LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

  No, that was apparently reserved for one Quisto Romero. And she wasn't sure she was any happier about that than if it had been Ryan who inspired this insanity in her.

  "I can be very civilized," Ryan said. "In the right company."

  "Just don't get any ideas about becoming a regular."

  Ryan smiled, a slow, lazy smile that failed to reach his dark eyes. Caitlin's nervousness increased as she thought of wolves again. Circling. Waiting. Waiting to attack. What was Quisto doing, anyway? Why was he prodding this man? Hadn't he been the one to warn her that Ryan was dangerous? Even she could see the truth of that, that Ryan was more than a little wild, and very close to the edge.

  Then she looked at Quisto's face. He was wearing the same kind of expression, one of anticipation, as if he knew there was a battle coming and was looking forward to it. Something dark and fierce glinted in his eyes, and he shifted his weight slightly, to the balls of his feet. She knew then that he was just as wild and on the edge of violence as the man he was facing. They were indeed the two wolves she'd pictured, and they were about to stop circling. They stared at each other, gauging, calculating, as if each were wondering how much damage the other would do, or could take.

  This was absurd, Caitlin thought. This couldn't be happening here, in front of her, between two supposedly adult males who right now were acting worse than any of her kids.

  And who did Quisto think he was, anyway? So they'd kissed a couple of times. Okay, really kissed. That didn't mean he owned her. But that was exactly what he was acting like. Like some undomesticated creature whose territory was being threatened.

  It hit her then, the picture they must make, two males on the verge of some kind of knock-down-drag-out fight, and her, the helpless female, standing by and watching.

  Like hell.

  "All right, that's it! Out. Both of you."

  Two dark heads swung around, and both men stared at her, startled.

  "Out," she repeated. "I don't know what this silly game you're playing is, but you can go play it somewhere else."

  "It's no game," Ryan said softly.

  "Oh, I'm sure you have some other name for it. Some clever masculine thing that lets you act like idiots without being called idiots. But take it outside, children."

  The two men glanced at each other, then looked back at her.

  "I mean it. Out. Take your ridiculous male posturing or bonding or whatever this is out of my club."

  She stood firm, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at each of them in turn. They looked doubtful at first, but then, when she didn't waver, they began to look a little sheepish.

  Ryan looked at Quisto. Then at Caitlin. Then at them both, as if he were seeing them together, as if he were seeing once more the moment when Quisto had walked into the room. His mouth twisted, and he let out an audible breath. Then he turned back to Quisto and spoke quietly.

  "I've seen you fight, amigo. I wouldn't want to try and take you alone."

  Quisto looked startled, then rueful. "I've never seen you fight, but I don't have to to feel the same way."

  "Fine," Caitlin said in exasperation. "Now you can kiss and make up. But you can do it outside! I have work to do, and I've had enough testosterone for one day."

  She stood there, insisting, until at last they seemed to realize she meant it. They walked out, one out the front, one out the back. Caitlin retreated to her office, shaking her head in disgust at men who were sometimes worse than children. And telling herself she'd been right all along, that cops—some cops, anyway—were just overgrown boys who liked the taste of power.

  And trying not to acknowledge the perverse little thrill that shot through her at the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this particular cop might have been the tiniest bit jealous.

  * * *

  Ryan, Quisto thought, was just full of surprises. He hadn't expected the man to have the kind of restraint he'd just shown. But then, he hadn't expected to find the man tamely sipping a soda, chatting casually, as if he were indeed as civilized as Caitlin had said he was.

  Nor had he expected to react the way he had. He'd never felt such a violent surge of protectiveness. And, he admitted with grim self-knowledge, possessiveness. There was no way to deny it; he had hated the sight of her with another man. And especially with Ryan, for reasons that had only a little to do with the man's dubious character, and much more to do with his smoldering good looks.

  It made no sense. He just wasn't the type to behave this way. He was Quisto Romero, and his name hadn't been derived from the family nickname of Conquistador for nothing. He was a love-'em-and-leave-'em type, and he wasn't about to change now. That trumpets-and-fireworks kind of love was for others, not him. People like his family. And his partner.

  Chance.

  That was who he needed to talk to. Chance would straighten him out. And he'd do it without lecturing, unlike Quisto's family, who nagged him about his bachelor state at every opportunity. Despite his own apparent married bliss, Chance had never lectured Quisto about how he lived his life.

  And it might not be a bad idea to have somebody know exactly what he was doing, anyway. Just in case.

  He picked up the car phone and dialed quickly, knowing Chance liked to take his lunch early, so he could beat the traffic and make it home to see Shea and the baby.

  "Detectives. Buckner."

  "Ten-thirty-five, buddy," he said, giving the code for confidential information.

  There was a split-second pause before Chance said, "Okay. Go ahead."

  "I need…" What? Quisto thought suddenly. Advice? Help? A miracle? "To talk to you," he finally said.

  "Where? When?"

  "Now."

  "Okay," Chance said instantly, and Quisto silently thanked his friend for so quickly understanding what he wasn't saying, that this was something that needed discussing now, and not over the phone.

  "Billy's," he said, naming a small restaurant a few blocks from the Marina del Mar police station. Its advantage was a secluded parking lot to the rear, invisible from the street. It was also, ironically, where he and Chance had met when their positions were reversed, when Chance was under cover and falling for a woman in harm's way. Not that he was falling for Caitlin. She just had him in a bit of turmoil, that was all. "I'll even buy lunch."

  "For that, I'll be there in ten," Chance said.

  "Thanks."

  His partner was as good as his word; ten minutes later Quisto saw him pull into the driveway and park out of sight in the rear lot. He leaned back in the isolated booth he'd claimed at the back of the restaurant and waited. Chance found him in short order, no doubt having guessed by his reticence on the phone that he'd be back here, out of sight.

  The waitress, new since they'd last been here, took one appreciative look at Chance, at his blond-streaked hair, six-foot frame and dazzling blue eyes, and had their meal to them in amazingly short order. Quisto had seen that dynamic at work many times before, and had long ago become inured to it. Mainly because Chance was so embarrassed by the usual feminine reaction to his looks. And Quisto got his own share of the same, enough that he took a goodly ration of teasing from his partner in turn. But Quisto had learned to use his looks and women's reaction to them; Chance preferred to ignore that particular asset.

  Chance waited until they were assured of some privacy, took a couple of bites of his sandwich, then eyed Quisto over the rim of his glass of water.

  "Spill it, partner. Where the hell have you been, and what are you doing that has Morgan climbing the walls?"

  "Is he?"

  Chance gave him sideways look. "He is. I gather it's because he knows more about what you're doing than I do."

  "Not really. But I imagine he's doing a lot of guessing." Quisto chewed on a bite of chicken sandwich he didn't really want. "Look, I'm not asking for help. I don't want you in this at all. I just want somebody I trust to know what's going on."

  Chance leaned back in the booth, not paying much attention to his sandwich,
either. "Eddie Salazar, right?"

  "You sure you want to know this? I'm running alone here, buddy. Morgan got orders to pull me in."

  "So that explains this sudden need for a month of vacation for the first time in years."

  Quisto nodded. "I'm way out there, Chance. If I screw it up, it could go down twisted in a big way. I don't want you to go down with me."

  "We're partners, remember?"

  "Yeah, but you've got Shea and little Sean to think about now. If you get fired—"

  "We'll be fine." Chance grinned. "My wife's a successful songwriter, remember?"

  Quisto toyed with a french fry, not really wanting it. His stomach wasn't its usual imperturbable self of late. "You're sure about this?" he asked one last time.

  "You should know better than to ask. You were there when my butt was in a sling, buddy. The least I can do is return the favor. Give, Romero."

  He gave. And when he'd finished, Chance let out a low whistle. "You take your chances, don't you?"

  "It was the best I could do on short notice."

  "You need anything?"

  "Just a lifeline."

  "You know I'll back you. You just holler if you need help."

  "I hope it won't come to that."

  "Just remember to yell if it does. That's an ugly bunch you're dealing with. Don't try to do it on your own, if it starts to come apart on you."

  "Yeah." Quisto picked up another fry, felt how cold it was, and set it back on the plate. "If it does … come apart, do something for me, will you?"

  "You know I will. What?"

  "If I can't … you make sure Caitlin's not hurt." Chance went very still. For a long, silent moment, Quisto felt the steady gaze of those observant eyes.

  "So Shea was right," Chance said softly.

  "What?" Quisto said, startled.

  "She said there was something going on, the moment we met Caitlin at your mother's place."

  "There's nothing going on," Quisto said quickly. "Not … like that, anyway."

  "Oh. So you're just worried about her, is that it?"

  "Exactly. She insists on trying to keep that place open, and she's already got the Pack screaming for her blood. She's got more guts than sense, and she's going to get hurt—"

  "But you don't feel anything for her."

  "I didn't say that."

  "Whew." Chance let out a breath of exaggerated relief. "You had me worried. If you didn't feel anything for a woman who looks like that, I'd be checking you for a pulse."

  "I just… It's not that kind of thing. I mean I haven't … We haven't…"

  Chance grinned. "You haven't? That's some kind of record, for you, isn't it?" Quisto shot his partner a dirty look, but Chance's grin only widened. "So how do you feel about the lady?"

  Quisto opened his mouth to answer, then shut it. Then opened it again. At last he settled on the truth. "Hell if I know."

  "Uh-oh."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means you're in unfamiliar territory."

  "You can say that again," Quisto agreed glumly.

  "Nah, once is enough."

  "Cute."

  "You're lucky, though. You've got a partner who's been there."

  "Been where?" Quisto asked warily.

  "Where you are. That unfamiliar territory." Quisto's brows lowered as he looked across the table, suppressing the urge to throw a tomato slice at his partner's smug grin.

  "What exactly is your point, amigo?"

  "You mean, what exactly is that territory, don't you?"

  Quisto sighed. "All right, if you must. What is it?"

  "Easy, Rafael my friend. You're in love."

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  It was, without a doubt, the most absurd thing Chance Buckner had ever said. Rascals like Quisto didn't fall in love. They played the field until they were too old to do it gracefully anymore, and then, if they had any style, they retired from the scene with some dignity.

  So why was he here, sitting on the edge of Caitlin's desk, watching her every move, analyzing her every word, as if he were searching for something, some sign of how she felt? And why was it that every time she glanced at him, and those spots of high color rose in her cheeks, he felt his heart begin to pound?

  He glanced at his watch. Eleven-ten. She was sitting at her desk, showing little sign of being ready to leave. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when she closed up promptly at eleven, shooing the last of the kids out with instructions to go straight home, instructions he was sure only some would follow. But she'd said she had some work to do; she was trying for charitable-organization status, and it was a complex application procedure.

  Quisto looked at his watch again, calculating the last possible moment he could let her stay and still maintain his sanity. Eleven-forty, he decided. He knew the plan was to hit Cordero's sometime after midnight, and he wanted her well out of the area by then.

  "You don't have to stay, you know," Caitlin said when she caught him looking at his watch a third time. "I'm fine. It's been very quiet."

  "For now," he muttered.

  "Look, if you have someplace to go—"

  "No. I don't. Just … hurry a little, will you?"

  She gave him a puzzled look. "Is something going on?"

  "No." Damn, he felt as if he'd forgotten everything he ever knew about undercover work and keeping a poker face. Hastily, in an effort to divert her, he said, "I saw Chance today. He said to say hello."

  Caitlin smiled. "He seems nice. And his wife is lovely."

  Smothering a sigh of relief, Quisto nodded. "Yes. To both."

  "And your godson is adorable."

  Quisto grinned, despite his unease. "Yes, he is."

  She looked at him for a moment, then looked away. Her gaze came back to his face, and then darted away again. When he saw her catch her lower lip between her teeth, he was caught between a sudden flash of heat at the sight and the knowledge that he probably wasn't going to like what was coming.

  "Chico said you'd never … taken a lady to your mother's house before."

  He'd been right. "No. No, I haven't."

  "Why?" He gaped at the bluntness of it, and she blushed. "I mean, I know it didn't … mean anything … that you took me there, because I'm not… I mean, we're not…" Her color deepened, but she kept going. "It's not like that. Not that kind of thing. You know what I mean. But with all the women you've dated, you've really never … introduced any of them to your mother?"

  Quisto stiffened. He never explained himself to anyone, and he didn't like the urge he was feeling now to do just that. And he wasn't sure he liked the spin she was putting on their relationship, even though he'd used almost those same words with Chance. He especially didn't like the fact that those two feelings weren't particularly compatible.

  "No," he said flatly. "I haven't."

  "Why?"

  "You really want me to answer that?"

  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

  Quisto grimaced. "I'm no saint, and I have never claimed to be. I've been … with a lot of ladies. You already know that."

  "So Eddie told me."

  Quisto's mouth quirked. "I'll bet." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I never intentionally hurt anyone. I've dated a lot of women, but I never lied to any of them. I never told anyone I loved her, never let any of them believe I did. And if they couldn't accept that, I left. Or they did. We all knew what we were doing."

  And that, he thought, was the saddest claim to any kind of decency he'd ever heard. He knew it even as he said it. He couldn't even look at her. He just waited. Waited for her to laugh at his rather pitiful attempt to rationalize a lifestyle he'd never allowed himself to really look at before.

  She didn't laugh. She asked softly, "Why, Quisto? Why is it so important to you to make sure no one gets close to you?"

  He stood up, turning his back on her. He didn't want to see her face, not when just the sound of her voice, gentle and
tinged with something he couldn't—or didn't want to—name, was threatening to turn his world upside down. Not when her words were striking very close to the bone.

  "It seems so odd," she said, in that same soft voice. "I would think you'd be exactly the opposite. Your family is so close, and you're so close to them…"

  "Right," he muttered. "The perfect family. Except for one minor little detail."

  "One—?" He heard her make a small sound of realization before she whispered, "Your father."

  He turned on her then. "What father? I never had one, as I recall. He was too busy fighting a lost cause to bother with anything as trivial as his family."

  "Your mother doesn't seem to blame him."

  "She wouldn't. She would never hear a word against him. Even though he left her alone to raise us all."

  "His trust was obviously well placed. Your family has turned out wonderfully."

  "That doesn't make it right!" he snapped, a little stunned by his own vehemence. He started to pace, wishing her office was bigger. He couldn't believe he was talking about this to her; he never talked about it to anyone. But now that he'd begun, he couldn't seem to stop. "She shouldn't have had to do it alone. She had eight children, from Hernan down to me, and I was just born, and she had to do it all."

  "Do you think she feels … wronged?"

  "She never had time to think about it." He reached the couch, then turned back, feeling the anger still building. "But I have. I've thought about it all my life. And I swore I would never, ever do that to anyone. No woman would ever be left alone to raise my kids by herself."

  Caitlin's eyes widened. She stared at him for a long, silent moment. "So that's it," she whispered. "That's why all those women, why you never let anyone get close…"

  "I keep it that way because I like it that way."

  "Then I'm sorry for you." Her voice was a mournful thing that made his stomach knot. "I'm sorry for all those women, because I'm sure some of them would have genuinely cared for you, if you had let them. But most of all, I'm sorry for you, because you've cut yourself off from the best thing in life, Quisto."