by K. A. Tucker
I had my eye on Luke the entire time—when he stopped in the middle of his bedroom like he’d just walked into a wall, probably still dripping, towel wrapped around his lower half, to watch me. When he wandered over, adjusting his towel around himself repeatedly.
When I used my body to entice him.
My phone rang, and it took everything in my power not to look over when his voice filled my ear, knowing he was standing there. He didn’t warn me about the view. Didn’t mention it. I’m glad, given my phone is tapped. My surveillance team didn’t need to overhear that conversation. None of them would believe that I forgot to shut my blinds. I’m not supposed to open them to begin with.
I can’t believe I just did that. What would Warner say? What’s more, I can’t believe I don’t feel completely vile right now. I should. If I had done that for any of my past targets . . . My gag reflexes kick in just thinking about the last guy I busted—a beady-eyed pimp with greasy hair and a bad habit of spitting through the gap in his front teeth every few minutes. I quickly push those thoughts away and focus on the room across the way, now dark, wondering if Luke can so easily throw on a pair of pants and go out, or if he’s dealing with what I just did to him. I feel a burn course through my thighs at the thought, and admit to myself that I wish he hadn’t shut the lights off.
Good undercovers do what they have to do.
I think I’ve finally caught Luke Boone’s interest.
■ ■ ■
“You never call!”
“I called you three days ago, Mom.” I roll my eyes, dumping sugar into my coffee. Normally I need two cups in my body before I attempt a conversation with her. But when I pulled my personal phone out of the safe and saw that she had already called four times this morning, I panicked. “Don’t do that to me. I thought something happened to Dad.” At sixty-one years old, my dad has already been admitted to the hospital twice with chest pains and difficulty breathing. Between a diet of pasta, meat, and cheese and being a heavy smoker for forty-five years, the doctors say he’s a solid candidate for a heart attack. Fortunately, he quit smoking a few years ago, and my mom has managed to add one salad a day to his diet. Still . . . he’s far from healthy.
She ignores me and scolds in her thick accent, “Isabella calls Josephine every day. Every single day!”
I busy my mouth with a sip of coffee and let her go on about how her neighbors of twenty years—another Italian family who my parents spend half their time praising their rosebushes and the other half lobbing Italian insults at over the fence—have respectful children who call twice a day and visit every Sunday, and have already given Josephine and her husband, Gus, six grandchildren. And how her heart is broken that neither of her children has had babies yet.
I say nothing because I’ve heard it countless times before. I’ve given up on promising my mom that I do want children at some point in my life, but that right now my career is more important. She doesn’t get it. Her jobs have never been anything more than a means to put food on the table. It’s as if she thinks that she can irritate me into getting pregnant.
“How are things at home? How’s dad?”
“Oh, you know. Busy fixing the coffeemaker.”
I sigh. “Again?” That basic twelve-cup machine has been “fixed” so many times that it only brews three cups of black tar now. I eye the machine on my counter, one of those high-end computerized gadgets that makes everything from espresso to cappuccino with the flick of a button. I considered buying one for them for Christmas but abandoned that idea when I looked up the price. I love my parents, but I’d need to take out a small loan to afford it. “Just go and buy a new one.” He’s going to lose an entire day, standing around in his garage, tinkering with it.
“And what, just throw this one away?” I can picture her scowl. “Your generation is all about throwing everything away . . .” I tune her out. Another battle not worth having. This is my life, though. These are Clara’s real parents. Not the sleek, sophisticated couple that raised Rain.
“How’s the weather at home?” I finally manage to squeeze in as I peek past the blinds to see the moisture from a light drizzle cover the glass. And beyond that, Luke, milling around his living room, his coat in one hand, as if he’s collecting things before heading out. I wonder where he’s going.
My mother’s heavy-accented voice pulls me away from him. “What kind of life is this that you can’t even tell me where you are? I don’t even know where my own daughter is! What if something happens to you?”
“You’ll be the first to know if something happens to me,” I assure her.
That sets off yet another rant, too fast for me to catch all the words, this one in Italian. She doesn’t usually harp on me this much. I know it’s because she loves me and I haven’t exactly made her life easy. She started sleeping with a Jesus statue by her bed the day I graduated from police college.
Luckily there’s a knock on the door. “I’ve got to go now, Mom,” I interrupt, checking the peephole to see Warner standing on the other side. “It’s my boss. I’ll call you in a few days.” I hang up before I get any more grief. It can be exhausting, talking to that woman. Someday she’s going to realize that I’m no longer that little girl who splashes around in puddles in her rubber boots and that I don’t make my choices based on her approval. Then maybe we’ll have a normal conversation.
“I could kiss you right now.” I step back to let Warner in.
“Because of my swarthy accent or because of this?” He drops a paper bag on the counter.
I stick my nose in, inhaling the fresh scent of a buttery chocolate scone. “Definitely this.” Warner learned of my weakness for baked sweets early on. Now he swings by the little shop at the corner anytime he’s stopping by my place in the morning. Which is more than I’d ever expect from a handler. Aside from regular check-ins after meets and surveillance from my cover team whenever I’m with my target, I don’t usually see or talk to them. I guess the Feds operate differently than your average city police force. Maybe they pay him to come by and check up on me.
“Bill tells me that 12 called last night?”
“Yup.”
“And you have a date tonight?” Warner pushes.
“Yup . . .”
His brow spikes. “That turned around quickly.”
“Crazy, right?” I lean over and scratch behind Stanley’s ear, avoiding Warner’s shrewd gaze. Hoping he doesn’t notice the dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. I tossed and turned, my body wrapped up in sheets, my mind wrapped up in Luke Boone, all kinds of insane late-night thoughts and hopes fluttering through my mind. Specifically, what could happen if we have it all wrong about him. What if he’s an innocent in all this?
“What do you think made him finally call?”
“Besides my beauty and charm?” I glance up to see the smirk. “Who knows? He’s a criminal. They run hot and cold, you know that. I can’t say what’s running through his head.” That’s a believable answer. We’ve heard it all before. Interrogate a suspect and you’ll get all kinds of skewed logic, crazy explanations for why they do what they do. Like, that murdering a father of two so they can make a grand cash off a stolen truck to pay their rent is completely reasonable.
Wanting the conversation to change course, I ask, “Will you be on tonight?”
“No. I’m heading to San Francisco for a wedding.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s getting married?”
“My girlfriend’s sister.”
I stop, mid-chew, unable to hide the shock from my face. “Dude. Girlfriend?” In the time that I’ve known Warner, he has never once mentioned a girlfriend. Then again, he hasn’t talked about his personal life at all. If he didn’t have such a heavy accent, I wouldn’t even know where he was from. “How long has that been going on for?”
He scratches the back of his head and seems uncomfortable. “A year now, I think
? I don’t know.”
“A year? Is she on the job?”
“Nope.”
“Wow. A year.” As much as all the cops I know say they hate dating other cops, dating non-cops—people who will never truly understand why we do what we do—rarely works out. I wonder if it’s different for FBI agents. Doubt it. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
He simply shrugs and then turns on my pricey Canon digital camera that sits on the counter and begins flipping through the pictures. “These aren’t bad.”
I guess that’s all I’m getting out of Warner about his personal life. “You sound surprised.”
“What’s with all the trees?”
“That’s my homework assignment for the week.” When we were working on the cover details, I warned them that I couldn’t just sit in this condo all day every day. Not only would that look suspicious for a young, wealthy woman; I’d literally go insane. I couldn’t get a steady cover job because it would restrict my schedule, so we all agreed that I should tie up some of my time with hobbies that I can easily walk away from. I’ve always wanted to take a photography class, so two evenings per week, I head down to a camera store to congregate with my “class”—a small group of eight beginners plus an instructor—and learn all about lighting and filters and angles.
“Your homework assignment is trees?”
“Not just trees. ‘Trees in different light,’ ” I mimic my teacher, an eccentric little Asian man with a Mohawk who reminds me of Richard Simmons, minus the spandex jumpers.
“Sounds thrilling.” His dry tone tells me he doesn’t think so. He sets the camera down on the counter. “Keep out of trouble tonight. You hear?”
“Don’t worry. I don’t think 12’s the kind of guy to put a bullet in a girl’s head on their first date.”
“Not what I’m worried about,” Warner mutters. “Just be ready to tell him anything you have to, to make him back off.”
“What, like that he has to wait for my gonorrhea to clear up?” That only works on pimps wanting to sample the goods before they put a girl to work for them. Any other guy will turn and run.
“Just watch yourself, okay?” Warner’s eyes skate down over my body. Not in a leery way. In a way I’m used to, being around male cops all day long. I can’t fault them. They see it daily—the pimps beating their girls, the husbands killing their wives, the rapists doing unspeakable things to women who dare to go for a run through a wooded area alone. Yes, I’m trained to defend myself, but few women can fight off a two-hundred-pound man with a temper. If Warner’s read my case files—which, knowing Warner, he has—he knows that I’ve been to the ER on five separate occasions. That the three-inch scar across my forearm is courtesy of a gangbanger’s knife; that the slight bump on my nose is where a crack whore head-butted me while resisting arrest. It’s natural for his kind to want to protect and, whether I like it or not, right now he’s seeing a five-foot-five twenty-six-year-old woman standing in front of him, not a trained undercover officer who’s quick on her feet and can talk herself out of most situations.
I could get offended, chew him out for treating me like a weak woman, but I know his concern comes from a good place, so I simply smile and nod. And gesture at my baggy gray sweats and ratty Kid Rock T-shirt, a very “Clara at home” ensemble. “I’ll go dressed like this. That’ll turn him off, right?”
Warner frowns with mock seriousness. “Oh yeah.” He grabs my hand and examines my nails, half of my red polish already picked off. “And keep biting these, too. He won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.” I’ve been going for manicures every week to keep up appearances, only to ruin them within a day. I’m just not used to this level of grooming. When I’m playing a hooker, I throw on some press-ons; when I’m a crack whore, the shorter and dirtier and more jagged my nails are, the better. This prissy, put-together image is so much work. I hardly ever wear heels as Clara, and now I have ten pretty pairs lined up in the closet. Dresses are normally reserved for Christmas dinner and weddings, and they all reach my knee. Yet, as Rain, I have a dozen to choose from, all of them selected for one single purpose—to ensnare Luke Boone.
Reaching for the door to the condo, he says, “I’m heading for the airport now. I’ll be landing just after two if you—” His words cut off abruptly.
When I glance over, curious, I find Warner standing in front of an open door, face-to-face with my target.
My stomach lurches as Luke’s eyes roll over Warner, caught speechless for a moment. As am I. What is he doing here?
Warner’s skills kick in quickly enough, asking in a dry, almost irritated voice, “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” Luke hangs a thumb off his pocket in a casual way, his gaze darting over to land on me. “I’m here to see Rain.”
“Rain? There’s some guy at the door to see you,” Warner calls over his shoulder, playing dumb.
I take easy, slow steps, keeping my face calm as I scramble to come up with a story. This is one of my strengths—lying—and yet right now I’m drawing a blank. We said tonight, didn’t we? Why is Luke here now? How’d he get in? And how risky is this that he’s meeting my handler? Do I introduce them? Who should Warner be to me? A friend? An ex-boyfriend?
“Hey, Luke,” is all I come up with.
Nails hitting hardwood sound behind me. Stanley, jumping off the couch and scrambling for leverage as he scampers toward the door, his curly tail like a screw as it wags. He climbs Luke’s legs with his front paws, like a dog missing his owner would.
Luke chuckles and reaches down to scratch his head. “Better greeting than yesterday.”
“I guess it’s not you that he has a problem with,” I murmur, trying for a relaxed tone.
There’s another awkward moment, and then Warner sticks his hand out. “Hi, I’m Jack. Rain’s brother.”
Brother! Good call.
“Luke. I live in the building next door.”
I have to pause for a moment as the two of them shake hands. Warner, a guy in a faded Boston Red Sox T-shirt, pretending to be my brother when he’s the FBI agent who wants to lock Luke in a small, windowless room and pressure him until he cracks. Luke, in a fitted black golf shirt, pretending to be just a regular neighborhood rich guy, when he’s the criminal that the FBI is betting their entire case on.
If this weren’t a risky situation, I might laugh.
Was Luke listening at the door? He very well might have been, to figure out if he had the right condo. How much would he have overheard? I quietly play back my conversation with Warner, trying to remember exactly what words were used.
I’m guessing all those same thoughts are going through Warner’s head. That’s why he’s not budging. I need him gone, before Luke decides his surprise visit was a bad idea and hightails it out of here.
“You’d better go, Jack, or you’ll miss your plane.”
Warner’s back stiffens, his entire body unnaturally still. He’s weighing his options. If I’m not in danger, then this is a blip but no big deal. If Luke did in fact overhear our conversation, puts two and two together, and something happens to me . . .
But Luke—standing there with his arms now crossed over his chest, that self-assured smirk sitting on his lips—doesn’t look like a guy who just figured out that he’s under investigation.
Finally, deciding something, Warner stands aside, gesturing for Luke to enter. “Like I said, I’ll be landing just after two, okay?” Warner makes a point of tapping his chest as soon as Luke has walked past him. Get the wire on, he’s saying.
“Yeah, okay. And you’ll call Dad for me?”
Dad. A.k.a. my surveillance team. They’re going to have to scramble to get into place.
“That’s the plan.”
Warner leaves, and I’m alone with my target in my living room, his eyes casually scanning everything. “Give me a sec?” I don’t wait for Luke’
s answer, heading for my bedroom. I throw on a pair of tight jeans and a fitted sweater—enough to appeal to him—some makeup, and then fasten the necklace and switch on the wire. Everything that could be considered incriminating is locked up in the safe, so I don’t rush too much.
Except for my camera, I suddenly realize. It has a candid picture of him that I took one day at the food carts.
Shit.
Panic seizes me. I struggle not to run out of my bedroom, and sigh with relief when I find Luke holding a tennis ball in the air, teasing a now-frantic Stanley, his profile lean and muscular. “He’s not so bad.” He laughs. “He’ll do just about anything for this ball, won’t he?”
He’ll do what he needs to do. Just like me.
“So . . . this is a surprise.”
Luke finally relents, tossing the ball right into Stanley’s waiting mouth. “I like surprising people.”
“How did you know which condo was mine?”
As soon as I ask the question, I remember that I shouldn’t have. His gaze rolls down, over my chest, my waist, my thighs, and back up. He must be thinking about last night. He’s obviously impressed, given he’s here now. Maybe a little too much. If he mentions anything about my blinds being opened, Warner’s going to know what I did. I don’t want him to know.
I reach up, ready to cover my necklace and muffle Luke’s answer. “The invoice at the garage. I called Miller and he gave your address to me.”
I know that’s a big, fat lie. The two-minute read I got off Miller tells me he would tell Luke to fuck off if he called for that.
“You looked pretty shocked when your brother opened the door. I got the impression he wasn’t too happy to see a guy there.”
“Jack can be a cranky asshole sometimes.” That was for Warner’s benefit, when he listens to this recording. Then I add, “You know how it is . . . protective brother.” Ironically enough, I don’t really know how it is. Or at least, I didn’t. My brother never stepped into that role until much later in life, when he got his shit together. I didn’t need it by then. Before that, he didn’t have much time for a kid sister. He was too busy getting mixed up in the wrong crowd, getting arrested for dealing pot. I was only six when our dad kicked him out.