Undercover Heat

by Tami Lund

  His father. She hesitated, teetering on the edge of indecision. She wanted to answer the phone, to tell the man to leave Quinn alone. Quinn was a great guy, a solid agent, a generous, loving person when he wasn’t hiding behind the façade he’d built as a defense mechanism against the very man who was calling.

  Maybe, if his father were out of his life, Quinn would feel free to determine he was good enough to be loved, to love someone else. Okay, her reasons for wanting to protect him from his father’s psycho-bullshit were selfish, and she was okay with that. Whether or not their pretend relationship turned into something real—something she was beginning to hope for with increasing desire—was beside the point. Someday, Quinn would be ready to settle down, get married, maybe start a family of his own. His father’s calls were a constant reminder of his terrible childhood, of the horrible relationship between his parents.

  Kyra touched the screen to accept the call even before she fully comprehended what she was doing.

  “Unless I missed something pretty damn huge, this does not sound like Quinn Daniels,” the voice said into her ear. He sounded like a lifetime cigarette smoker. A habit that had undoubtedly increased since he went to prison seven years ago. What else was there for him to do?

  “No, it isn’t,” she said with a swift glance at the open bedroom door. She could hear the sounds of the shower running. Like anything related to the bathroom, Quinn rarely closed the door when he showered.

  “Is Quinn there?” The voice sounded faintly uncertain, as if he’d never had to deal with someone else answering this phone before.

  “He’s indisposed at the moment,” she said in a prim voice.

  A dry laugh barked. “Indisposed? What, do you have him tied up in a closet or something?”

  “He’s in the shower,” she admitted.

  “Ah. I didn’t think this was one of his one-night stands. I highly doubt he would ever let one of them answer his phone. So you must be the temporary partner.”

  How did he know so much about his son, given Quinn did his damnedest to try to keep the man at arm’s length?

  “Chasing the financial planner case? Or should I say chasing your tails? How’s that working for you, anyway? You ready to throw in the towel yet?”

  “No,” she replied, becoming defensive, even though it was exactly what Lawrence Daniels wanted. Apparently, he didn’t need to harass Quinn. Any old agent would do. “We’re getting closer.”

  “You’re a lousy liar,” Lawrence shot back. “But then you goody two-shoes types usually are. I always knew when Quinn was lying to me when he was a kid. Too much like his mother. What a disappointment.” The man was probably shaking his head. She was surprised by the force of the hatred that suddenly coursed through her veins.

  “Did you need something specific, or are you just calling to be an ass to your son?”

  Lawrence laughed again. “You’ve got spunk. I’ll bet you and Quinn butt heads all the damn time. Wonder how long it will take him to realize that shit gets old?”

  “Your wife was subservient, yet you still weren’t satisfied.”

  “Not subservient enough.” The first real emotion cracked through in his voice. “Do yourself a favor. Give it up now. You’re never going to catch Whitney White or Bianca or whatever the hell she’s going by these days.”

  He knows her name.

  “What do you know about this case?” Kyra demanded.

  “I know you’re going about solving it all wrong.”

  “What do you know about our decisions?” Was there a leak somewhere within the FBI?

  “I know you should have let your boy toy down in Dallas help you solve the case months ago. Instead, you let it get personal and you ran away with your tail between your legs. Now you’re right back in the same situation, and you’re going to screw it up again.”

  “I’m not,” she insisted.

  “If not you, then my son. He’s too fucking self-righteous for his own damn good. Sees everything in black and white. But there’s too much gray in the world. There’s always gonna be gray in the world. Until both of you figure that out, you’re never going to catch the bad guys. Oh hell, looks like my phone time’s up. Tell my son I called, would ya?”

  The line went dead. Kyra dropped her hand to her lap and stared at the phone. She felt certain there was a hint, a clue, something in that conversation. He knew too damn much, and he’d been too willing to let her know it. But what the hell had he been trying to tell her?

  “Is that my phone?”

  Quinn stood in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair damp and finger combed away from his face. His sharply defined chest glistened with water droplets where he’d no doubt been in a hurry and hadn’t quite managed to get himself fully dried with the towel. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Did someone call?”

  “Your father.”

  He looked startled. “You spoke with my father?”

  She nodded, braced for the onslaught. She suspected Quinn would not appreciate her attempt to shield him from his father. He had a great deal of pride. Too much.

  “You answered my phone?”

  She nodded again. “I assumed it was him. It said Jackson Prison on the caller ID.”

  He raked his hand through his hair and paced over to the dresser. As he pulled out clothing, he said, “Good guess. Pretty sure he’s the only person who calls me from that place.”

  He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t even look at her but instead pulled on a pair of gym shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. When he turned toward the bedroom door, she blurted, “Where are you going?”

  He paused, and then without turning around, he said, “To the basement. I need to work out. Alone.”

  She blinked back tears because damn it, no communication at all was far worse than yelling at her for invading his privacy.

  • • •

  “Thanks for agreeing to come with me to find a dress for the fundraiser, Raquel.”

  “Are you kidding? First of all, I love shopping. Second, I have been dying to get out of the house. It’s hard to adjust to having a tiny being attached to your boob all the time.”

  Raquel smiled at the sleeping baby cradled in Kyra’s arms. Kyra brushed her hand across the downy fringe of hair. The baby stirred and then turned her head toward Kyra’s chest, nuzzled for a moment, and then relaxed back into deep sleep.

  “As scary as it sounds, I could get used to this,” Kyra said as she rocked the sleeping baby.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. You should see Jorge, though. He’s hilarious. Still afraid he’s going to break her.”

  How would Quinn act around a newborn? Don’t go there, Sanders. Especially not right now. He had disappeared into the basement and hadn’t emerged yet. Meanwhile Kyra had taken a shower, dressed, and prepared for her day.

  She’d violated his trust, and she felt terrible for it. She wanted to go downstairs and apologize, but she’d already made plans with Raquel, and her own fear of looking dowdy next to the confident and sexy Whitney Bianca forced her to put her personal life aside and deal with the more pressing matter of solving this damn case.

  “We’d better get going,” Raquel said. “We have about two hours before she wakes up and wants to eat again.”

  The basement door opened just then, and Quinn stepped out into the living room. He was soaked through with sweat and had a towel slung around his shoulders. Kyra’s libido jumped to attention. Suddenly, the very last thing she wanted was to go shopping. Instead, she wanted to go upstairs and take another shower—with Quinn. She wanted to get very, very dirty.

  His gaze dropped to the baby in her arms and then widened, and the most peculiar look crossed his face.

  Nope. No shower now. She watched his gaze dart around the room, as if he was looking for something.

  “Raquel. Hey. I take it that’s what you’ve been carrying around in your stomach the past few months?” He nodded at the baby.

  She chuckled. “Ye
s. I like her better on the outside,” she quipped. “Meet my daughter, Aimee Jefferson Smith.”

  Quinn observed the baby from where he stood. It was as if he were afraid of getting too close to Kyra. She felt a pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. I just keep screwing this up.

  “She sort of looks like you,” Quinn finally decided. The new mother beamed as if he’d just given her a high compliment, which Kyra supposed he had.

  “But I guess she has some of that civilian in her, too. She is his, right?”

  “I’m almost positive,” Raquel teased. “Although in truth, he couldn’t deny her. She has his eyes.”

  “We’re going shopping,” Kyra interrupted, unable to keep from speaking to him any longer.

  He didn’t look directly at her, which both irked and injured her.

  “All right,” he said. He waved at the staircase. “I’m going to go take another shower.”

  Both women watched him climb the stairs. “What’s wrong with him?” Raquel wanted to know.

  “Let’s go,” Kyra said.

  When they were in Raquel’s SUV, heading toward the mall, she pressed again. “Quinn seemed … off. Not at all his usual crude, insulting self.”

  Kyra stared out the passenger-side window and wondered how much to confide. She and Raquel had only known one another for six months, but their friendship had blossomed instantly when Kyra transferred to the Detroit regional office.

  “You slept together, didn’t you?” Raquel guessed.

  The way Kyra’s body jerked was undoubtedly answer enough, but she admitted, “We’ve been sleeping together for weeks. Just about a month, actually.”

  Raquel whistled. “Wow. I’ve never known Quinn to sleep with the same woman twice, and I’ve worked with him for going on ten years.”

  “Actually, he had a fuck buddy,” Kyra said, and then she glanced into the backseat.

  “Relax. Aimee isn’t old enough to have to worry about your language just yet. So when you say had …?”

  Kyra shrugged. “I assume he isn’t seeing her anymore. We sort of … I mean, it’s pretty hard to …”

  “You two are doing it so frequently, you can’t imagine how he would possibly have time to do it with anyone else too?” Raquel guessed.

  She gave a nervous laugh. “I’m glad you can read my mind. I’m not very good at speaking, apparently.”

  “So what is it? Just screwing around? Serious?”

  “No idea. None whatsoever. He brought it up once, when he was drunk, but I’m not even sure he remembers. Although he did sort of freak out yesterday when Nico suggested that my director in Dallas wants me back.”

  Raquel gave a thoughtful nod. “I’ve always thought that when Quinn did fall, he would do it hard. And for the right woman,” she added.

  “Quinn hasn’t fallen,” she insisted. “He’s just happy he’s getting laid regularly, that’s all.”

  “You’re selling yourself short, Kyra.”

  When they reached the mall, it took a solid twenty minutes to get from the vehicle into the building.

  “My mother swears it gets easier,” Raquel said as she snapped the car seat into the massive stroller she’d pulled from the back of her vehicle. “You should see her. It’s been thirty years since she’s had a kid, yet she handles all of this like a pro.”

  “That’s because your mother is a quintessential mother,” Kyra pointed out.

  “So what are we looking for?” Raquel asked once they were inside the mall. “What sort of affair?”

  “Black tie,” Kyra muttered as the reality of what she was doing there hit her like a ton of bricks. “I hate the idea of dressing up like a freaking beauty pageant contestant. This is supposed to be a fundraiser for a good cause, yet they won’t let you in if you don’t dress appropriately? Give me volunteering at the church over this anytime.”

  “Luckily, this is for work, not personal. When this is over, you can go back to volunteering in sweatpants and T-shirts.”

  Kyra and Quinn had gone back to St. Nicholas’s, the church where they both had once volunteered individually, this past Tuesday, and unloaded the food delivery truck for Father Benedict. They’d both worn sweatpants and T-shirts. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience, even when the priest had expressed his happiness that they’d formed a friendship—a word he used along with an exaggerated wink and a nudge of his elbow into Quinn’s ribs.

  “What’s Quinn doing, renting a tux?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a deliberate pause, and then Raquel said, “He’s a decent guy, Kyra.”

  As it happened, she agreed. “Yes, he is a decent guy. More than decent. But he doesn’t do relationships.”

  “He’s doing a relationship with you.”

  “He’s doing me,” Kyra said with a wry laugh. “But the only time he calls it a relationship is when he’s drunk. Which is happening less and less frequently.”

  Raquel started pushing the stroller again, heading toward a boutique that appeared to cater to weddings and proms. “Maybe you should bring up the subject.”

  Kyra’s entire body tensed, as if her friend had just suggested she bungee jump off the Mackinaw Bridge. In January. “Um, maybe we should focus on finding a dress for this shindig.” Not the best alternative but certainly more appealing than her mentioning to Quinn that they should define whatever the hell they were doing together.

  “Okay, maybe not there,” Raquel announced a short time later, as they rolled out of the store. “Too young or too wedding.”

  Kyra agreed. “Maybe you have something I can borrow? We could go to your house and drink wine instead of do this.”

  “Nope. First of all, anything I have will be too short for this type of function. Second, you are tall and willowy, whereas I’m a little—”

  “More endowed?”

  “Curvy,” Raquel corrected her. “Let’s try this place.” They stepped into a high-end department store. Raquel guided the stroller to the eveningwear section.

  “Here we go,” she said triumphantly, and she began sifting through a rack of floor-length gowns.

  A half-hour later, Kyra was ensconced in a dressing room with a pile of evening gowns, while her friend sat in a chair next to the three-way mirror and critiqued each one.

  “Why can’t I just go with black?” Kyra complained after donning the fourth dress.

  “Because Whitney Bianca will be wearing black—or red,” she added as she dismissed gown number four.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Our goal with this dress is to impress the hell out of Quinn. While I am sure he will have eyes only for you regardless of what you wear, I know you aren’t. So we are looking for the perfect gown that will make you feel beautiful and elegant and sexy and confident.”

  “I thought our goal was to find something appropriate to wear to a black tie affair?”

  “That too. But impressing Quinn is my goal for you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  When she walked into the house after her shopping trip, she found Quinn sitting in the oversized chair in the living room, facing the fireplace, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt and holding a beer in his hand. The television was not on. He looked up when Kyra stepped into the room but did not say anything.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He nodded and lifted the beer to his lips, his gaze locked on her. He had taken a shower and shaved. His face was passive.

  “Are you drunk?” she asked, trying to decipher his mood.

  He shook his head, then deliberately placed the bottle on the coffee table and stood. “Let’s go. I want to show you something.” He snagged the keys to her Charger out of the dish by the door.

  She indicated the shopping bags in her arms. “The fundraiser is tonight. I have to get ready.”

  He lifted the long white bag containing her new dress off of her arm and hung it over the coat closet door, pulled the other bags away, and placed them on the floor.

  �
�The fundraiser’s in four hours. You would lose your mind if it actually took you that long to get ready for anything. Now, come on, this won’t take long.”

  He wasn’t happy or sad, not angry or depressed. It was almost as if he was—devoid of emotion. Both curious and nervous, she followed him back out the door.

  “Where are we going?” she asked once they were buckled into their seats and he shifted the gear into reverse and backed out of the driveway.

  “You’ll see.”

  For about twenty minutes, they drove in silence. She recognized the general direction, as it was the same way they drove to St. Nicholas’s, but it wasn’t until they literally drove over a set of unmaintained railroad tracks that understanding began to bloom. When the houses started to shrink in size, the lawns became unkempt, the feel of the outside environment desolate, she knew for certain.

  “This is where you grew up.” It was a statement, not a question. She didn’t need clarification. Not when he pulled the car up to the curb and shifted the gear into park. Outside her window was a small row house, one of many nearly identical houses lining the block. One window was boarded up and an ancient plaid sofa was parked on the sagging front porch. There was an old sedan on blocks in the driveway, and brightly colored children’s toys were scattered among the weeds in the front yard.

  “We moved a lot in my early childhood,” Quinn finally spoke. “But this was the one I lived in the longest. This is where my mother died.”

  “Where he killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned away from the miserable little house. Quinn’s gaze was on her. He’d no doubt been watching her the entire time. He did not need to see this reminder of his childhood. It was burned into his memory forever. He came here today for her.

  To give her a choice.

  “Did it look like this when you lived here?”

  His gaze flicked to the house for a scant moment before shifting back to her face. “The window wasn’t boarded up. I didn’t have nearly that many toys. But otherwise … yeah.”