They stopped beside her passenger door. She noticed he had a whipped cream moustache. Her first reaction was to lean forward, put her hands on his shoulders to hold him still, and lick the cream away. Do it, her libido urged. No, her common sense whispered in reply.
It was touch and go for long seconds, long enough for a puzzled frown line to appear between his brows, and then she chickened out, saying while motioning with a weak finger, “Um, you have a little whipped cream, around your mouth.”
His gaze darkened to green velvet, and she nearly groaned when his tongue came out to slowly lick the coating from his lips. He continued looking at her. Her insides liquefied; she felt feverish, hot and cold, like she had the flu. A sexy flu that would send her to bed, but not alone. Most definitely, not alone.
“Did I get it?” His voice was hoarse, like he suffered from the same ailment as she. Oh, if only. She managed a feeble nod, looking away to fumble her keys out of her purse.
“I’ll follow you home, just to make sure you get there safely.”
She couldn’t help it; she laughed. When she glanced at him, she saw humor shining in those eyes that had changed back to a less vibrant, though still striking, shade of green.
“How gallant of you.”
He grinned, and she slid into her car seat. She squeezed her eyes shut as she started the car. As soon as she heard the engine, she let out her breath.
“I thought so. Hey, I’ll be right behind you.”
She watched him saunter away, and resisted the urge to sigh. Barely.
…
I will not kiss her goodnight.
Sawyer repeated the mantra as he followed Kate’s Sentra through the gathering evening darkness. He’d remain professional and shake her hand at her door, and then enter his apartment and close the door, no matter how attracted he was to her. Kissing Kate Munroe’s sexy, smart mouth would be unprofessional, let alone unethical. Any sign of impropriety, and the investigation could go down the tubes. End of subject.
They parked in their designated slots and met behind their vehicles. The “date” this evening had not elicited the information he’d wanted. Kate had not been willing to discuss her past, or her job, in any detail. Instead, she’d attempted to turn the conversation around to him, a seasoned criminal’s best defense. Except that, since Sawyer knew about her beleaguered past, he could understand her reticence. And there he went again, making excuses for her.
She stood like a nervous colt now, shifting her feet and twisting her key ring on one of her fingers. The wind ruffled her hair in its ponytail. He watched it flick and was reminded again of a skittish horse. The need to get away before he did something stupid rose within him. He grabbed her elbow, urging her forward while saying, “I can give you my number, so you can call me if your car doesn’t start tomorrow.”
She shook her head, lifting her face, but not meeting his gaze. Damn, she was good at deflecting all his attempts at getting intel.
They’d reached her door, and the energy-efficient bulb in the porch light barely illuminated her expression as she finally looked at him.
“I appreciate that, but if it doesn’t start, I can always call Mr. Cabrera. Thank you for dinner, Sawyer. Good night.” At the mention of the pilot’s name, the picture of him and Kate sitting close together in the front seat of Cabrera’s Escalade rose in Sawyer’s mind. He felt like spitting, settled instead for reaching out and taking her hand.
This time, her gaze met his, forehead crinkling, showing confusion at what she must have spied in his expression. Hell, he didn’t know what he looked like. He just couldn’t stand the thought of her cozying up to Ortiz’s henchman, laying her head on his shoulder, him putting his hand on her thigh, perhaps sliding it upward—
While that image played in front of him like an R-rated movie, Sawyer growled, dropping her hand and bracketing her face with his rough ones, holding her gaze. He glared into her startled face. “That’s not good night. This is.” And he lowered his head to claim her lips with his.
She tasted like heaven. The tang of the margarita clung to her lips, and he swept his tongue across them, unable to stop the grunt of enjoyment as the flavor burst upon his taste buds. She opened her mouth at the first stroke of his tongue, and he took advantage of the moment, sweeping the inside with eager precision.
She bowed into him, the swell of her breasts, the softness of her flat belly teasing his instant erection. Her hands rose to his upper arms, slipped under the short sleeves of his jersey. When her fingers traced the indents of his muscles, he thought he might internally combust.
He slid his tongue into her mouth, over and over, in time with the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Now that he’d started, and she’d surrendered, he wanted more. Within seconds, she’d joined this carnal dance, running her tongue along his, taking it into her mouth with an erotic rhythm that made him lightheaded.
He shoved a knee between her legs, and she pulled him closer, her lower body undulating with each thrust of his tongue. Tiny whimpers of need escaped into his mouth, skyrocketing his passion. She looped her arms around his neck. He angled his head to gain better access, pulling on that sexy ponytail to tilt her head back, exposing her slender throat. He swooped in and kissed the exposed skin, heard her moan. He repeated the move, and this time she gasped. He wondered if he’d pulled her hair too hard, but the feel of her breasts and hardened nipples pressing into his chest through their layers of clothes had him not giving a damn.
She smelled so good… Could a man get drunk on a potent mixture of flowers and aroused woman? Maybe so, for his head was spinning, and he couldn’t grasp one coherent thought in his brain beyond the fact that she was his perfect match, sexy with a touch of vulnerability. She was the only constant in this whirling maelstrom of desire sweeping over him, the woman he was…
Investigating.
He let go of her as if she’d scalded him, dropping his hands to his sides and staggering backward. He shook his head as he stared at her, couldn’t make out her expression in the lackluster illumination from the porch light. When she pled in a cracking voice, “Don’t stop,” and made a move toward him, he raised a hand in a halting gesture.
He gulped a breath and shook his head again. He started to speak, cleared his throat, and began once more, hoping his voice would come out strong.
“I’m sorry, Kate. That was totally my fault. I let the moment get out of hand and didn’t behave like a gentleman. You deserve better treatment. I enjoyed the evening and your company. If I’ve ruined it with my rude behavior, I hope you can forgive me.”
He didn’t wait for her response but pivoted and strode away, not slowing down until he’d let himself into his own place, and locked the door. Only then did he lean against it and let out the stale breath he’d been holding, allowed the building anger within to find an outlet.
Jesus Christ, he’d just groped his suspect. The “person of interest” in the most important case of his career. Kissed her like a lover when, in all likelihood, he’d be arresting her ass soon.
With a frustrated growl, he marched toward the second bedroom in his place, tossing his keys toward his coffee table and hearing them land on the floor instead. He kept moving, throwing the room’s door open with such force that it slammed against the wall and bounced toward him, but he’d already cleared the doorway.
He headed for the closet, flinging that door open as well and flopping into the chair that sat before all the monitors hidden inside, the ones that showed him every room and every move that Kate made when she thought she was alone. His stomach churned, threatening to eject his dinner.
Leaning his elbows on the desktop, he held his head in his hands. He should take himself off this case. He obviously couldn’t remain objective. He was attracted to Kate Munroe. Hell, attracted wasn’t the right word. He lusted after the woman. Whenever he saw her, he got an erection the size of a surfboard and couldn’t stop imagining her naked. He told himself that was because he’d never investigated a
woman before, had never had to get this close to one and keep his hands off. Well, he hadn’t kept his hands off, that was for damn sure.
He rubbed his forehead, remembering the feel of her breasts, those hardened nipples that said she was as aroused as he’d been. And when he recalled the way she’d ridden his thigh, he grew rigid. Again.
Tilting back his chair to alleviate the sudden pressure, Sawyer stared up at the ceiling, clasping his hands behind his head. Excusing himself from the case was the only action any self-respecting law enforcement agent in his predicament would take. They’d come too far in this investigation for him to mess it up because he couldn’t behave professionally and keep his hands to himself.
A side benefit of recusing himself from the investigation would be that he could pursue her romantically. The little voice inside taunted him, growing in volume. Drop the case, get the girl, it chanted. He squeezed his eyes shut, though it did nothing to silence the provocation.
Even as he thought about relinquishing the investigation to someone else, another idea crowded in and iced his blood. What if Kate Munroe was innocent? He wanted her to be for his own selfish reasons. What if she was? With his team closing the net around the Ortiz network, she could be in danger. Ortiz didn’t leave witnesses. That’s why authorities on both sides of the border had no idea what he looked like.
The Mexican food soured in his stomach. Falling for Kate was complicating this case, but recusing himself from the investigation could endanger her, and he couldn’t do that. At least if he remained on point position, he could protect her, while someone else might let her slip through the cracks. She was important to the case, and, if he was honest with himself, she was important to him, as well.
No, this case was too personal for someone else to take command. It became that way when Ortiz flew out of the hot zone, leaving Guerrero to spend hours in surgery fighting for his life. Sawyer had never felt so helpless, or so bitter, and now his attraction to Kate intensified everything. Vengeance was a cancer growing inside him, and the only antidote was to see the bastard behind bars.
He looked at the screens, found his target walking zombie-like toward her bedroom. He thought he heard her mutter what sounded like “Oh my God,” but couldn’t be sure. The mic wasn’t close enough. When she yanked off her T-shirt before entering her bedroom, he forced himself to look away, though not before he saw a sliver of skin. His blood thrummed through him.
He forced himself to study the other screens. Even though he couldn’t see her in her room, he could hear what sounded like clothes being removed, maybe a closet door being opened, and he ground his teeth against the images that came to mind. The next instant she crossed the hall to the bathroom in nothing more than her bra and panties. But if I prove her innocence, the little voice niggled…
Swearing, he stood, fast enough to send the rolling desk chair spinning along the laminate flooring. At the same time, his cell phone rang in the cargo pocket of his shorts. In the process of leaving the room, he paused, fished out his phone with his back to the monitors. He glanced at the number. It was his California CO. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, not at this time of night.
“Hello?”
“Get your ass over here. They’ve found a body across the border that looks like Ortiz’s work.”
Chapter Eight
“Nobody knows when the body was dumped here, but the Policía Federal investigators believe he was tortured and killed over the weekend.”
Sawyer’s interim CO in San Diego, John Sanchez, stood over the remains of the poor bastard the Federales had discovered earlier that morning in a dumpster behind a downtown Tijuana bar. Someone had complained about a putrid smell in the alley, and the PF dogs had no trouble finding the source.
Once he’d received Sanchez’s call, Sawyer picked up Ian while the others followed, and now they huddled around the gruesome early morning discovery. The Mexican gendarmes in their dark-colored fatigues and carrying assault rifles, stood off to the side with their dogs while Sanchez, Sawyer, and his team discussed the possibility that this was the work of Ortiz.
Since Mexican drug enforcement and the DEA worked together along the border, it wasn’t a surprise that Sanchez, and, consequently, Sawyer and his team, had been called in. It was just a puzzle as to why this poor sod was here in Tijuana. The last time Ortiz worked this close to the border had been in El Paso, and they’d almost caught him that time. So, was this Ortiz’s way of thumbing his nose at them? Or warning someone else that he was the new jefe in town?
Next to him, Ian gagged. Sawyer suppressed his snort of amusement. The younger agent hadn’t had much experience with bodies that had been roasted in the desert sun. Taking pity on him, Sawyer pulled out his jar of Vicks and shoved it at Ian.
“Rub some of this under your nose. It’ll cut the stench.”
Ian looked at him through watery eyes, mumbled his thanks, and did as directed. After taking a deep breath and smiling, he handed it back to Sawyer, saying, “I hated the stuff when I was a kid, but it works, man.”
Sawyer winked and pocketed the jar, sidling over to Sanchez, who’d just finished talking to the head PF investigator in Spanish, too rapidly for Sawyer to follow. The CO glanced up as Sawyer approached.
“We’ll get the coroner’s report and maybe catch a break when we ID the guy,” Sanchez began, but Sawyer shook his head. At his boss’s frown, he explained.
“He’ll turn out to be just another two-bit drug dealer, thrown here to taunt us. Ortiz hasn’t evaded us this long by making rookie mistakes. Any luck on a photo of the son of a bitch?”
“Nothing conclusive on Ortiz. He hides his face well. But this guy has family, friends, coworkers. A girlfriend or boyfriend. Maybe a favorite prostitute. Between the PF and us, we might turn over the right stone. It could be as simple as a different type of dirt under his nails, or the last food he ate. You never know.”
Sawyer shrugged, and Sanchez lost his confident tone. His tanned face became serious, and he continued. “In the meantime, I want you to ramp up your investigation of Cabrera and his nanny. The fewer dead bodies we have, the better. I think they know something, and I want it. Do what you have to to get it.”
The images that simple statement evoked had Sawyer inwardly squirming. His gut told him Kate wasn’t guilty, but was that just hopeful thinking? Was his desire clouding his judgment?
Sanchez moved off, and Sawyer paced away from the dumpster. Ian had joined the rest of the guys, watching the Mexican investigators do their thing. He was alone.
Pulling out a stick of gum from his breast pocket, he contemplated his unique dilemma. On the one hand, he could hardly wait to get into Cabrera’s house again and bug the shit out of it. He knew the pilot was in contact with his boss, and the sooner Sawyer had eyes and ears in the mausoleum, the sooner he’d pinpoint Ortiz’s whereabouts. And then the murdering sack of shit would go down. He owed Guerrero that much.
Now he got honest with himself. The come-to-Jesus kind of honesty he’d been avoiding up to now. While he could go all official and say he wanted vengeance for his wounded operative, it was bullshit. If he were truly honest, he’d admit that he was jonesing for Kate, and any reason he needed to get close to her worked for him.
Yeah, that about summed it up. Now that the dam of honesty had been breached, he couldn’t stop. He wanted to plant his surveillance equipment at the Cabrera house, but largely so he could see Kate again. He looked forward to their verbal sparring—among other things. He hadn’t had so much fun with a woman since…forever. Capturing Ortiz had consumed his life for so long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date. Until last night.
Getting to know Kate was all part of the investigation, but he hadn’t expected to like her. Wasn’t that the understatement of the year? But he knew when a woman was into him, and she showed all the signs. Her reluctance to talk about herself might mean she was guilty, but he liked to think it was because she’d been hurt before and was simply
being cautious. He viewed her reticence as a challenge.
Sanchez would tell him to remember the end game, that they’d chased Ortiz too long to give up the investigation just because Kate was a formidable distraction. Sawyer knew he could be professional and finagle his way back into Cabrera’s home to set up the rest of the bugs without jumping her bones. Of course, he could.
In the meantime, he needed to get his ass in gear and head home. Driving over the border, spending time here in Tijuana, and then driving back meant he might be late for his first lesson with Bobby. The kid didn’t deserve to be left hanging. No, he’d go home and keep his promise to the boy, as well as plant his bugs. And, if his pulse quickened at the thought of being near Kate again, he ignored it.
…
He was late.
Kate fumed as she watched Bobby run around the bases at the park where they were to meet Sawyer for private lessons. She’d told the boy to warm up, that his coach was probably just stuck in traffic. Ha. The man worked from home most days. Hadn’t he said so himself? Though, when she’d left for an appointment this morning, his truck hadn’t been in the parking lot. She knew, because she’d looked. What that said about her, she didn’t want to examine.
Leaning back on her elbows at the concrete picnic table, she contemplated that wicked-as-hell kiss he’d initiated last night. She shivered as the memory resurfaced.
God, she hadn’t wanted him to stop kissing her. His lips on hers, the way he used his tongue, how his thigh fit snug between her legs…she squirmed just thinking about it. He’d felt so good against her, all hot and hard and demanding, she’d been ready to drag him into her apartment and do the nasty right there on the floor. Or against the wall. Maybe on the sofa, but she didn’t have high hopes they would make it that far into the room once they started.
He was too damn sexy. He pushed all the right buttons. Perhaps she should rethink her self-imposed rule about dating right now. After all, tall, muscular men with great senses of humor and smart brains didn’t fall into her lap every day. Hell, this was the first one, ever.
Undercover with the Nanny Page 6