Crossfire (22 page)

Quinn answered his cell phone on the second ring. ‘‘What can I do for you, Special Agent?’’

‘‘How did you know it was me?’’ Cait asked. ‘‘The caller ID was blocked.’’

‘‘Let’s just say, since we’re due to meet in forty minutes, I took a wild guess.’’

‘‘We need to talk.’’

‘‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’’

‘‘This line’s not secure,’’ she said, telling him nothing he didn’t already know about cell phones. ‘‘We need to meet somewhere private.’’

‘‘Name the place.’’

‘‘My apartment. I have to run home and feed cats.’’

She was obviously impatient, which he could understand. But he also thought he heard an underlying anger in her tone as she rattled off the address he already knew. Because, as pitiful as he knew such behavior to be, he’d driven by the building several times.

‘‘I’ll meet you there in ten.’’

Quinn had always been able to compartmentalize. It was a vital skill in his line of work, but in his case he’d always figured it was a gift. Maybe one he’d developed when he’d been too young to realize it was happening, or perhaps it was a talent he’d been born with, a gift from an omnipresent God who knew the baby boy born to Julia Van Pelt and Daniel McKade would need all the help he could get.

He’d never cried. Not even when he’d watched his father die. Not at the funeral home, where he’d stood beside the plain wooden casket, staring at his old man’s body for a long, long time, imprinting every feature onto his memory, trying to understand the inexplicable, while the woman from Social Services kept impatiently glancing at her watch, trying to hurry him along.

He’d never allowed himself to wallow in grief over all the fathers and sons whose lives he’d taken, either. It wasn’t that he was callous. It was just that life could get messy if you didn’t keep your feelings separate. Such ability, he’d often thought, was how he was able to leave the military without any outward sign of the PTSD he knew Zach had suffered.

Maybe it was because he’d been reliving that last mission in the writing of this book, or the shooter could’ve triggered—no pun intended—deep-seated emotions about life and death that seemed out of place in this tidy Southern town.

Or perhaps it was because Cait Cavanaugh had him thinking about what-ifs. About how his life might have changed if things had gone differently between them in the past. Would they have gotten married? Had themselves a passel of curtain-climbers?

Which was, truth be told, an even scarier prospect than having tangos shooting at you. Because how the hell was a guy like him supposed to know how to be a father?

‘‘Yeah, like the lady seems real eager to have your babies,’’ he muttered as he pulled into the parking lot of the three-story clapboard building across the street from the harbor.

Just two nights ago, the sidewalk—hell, the street— would’ve been packed with partygoers. Tonight the scene was as quiet as a graveyard.

The stairs were on the outside of the building. Her apartment was a corner unit, on the top floor. Although some people might get tired of climbing three flights of stairs at the end of a long workday, he figured others would consider the view worth the forced exercise.

There was only the slightest pause after he rang the bell; he could feel her looking at him through the peephole and then the door swung open.

‘‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’’ she demanded.

‘‘You said we needed to talk. Named the place. So’’— he spread his arms out—‘‘here I am, as ordered.’’

‘‘That’s not what I mean.’’ She moved aside, allowing him to enter. ‘‘What I want to know is why you felt the need to go bringing other people—civilians—into this case.’’

‘‘Ah, I see,’’ he murmured as he glanced around.

The living room was as tidy and spare and lacking of clutter as his own might have been. Would eventually be, once Tremayne Construction finished the renovation.

The colors, however, might have been a surprise to anyone who’d only seen the tough, just-the-facts-ma’am special agent. The walls were painted the pale green of sea glass, the wooden coffee and end tables were bright white, and blue-and-white-striped pillows scattered over the white slipcovered furniture echoed the misty seascapes on the wall. The room was casual, inviting, and revealed a softer, more feminine side that he suspected she didn’t show to that many people.

‘‘I take it you heard about Zach and John.’’

‘‘Sabrina let the cat out of the bag,’’ Cait confirmed. ‘‘It appears you big, manly SEALs forgot to tell the little woman it was a secret mission.’’

‘‘I was going to tell you,’’ he said as a gray striped kitten jumped off a chair it’d been sharing with two apparent littermates and began weaving figure eights through Quinn’s legs.

Cait folded her arms, which lifted her breasts in a really interesting way. When she caught him looking at them, her glare darkened, annoyed energy vibrating from every pore. ‘‘When?’’

‘‘I called your office, but the guy who answered the phone told me you were tied up.’’

Which had conjured up some appealing kinky mental images and reminded him all too painfully how long it’d been since he’d had sex.

The kitten began sharpening its claws on his jeans. When it dug in, attempting to climb his leg like a SEAL would a rock wall, Quinn bent down and scooped it up. ‘‘ So, since I knew your task force was overextended—’’

‘‘We happen to have team members from every local and federal force out there beating the bushes and taking calls.’’

‘‘True. But how many do you have trolling the marsh?’’

‘‘The sheriff’s department’s got deputies doing drive-bys.’’

The kitten was purring like a small motor. Quinn had never been a cat person. While his lifestyle had precluded having a pet, given his druthers, he would’ve preferred a dog. And not one of those little foo-foo girlie ones that needed regular grooming, wore cute little outfits, and had their toenails painted, but a real guy mutt that’d shed on the furniture, bury bones in the yard, and like to ride in cars with its head sticking out the window, floppy ears blowing in the wind.

Still, he admitted, as he looked into a pair of gold crossed eyes, while it was a long way from the dog he’d dreamed about when he was a kid, this ball of gray and white fur was cute. In a feline sort of way.

‘‘Lot of marsh out there,’’ he said. ‘‘I figured you could use some extra eyes.’’

‘‘You’re a civilian,’’ she reminded him yet again.

‘‘So, you’ve never heard of a concept called Neighborhood Watch?’’

Her lips quirked, just a little. ‘‘Dammit. I really, really don’t want to like you, McKade.’’

‘‘Why don’t you tell me something I haven’t figured out for myself?’’ he said. ‘‘Though since I’ve been thinking back on it a lot lately, I feel the need to point out that there was that one time when you seemed to like me well enough. That night you nearly fucked me blind.’’

‘‘I’d been drinking.’’

‘‘Yeah. We both had. That’s what people do at wedding receptions. I’ve always figured it’s out of relief at not being the one who got caught.’’

‘‘Finally. Something we can agree on.’’

‘‘Really.’’ And wasn’t that progress? ‘‘Here I thought all women want to get caught. Or at least let some clueless guy think he’s the one doing the catching.’’

‘‘Well, you’d be wrong. I, for one, definitely prefer my freedom to captivity.’’

Too late, he remembered she’d been fresh off a divorce that night. And still stinging from the failure of it.

Deciding that any attempt to backtrack and apologize would only dig the hole deeper, he decided to forge on. ‘‘The thing is, I knew exactly what I was doing.’’ He’d also known it was a mistake, but at the time he’d been thinking with his cock and his head hadn’t been fully engaged. ‘‘And so did you.’’

‘‘Like I said, I was drunk.’’

Remembering all too well the way that crackly pink skirt had been crushed against his thighs, and how her nipples had felt like two little stones as she’d twined around him on the hotel dance floor, Quinn wondered which of them she was trying to convince.

His gaze dropped to her lips. ‘‘Are you drunk now?’’

‘‘Of course not.’’

‘‘Well, then.’’ He put the kitten back on the chair. It mewed a momentary complaint, then set about licking its paws.

Quinn pressed his palm against her cheek. Encouragedwhen she didn’t bat his hand away, or worse yet, use one of those martial arts moves he had no doubt she’d learned at Quantico to throw him on the floor, he slid it beneath her piña colada-scented hair, cupping the back of her neck.

‘‘So,’’ he asked, tormenting himself by nibbling on her earlobe rather than ravishing her mouth again the way he was dying to do, ‘‘exactly how much about that night do you remember, anyway?’’

‘‘I remember the endless toasts, the too sweet cake, and the maid of honor and the bride’s cousin getting into a tug-of-war over the bouquet,’’ she said on an exhaled breath that was just raggedy enough to assure him that he wasn’t the only one beginning to heat up here. ‘‘After that it’s pretty much of a blur.’’

‘‘Too bad. But maybe I can refresh your memory.’’ Using his free hand against her back to press her closer, he brushed his lips down her throat and felt her swallow. ‘‘Do you remember slow-dancing to that wannabe Tony Bennett wedding singer?’’

‘‘Not really.’’

Quinn sensed the lie. But what the hell. He was still on his feet, and she was still pressed against him the same way she’d been that night.

‘‘Maybe if you put your arms around my neck, the way you did that night, it’ll ring a bell.’’

‘‘What if I don’t want my bell rung?’’

But she did. He could hear it in her husky voice, see it in the heat warming her eyes.

He brushed his lips against hers. Gently. Teasingly. ‘‘Humor me.’’

‘‘I don’t want this.’’

‘‘Sure you do.’’ He took hold of her wrist and lifted her arm up over his shoulder. Then did the same thing with the other. ‘‘Same as I do. You just don’t want to want it.’’

He skimmed the tip of his tongue over the tightly set seam of her mouth. ‘‘Now, link your fingers together behind my neck. Same way you did that night.’’

‘‘I’m supposed to be yelling at you.’’ But even as she said it, he felt those long, slender fingers lace together.

‘‘You yelled that night.’’ A deep moan vibrated in his chest at the memory of her calling out his name as she bucked beneath him. He began to move. Back and forth, dancing in place. ‘‘Actually, it was more of a scream.’’

‘‘Hah.’’ She leaned into him as he spun her around, moving to the music he could still hear. ‘‘Now I know you’re lying. Because I never, ever scream.’’

‘‘You sure as hell did that night.’’ He began to hum ‘‘Fly Me to the Moon,’’ which was what the band had been playing the first time they’d kissed, on the dance floor.

‘‘Three times.’’ He brought her closer, pressing her breasts tight against his chest as a raw ache of lust tangled in his groin. He was desperate to touch her. Taste her. All over. ‘‘Or was it four?’’

‘‘What it was was a mistake. One I don’t want to talk about,’’ she insisted, even as she moaned beneath his mouth.

‘‘Fine.’’ He tugged her white blouse free of the waistband of the gray slacks, so he could touch her. Quinn didn’t want to talk about it either. He wanted to freaking do it before his body took off all on its own like a Patriot missile. ‘‘How about we table the conversation?’’

One hand fisted in her hair while the other deliberately cupped her breast. She could deny wanting him until doomsday, but the way her nipple puckered against the lacy cup of her bra gave her away.

‘‘And move on to the good stuff.’’

‘‘Dammit, it’s not that easy.’’

Was that a tremor he heard in her voice?

Nah. Couldn’t be. Not from law-and-order, I-eat-terrorists-for-breakfast Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh. He drew his head back. Her eyes were dark and clouded, swirling with the same lust that was ripping at him.

‘‘I want you to let go of me,’’ she insisted. ‘‘Now. Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m armed.’’

And damn dangerous, Quinn thought.

He could take her. Here and now, and not only would it be a piece of cake, because he knew she wouldn’t fight him, but he also suspected she’d be every bit as hot and eager as she’d been that night.

The difference was that this time he’d make damn sure she remembered every damn thing he did to her. Every single thing she did to him.

And then what?

Where the hell would they go from there?

Because he couldn’t answer that question to his own satisfaction, Quinn dropped his hands to his sides.

‘‘You’re right,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s not easy. You’d think it should be, given that we’re both past the age of consent and sex is a normal adult activity, but maybe it’s because we got off on the wrong foot back in the beginning that screwed things up, because it sure as hell seems complicated now.’’

‘‘Which is why we should just stay clear of each other.’’

‘‘Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.’’

He’d never been one to obsess over any woman. But from the way he’d been thinking about her, too much, lately, Quinn figured she represented trouble with a capital T.