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his gaze when she didn't know what to say. She knew why she hadn't left, even though she'd been very afraid. But she couldn't tell him, couldn't even admit it to herself. Because she was very much afraid she'd done the most foolish thing she'd ever done in her life.

  "You—you were in danger, too," she stammered at last.

  "That's not an answer, Caitlin. Why didn't you just leave and let me handle it?"

  She tried to pull herself together. She made herself look at him, even though it took every bit of her nerve. "It's a good thing I didn't," she pointed out.

  His gaze narrowed, becoming so intense that for the first time she couldn't meet his eyes. She looked away. And heard his breath catch.

  "Caitlin…"

  "What?" she said, her eyes still lowered.

  "Look at me."

  She shook her head, feeling decidedly childish, but unable to do as he asked. She just couldn't deal with this, couldn't deal with knowing that she'd made such a fool of herself, falling for a man who had more women on a string than she had dings in her poor old car.

  Then she felt the gentlest of touches as he crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head back. Still, she tried to avoid looking at him.

  "Caitlin, please. I need you to … look at me."

  Steeling her nerve, she at last did as he asked. "Why?"

  "Because I want you to see I mean this."

  "Mean … what?"

  He took in a quick, deep breath. "I love you."

  Her heart seemed to quiver for a moment, forgetting how to beat. Then it began anew, racing as if to make up for that frozen instant.

  "I love you," he said again, as if in reaction to what she was certain was her look of shock. "And I've never said that to a woman in my life."

  I've dated a lot of women, but … I never told anyone I loved her.

  His voice echoed in her mind. Was it true? Could she believe him? Did she dare?

  "I don't blame you for doubting me," he said. It was he who lowered his eyes then. "I don't exactly come with good references—not about this, anyway. All I can do is tell you how I feel. And that I mean it." His eyes met hers again. "You're the most incredible woman I've ever met, Caitlin. You made me really look at myself. And why I was … the way I was. And I didn't much like what I saw."

  "I… But you think I'm—"

  "Wonderful. Brave. Stubborn. Smart. Gutsy. Beautiful. Gracious. Gentle. Ornery. Charming. Want more? I can go on for a long time. Oh, and sexy. God, don't let me forget that. As if I could."

  She knew her cheeks were flaming, but now she couldn't look away. "Rafael," she breathed.

  His mouth quirked. "I'm so far gone, I even like that." His eyes took on a sudden heat. "I especially like it when you say it with that little catch in your voice, like you did the first time, in bed, when you were just about to—"

  He stopped suddenly. She was grateful, she would no doubt have been embarrassed if he went on, but she wasn't sure why he'd done it. She didn't think her thoughts had shown in her face, but he seemed to read her rather easily. He grabbed her hands and held them tightly.

  "Caitlin, listen to me. I can't prove this to you—only time can do that. I can only tell you. What I feel for you is nothing—nothing—like anything I've felt before. Because you are nothing like any woman who's been in my life before. And I swear to you, if you can … believe that, you will be the last woman in my life. Forever."

  "Oh, God," she said, trying to stop herself from shaking.

  "I love you," he repeated for a third time. "And whether you love me back—" His voice broke, and she saw him swallow before trying again. "Whether you love me back or not, I'll never be the same. I'll never go back to what I was. You were right, I was holding myself apart, afraid I would cause some woman as much pain as my father caused my mother. But I'm not my father. And I can't change what he did, either. Or make up for it. He made his choice. And I've made mine."

  "Oh, Rafael…"

  She couldn't get any more words out past the tightness in her throat. He looked away, then back, then away again. And, in a voice that was a little shaky, he said, "Caitlin, I understand if you don't—"

  She finally got it out. "But I do!"

  He gaped at her as if stunned. "What?"

  "I do love you!"

  "You … do?"

  "That's why I couldn't leave you there to face the Pack alone."

  "God, Caitlin," he said, the words coming on a breath of relief so powerful it made her smile. "I hoped that was why, but I didn't dare… You mean it?"

  She nearly smiled. He was doubting her? "I mean it," she said.

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her urgently, fiercely. And then tenderly, so tenderly it brought tears to her eyes. And much, much later, when she lay snuggled beside him in the darkness, after he'd promised her that he was going to hear her cry out, "Rafael!" again and again and again, and had proceeded to keep that promise, he brought tears to her eyes once more.

  "Right over the root beer," he said out of the blue.

  "What?" she asked, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

  "On the yellow wall," he explained sleepily. "Right over the root beer. That's the spot."

  She laughed. "The spot for what?"

  "Our wedding picture."

  She'd never known it was possible to laugh and cry at the same time.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  « ^

  He was going to miss Chance. But it hadn't really been a surprise; he'd known his partner would ace the sergeant's test and it would be the end of the four-year partnership anyway. They would always be close, but that day-to-day intensity would be gone. It didn't really matter. They had other ties now. The close-as-family kind of ties. Ties like being each other's best man, like Quisto's little godson, and maybe, someday, a baby for Chance to be godfather to. And for Quisto's mother to spoil. And Caitlin's parents, as well, who, while they hadn't been happy at her continued refusal to move back to Marina del Mar, had been somewhat relieved that she'd chosen to marry a cop, making Quisto wonder with some amusement what they'd been afraid she might do.

  And Chance's promotion had made this decision easier. Even the thought of going back on the street in uniform didn't bother him. He would have wound up there eventually, anyway, when his rotation in detectives was over. Besides, not only would he be closer to the Neutral Zone—which he knew perfectly well his wife was going to insist on kee
ping open—but it would help him learn this place, become part of Trinity West, something he'd have to do if he hoped to win a detective slot later on.

  He'd been toying with the idea of applying for a transfer ever since he'd realized how much satisfaction he'd gotten out of this operation—despite the no-doubt-deserved dressing-down he'd also gotten. He'd always felt gratification at putting the bad guys away, but he hadn't really thought about being able to actually help, maybe to change things at the source. Perhaps because, for the most part, the people in Marina del Mar didn't really need that kind of help; they only needed protection. But Trinity West did need it. Trinity West was different. Just as Trinity West cops were different.

  The chief of Trinity West certainly was, anyway, Quisto thought as he sat across the desk from the man. Miguel de los Reyes was indeed a different man. There was little outward sign of the injuries that had nearly killed him when he went down in the hail of bullets that took the life of his predecessor. Tall, lean, with patrician features and dark hair silvered at the temples, he was an impressive man, with oddly colored light gray eyes that seemed to peer into you, probing far past the surface.

  Maybe you're just feeling a little exposed because he has the final say on your transfer here, Quisto told himself wryly. And you haven't done much to endear yourself to the brass around here. This man hadn't been the dispenser of a lecture yet, but Quisto knew it had to be coming.

  Even as he thought it, de los Reyes addressed the situation with blunt honesty.

  "I don't like cowboys, Romero."

  "No, sir," he said.

  "That the final results were good, and you did some fine police work, doesn't excuse your recklessness."

  "No, sir."

  "Your record at Marina del Mar is excellent."

  "Thank you."

  "I appreciate your reasons for asking for this transfer. And may I say, your wife is a woman I greatly respect."

  Quisto smiled at that. "She deserves that respect."

  "She does," de los Royes agreed. "I've also had some good words put in for you by some people I trust a great deal."

  Quisto blinked. He hadn't expected that.

  "And," the chief added, "a warning from somebody else."

  Quisto didn't miss the implication that the warning had come from somebody de los Reyes didn't trust quite so much. Robards, he wondered? No doubt.

  "Your record speaks for itself. What I have to decide," the man said, leaning back in his chair and fastening that penetrating gaze on Quisto, "is if I can trust you. Trust you not to pull a stunt like this again. There were reasons we told you not to pursue this. Reasons we weren't at liberty to divulge to you."

  Robards hadn't told him anything, Quisto thought, but said nothing.

  As if he'd read his thoughts, de los Royes nodded. "I realize the manner in which you were told left something to be desired in the way of professional courtesy. I'm dealing with that. But for you, I have two questions."

  "Yes, sir."

  "First, I wish to know if, were a similar situation to arise again, you would follow the same course as in the Salazar matter."

  "Given the same circumstances, the murder of a boy who trusted me?" Quisto asked.

  "Yes."

  Quisto considered the question carefully, sensing that Miguel de los Royes was a man who valued honesty. With a sigh, realizing he could well be destroying his chances with this man, he gave him the truth.

  "I'm afraid so. Sir."

  He didn't look surprised, Quisto thought. And he began to wonder who his new partner at Marina del Mar would be, since he apparently wouldn't be making this transfer.

  "And if it were I who personally ordered you not to, with my promise that I had good, valid reasons?"

  This time it was Quisto who gave the other man a penetrating look. He stared into the light gray eyes. They returned his gaze steadily, unwaveringly. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, or even if it had a name. He only knew that in some men he found it, and in others he didn't.

  He found it in Miguel de los Reyes.

  "In that case," he said softly, "until and unless you gave me reason not to, I would trust you."

  Something flickered in those gray eyes. After a moment, de los Royes nodded. He stood up. Quisto did the same, wondering what had just happened.

  The chief of Trinity West held his hand out across his desk.

  "Welcome to Trinity West," he said.

  Quisto blinked. Then grinned. And shook the hand of his new boss. "Thank you, sir."

  "Don't make me regret it."

  "No, sir!"

  "And give your wife my best regards."

  "I will."

  Moments later, he was in the large anteroom, feeling a little dazed. He'd been heading for this for over a month now, going through the whole complicated process of changing departments, and now that it was done, he felt a little disoriented.

  The woman who had been waiting to see Chief de los Royes went into the office Quisto had just exited, leaving him alone for the moment. He looked around, wondering what it was going to be like to work here, in this place that was so different, both physically and in attitude.

  He'd been too nervous beforehand to pay much attention to this room, other than to notice the row of photographs and plaques on the walls, but now he couldn't help seeing that it was sort of a shrine, or a hall of fame, commemorating Trinity West officers who had been honored for valor. He wandered along, looking and reading, wondering how many of these men were still here.

  Cruz Gregerson, for one, he thought as he recognized the man's picture beside the newest plaque. Last year, it was dated. Honored for defusing a bomb when there'd been no time to call out the bomb squad. Quisto grinned. His feeling that Gregerson had a cool head was obviously an accurate one.

  He turned the corner of the room, toward some much older photos and plaques. He walked along, thinking it was like watching a parade of history, seeing the changes of time as he slowly circled the room and came back to more current images.

  He let out a low whistle when he realized the last three photographs he'd looked at were of the same man, the legendary Trinity West cop he and Gage had talked about. Clay Yeager. Honored three times for risking his life to save someone else's. And then, Quisto thought, unable to stop the tragedy that had destroyed his own life, and left him forever changed.

  Suppressing a shudder, Quisto walked on, heading back toward the most recent photos. More than ever now, with Caitlin in his life, he could imagine the pain of that kind of loss. He didn't know if he would have had the strength to survive what Yeager had gone through. He didn't even want to think about it, about how the man must have felt—

  Quisto stopped dead, staring at the last photo before the one he'd already seen of Cruz Gregerson.

  It was, like the others, a tribute for extreme valor. In this case, a cop who had risked his life, and had indeed nearly died of smoke inhalation after pulling three small children from a blazing house two years ago. And, like Gregerson's, this was a face he knew. It would take more than the short hair that seemed so startling in the photograph to disguise that unmistakable visage. He knew that brooding intensity, those dark, commanding eyes. Eyes in which, he only now realized, he'd found that same nameless something he'd found in the eyes of Miguel de los Royes, that same something that had made him trust in a moment of great danger, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

  And he had his answers now, including exactly why the Trinity West brass hadn't wanted him poking around the Pack.

  He didn't need to read the name beneath the photo to be certain. But he read it anyway.

  Ryan Buckhart.

  * * * * *

 

 

 
-moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share