Re/Paired (Doms of the FBI Book 2) (2 page)

She knew the moment Layla opened Keith’s gift. Her blonde curls bounced, and her pixie smile turned downright evil. She lifted the super-sized squirt gun from the box and aimed it at Malcolm. “I love that you fill these up before you wrap them.”

Malcolm held up his hand and put on his most forbidding expression. “That’s not from me, and you should never point a gun at someone you’re not planning to shoot.”

Layla stood up. “I know it’s not from you, and who says I’m not planning to shoot you?” She pulled the trigger as she said “shoot” and let loose a long stream of water that hit Malcolm squarely in the chest.

All hell broke loose. The hidden water balloons suddenly materialized, and more squirt guns appeared from nowhere. Well aware that hiding would prove useless, Katrina dived into the fight. Keith came through with a gun for her, so she was set offensively, but it also painted a big neon target on her body.

By the time things wound down a good hour later, Katrina’s light blue shirt, now transparent in some places, clung to her skin, and the denim of her jean shorts chafed uncomfortably. How had she rationalized not bringing a change of clothes? Oh yeah, she’d thought Keith wouldn’t want to piss off Malcolm even more.

She found Keith behind the garage. The massive water gun in his hand was raised next to his head, and he pressed his back to the siding as if he were on a raid. Katrina admired his profile for a moment before her discomfort took over. “Hey, half the people have left, and I’m soaked. Are you about ready to go?”

He turned his head at the sound of her voice. His gaze traveled over her body, assessing the damage in a way that made her feel deliciously naked. A flame flickered in the depths of his green eyes. He opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Malcolm charged around the corner and let loose with the full wrath of the garden hose.

Keith shoved her behind his body, which stemmed the worst of the flood, but Katrina was already soaked. His chivalry only mattered because she got to press her front against his back. His heat radiated through the wet fabric separating them, and her nipples pebbled in response.

“Take that, you arrogant son of a bitch!”

If Malcolm’s declaration shocked or upset Keith, he didn’t show it. “Takes one to know one.” He emptied his gun in four long streams, and then he dived for the hose in Malcolm’s hands.

They wrestled for control until the hose went slack, and then they just wrestled with each other. Darcy stood over them as they rolled on the ground in Layla’s muddy garden. Her yellow sundress molded to her curves. At least it wasn’t see-through. “Malcolm, do you want me to get your ropes from the car?”

Both men halted and appeared to consider the idea of ropes. Then Malcolm shook his head. “Those are for you, sweetheart. Keith’s more of a masochist.”

Keith punched Malcolm in the thigh hard enough to leave a bruise. Katrina sighed at their immaturity, but since Malcolm only pounded on Keith, it meant they’d made progress. They’d exchanged words and made physical contact. They were firmly on the road to mending the rift.

She stuck out a hand and helped Keith to his feet. Luckily he didn’t need to use much of the paltry leverage she provided. Cold muck squished between their hands. “Yuck. You’re covered in mud.”

He grinned. “Guess I’m driving home in my underwear.”

The image of him clad only in underwear—dark blue boxer briefs, according to her fantasy—as he navigated the roads to her condo caused her knees to shake. Katrina seriously wanted to lose her shorts too, but she wasn’t about to announce that fact. “I find it hard to believe that Agent Rossetti doesn’t have a change of clothes in his trunk.”

“Laundry day. I did think ahead, though. I brought a couple of towels.”

The towels saved his leather seats from the worst of their wetness. Keith had rinsed most of the mud away before getting into the car, but he was still sopping wet, and dirt streaked his clothes. To Katrina, he looked like disheveled heaven. His short, blondish-brown hair was darker in some places, and stray droplets of water glinted in the afternoon light. His sodden shirt delineated every inch of his chiseled physique. In one of the spare bedrooms in his house, he had some hardcore body-conditioning machines.

She wondered if he used any of them for bondage. Though she knew he had a dungeon in his basement, she’d never been inside that locked room, and she’d never broached the subject in a serious manner. Teasing and joking masked her curiosity. She hoped.

The ride from Layla’s place to Katrina’s condo took less than ten minutes. She shifted in her seat and regarded him with a long look. “It appears that Mal is talking to you again.”

Keith’s shoulder lifted and fell. “He’s not giving me the silent treatment, but he’s not going to ask me to come over tomorrow and watch some preseason Lions.”

Her heart went out to him at the vulnerability he tried to hide. She reached over and squeezed his wrist. “You can come watch it with me, but I doubt it’ll be the same.”

“Can we eat junk, yell at the TV, talk about sex, and scratch our balls?” He glanced over briefly, throwing a deviant smile in with the question.

“I don’t have balls, but if it’ll make you feel better, I could scratch my crotch.” She tried to match his smile, but the tingly sensation traveling up and down her spine made her nipples hard and distracted her from doing a good job. Scratching wouldn’t salve the itch she had for Keith. “I can even do you one better. I have NFL Network. I bet there’s a game on right now.”

He pulled into the visitor parking spot across from the carport where her car waited. “If you let me use your shower and loan me something masculine to wear while I throw my clothes in the washer, you got a deal. Oh, and I’m hungry.”

She laughed so suddenly that she snorted. “You’re so high maintenance.”

He pulled the towels from the seats and followed her around to the door that led to her condo. “I said I’d wash my clothes. I didn’t say you had to do it. And I’ll order pizza. You won’t have to make anything for me.”

“And I get the first shower.” She threw that caveat over her shoulder as she inserted the key to unlock her door. The bolt didn’t make a noise to indicate it had disengaged, so she turned the knob and pushed. It opened. “I swear I locked it. I always lock it.”

Keith held out his hand for the keys. “May I?”

The question was a formality. He used his Special Agent Voice and wore his Official Frown. Wordlessly she handed over the keys. He closed the door and turned the key to lock and unlock it several times. The frown didn’t go away.

“I’ll go in first. You stay out here.”

He disappeared inside. His demeanor scared Katrina more than anything else. Perhaps she had forgotten to lock it after all. She went through the same routine every time she left her house. It was conceivable that she only thought she’d locked it.

Keith appeared in the doorway. His frown had disappeared. “I want you to look around to make sure, but I think maybe you just forgot to lock up when you left.”

Her door opened to a landing. A set of stairs went up to her condo, and the other set, protected by a door, went down to the basement. She jiggled the handle to the basement door and found it locked. Heading up the stairs, she noted nothing different. In her condo, she found nothing out of place. Still, she shivered.

Keith put his arms around her and pulled her close, a concerned, brotherly gesture even though she wished it were more. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “I’ll stay the night if you want.”

Only if you sleep naked and in my bed.

“Thanks, but I think it was just a dumb move on my part. My parents were in a rush when they picked me up, but I can’t believe I forgot to lock the door. Next thing you know, I’ll be leaving the stove turned on or the water faucet running.” She shivered again. Though she wanted to stay in his arms, she forced herself to give up that warmth and comfort. “I’m going to jump in and do a quick rinse. Why don’t you order the pizza, and then you can take a shower. I have an old pair of M.J.’s sweats around here somewhere.”

__________

M.J.’s sweats hung low on his hips, though they weren’t meant to sag. Besides being too wide for his slim hips, the elastic in the waist was shot, and the cuffs didn’t quite make the trek to his ankles. The doorbell rang. He ran her comb through his short hair and exited the bathroom. The issue with her front door being unlocked had unleashed his protective nature. Kat wasn’t usually the kind of woman who forgot basic safety precautions, but his years of training and instinct screamed at him to let it go. She was currently juggling more than her share of cases while trying to distinguish herself enough for the higher-ups to take notice of her skills. People who were tired and overworked sometimes forgot to do habitual things.

Kat came up the stairs leading to the front door as he made it to the kitchen. She’d changed from wet shorts and a transparent tank top to light sweats and one of those T-shirts made for women that showed every curve. The scooped neck highlighted her pert breasts nicely. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he could imagine just how perfectly her breasts would fit in his hands. And the things he wanted to do with her nipples right now—he could bind her arms behind her and torment those wondrous buds until she begged for release.

He swallowed and tamped down the desire tightening low in his abdomen.

She pursed her lips while looking him up and down. “Well, they definitely aren’t your sweats. Sorry. Both of my brothers are shorter than you.”

He grinned. At six feet even, Malcolm came the closest in height, but Keith still beat his buddy by two inches. “What? No ex-boyfriend gear?”

She set the pizza on the counter separating her tiny kitchen from the equally tiny dining area. “I throw out the gear with the guy. Want to grab a couple of plates?”

At home, he’d just toss the box on the coffee table, turn on the TV, and file slices directly into his mouth. Kat always insisted on plates, and she ate pizza with a fork. He liked those cute little lady touches, so he snagged two plates from the cupboard and handed one across the counter. Then he handed her a fork.

“Thanks.” She smiled, a genuine reaction that showed off the sparkle in her dark eyes.

Women showing honest emotion always threw him off for a second. He dated players and schemers because he knew how to handle them. Her smile was a gift and a reality check. A few months with him would wipe any traces of happiness and joy from her life. That reminder quelled his desire.

He piled four huge slices onto his plate and sank down into the soft cushions of her sofa. He’d spent more than one night crashed on the thing. The comfortable furniture felt and smelled like home. She took the seat next to him. Immediately, all residual tension left his body.

Vegging on the sofa with Kat wasn’t like sitting with any other woman. She didn’t demand conversation or attention. She didn’t flirt or make stupid comments that showed she was only watching football to humor his interest. She always cheered and yelled at the screen. She hated the Patriots and let everyone in the room know it. When a team ran a play well or when they screwed it up, she often came out with a comment that opened up a brief discussion of the action.

In short, watching football and sharing pizza with Kat wasn’t going to lead to anything else. Nothing he did with Kat was going to lead to anything else. Sure, he picked up on the little signs that showed she’d be amenable to something more happening. But after eleven years spent developing a friendship, he couldn’t jeopardize what they had to satisfy his selfish desires.

“I’ve decided I love the gift you got for Layla. I think that’s the best present you’ve given anyone ever.” She bit into her second slice. Cheese strings didn’t let her get away, so she wound them around her finger. It looked like she’d abandoned the fork.

“Wow. That’s quite a few superlatives. I didn’t know you wanted a squirt gun, or I would have got one for you.” He folded his third slice and took a hefty bite.

She wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and smiled at him. Humor glittered in her expression. “Oh, I don’t want a squirt gun. I meant it was perfect for her. You’re pretty good at figuring out gifts in general, but that was brilliant. It got Mal talking to you again, and it was a great way to end the party.”

Keith had always possessed a talent for picking out gifts. It wasn’t that he put extra time or thought into most of them. He just listened when people talked. They usually said what they wanted sooner or later. Most people preferred gifts that were favors. For Mama L’s birthday last April, he’d prepped her flower beds while she was at work. Though he’d promised most of Layla’s friends and family that he would stop buying water-fight-related gifts, he knew how much she liked them. That trumped any other obligation.

“So what’s your favorite thing that I got for you?” He probably shouldn’t have asked such a loaded question, but he was curious to hear her response. He put more time into considering gifts for her than for anyone else.

She slid her gaze away, looked at her half-eaten slice, and then back at the TV. The Ravens had humiliated the Chiefs so badly that watching the game had become painful. When she thought deeply, she scrunched her eyebrows together the tiniest bit. Just now, nothing was scrunched. That worried him.

“Avoidance behavior.” Goading her often worked.

She cleared her throat. “The necklace you gave me three years ago for my birthday. I wear it all the time.”