Undercover Heat (4 page)

Kyra punched his arm.

“Ow,” he complained as he rubbed the offending spot. “Shit, that hurt.”

“Good.”

“Hello there,” the woman called as she stepped onto the bottom step of the deck and motioned with her wineglass. “Are you my new neighbors?”

• • •

She was nervous. She was doing a reasonable job of hiding it, but Quinn could tell. Was it because she'd been painfully close to catching this woman red-handed, only to have her disappear almost the instant Kyra was about to swoop in to capture her? After reading the case file, he had no doubt whatsoever that the woman had inside information. Did that piss off Kyra? Did she have her suspicions as to who was the informant?

“Sure are,” Quinn said as he offered his hand to shake while keeping the other arm firmly wrapped around Kyra's waist. For moral support. Besides, he had a feeling she might bolt if he let go, and what the hell would the neighbor think of them then?

Their perp shifted her hips in an exaggerated motion as she climbed the three steps leading up to the deck. Her eyes were hidden behind hater blocker sunglasses. Fire-engine red lips curved into a smile. Kyra's body felt as stiff as a two-by-four. For some reason, this woman really got under his partner's skin. Did she take her cases this seriously, or was there more to the story than that file indicated?

“I'm Quinn, and this is my wife, Kyra.” He nodded at the woman tucked under his arm, and the neighbor offered her hand to shake.

“Kyra. A pleasure. I'm Whitney. Whitney Bianca.”

“You married, Whitney?” he asked casually, trying to glean information and give her an opening, let her know they were newlyweds with a nice little nest egg to invest. According to the file, the woman posed as a financial planner. That was how she stole her marks' money. Ponzi scheme at its finest.

Whitney laughed, a throaty sound that made him think of satin sheets and heated baby oil. If she weren't the main suspect in Kyra's case and he bumped into her in a bar, he'd probably consider hitting on her. She was older than him, maybe ten years or so, but she looked like the kind of woman he liked: willing to do pretty much anything in bed but with no interest in sticking around for breakfast.

“Oh heavens, no,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “I divorced my fourth husband several years ago.” She lifted the sunglasses and gave him a
fuck me
look. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was hitting on him. Either that, or she really was into threesomes.

He felt Kyra's body jerk. Why was she letting this woman get to her? Nico had assured him that Kyra was a damn good agent, but Quinn already had his doubts. This case had become personal to her and it shouldn't be. It was just a case.

“Men are only good for one thing. Well, two, actually,” Bianca said, her voice smooth, rich, full of deep, dark promises.

“Good thing Kyra doesn't think like you,” he commented. Sometimes, being an FBI agent required damned impressive acting skills. Just two days prior, he'd informed his boss that he would never be in the exact situation he was now pretending to be in, with Kyra Sanders, of all people. “She never would have let me catch her,” he added with a wink.

He had a feeling his partner had to force herself not to roll her eyes.

When the Bianca woman deliberately rolled her hips and thrust out her ample chest, Quinn blatantly compared the two women. The neighbor was sexy in a made up, slinky, I-know-what-I-want-and-I'm-not-afraid-to-own-it way. Kyra was significantly lower key. She didn't wear the sexy suits with the short skirts. She barely wore makeup. Her natural blond hair was almost always in a ponytail. He tried to recall a time when he'd seen it down around her shoulders, and he couldn't.

She was fresh-faced, understated, and didn't give off a single sexy vibe. Yet Quinn was strangely aroused whenever he was around her. That pissed him off, because his mother had been a fresh-faced beauty, and look what that got her: an abusive asshole husband who ultimately led her to a far too young and untimely death.

He was sure his shrink would tell him he had an Oedipus complex, and that he was fucked up in the head.

They made small talk with the neighbor-slash-perp for a few more minutes. He and Whitney sounded casual; Kyra, when she spoke, sounded clipped, uncomfortable. When Whitney's wineglass was empty, she commented that she should head back home for a refill. It was the perfect opening to invite her inside, to share a bottle of wine, to begin to set the trap.

But Kyra looked as if she was barely hanging on, so he smiled at Whitney and suggested maybe sometime soon they would have her over for a glass. Whitney said it was a lovely idea and then headed back across the yard to her own home.

Quinn kept his arm firmly wrapped around Kyra's shoulders as he steered her inside.

“You can let me go now,” she said icily.

He didn't until they were inside, with the sliding glass door closed. Then he walked into the kitchen and began opening and closing cupboards.

“What are you looking for?” Kyra asked.

“Booze.”

“Do you have a drinking problem?”

“At the moment, yes. I want a drink and there is no booze. In fact, there's nothing at all in these cupboards.”

Kyra looked guilty. “We have to go grocery shopping. I didn't have time to do it before this morning.” The fact she caught him volunteering hung in the air between them. Or maybe that was just him. People like Kyra weren't embarrassed over their contributions to improving society.

He shook it off and considered suggesting she head on out to the store while he settled into their new digs, but she still looked off-kilter, so he said instead, “Let's go, then. But if I have to go grocery shopping with you, I get to drive your car.”

“Hell, no. Not the way you drive.”

He grabbed the key ring she'd left sitting on the kitchen counter and grinned. “Let's go, baby.”

“You are not driving my car.”

“Yes, I am. And if you don't go with me, you're going to be living on frozen pizza and beer for the foreseeable future.” He taunted her by waving the key ring in her face.

With surprising speed, she snatched it from his hand. She then headed for the door, tossing over her shoulder, “I'm driving. And if you don't go with me, I can't promise there will be any booze in the house.”

Without looking back, she sauntered out of the house. He chased after her. Maybe she was tougher than he thought.

• • •

Well, that was stupid
, Kyra admonished herself. She doubted very much Quinn had any interest in shopping with her. She could have done it by herself, which would have been a hell of a lot less stressful. Instead, she'd taunted him and he'd risen to the bait, and now she was walking through the neighborhood grocery store, filling a cart while Quinn pushed it and made occasional comments about her purchases. It was decidedly domestic and did not remotely fit the image of Quinn she'd developed over the past six months. Although, neither did volunteering at a church in a poor section of town, but then again, that could simply be a trait his parents ingrained into him, just like it was with her.

They had their first semi-argument when they reached the meat department. She added chicken breasts and pork chops to the cart and was about to head toward the seafood case when he stopped.

“That's it?” he said as he eyed the sparse selection of meat in the cart. “Where's the beef?”

“I don't eat red meat very often,” she said. “It isn't healthy.”

“Fuck healthy,” he muttered, and he walked over to the selection of red meats. “It's good.”

She waited, tapping her foot impatiently while he took his sweet time selecting the exact cut of steak, with the precise amount of marbling that he wanted. And another. As well as a family-sized package of ground chuck.

When he gave her a smug smile, she said, “Are you done yet?”

“For now.”

“You're going to die of a heart attack before you're forty.”

“There are worse ways to go.”

What a decidedly morbid outlook on life.

He paused again as they were passing the wine and liquor aisle. She'd already added a case of her own favorite beer, Summer Shandy, which she'd been thrilled to see had shown up on the shelves just this week. Quinn had also tossed into the cart the largest bottle of Jack Daniels he could find. She was surprised when he walked over to stand in front of the red wine selection.

“What are you doing now?” she asked.

“A good steak deserves a good bottle of wine,” he responded, and eventually he pulled two bottles off the shelf and, without a word, dared her to challenge his selection.

“You sure are strange,” she commented as they headed to the checkout registers.

“How so?”

“You complain that I am buying too many vegetables, but then you spend ten minutes selecting the perfect cut of steak and another ten selecting the perfect bottle of wine. Don't you think a good steak deserves a good side as well?”

Quinn shrugged. “I've got the steak and wine covered. The rest is up to you.”

As they unloaded groceries onto the conveyer belt, she found herself asking, “Will you eat it if I do?”

“If you do what?”

“Make the sides.”

He gave her a funny look that she did not understand. And then he shrugged again. “Sure. Food is food.”

The man was just one big conundrum.

After they returned to the house and carried the groceries into the kitchen, Quinn remarked, “Our friendly neighbor paid us a visit.”

“Huh?”

He nodded at a red folder lying on the counter. “I purposely left that folder out and the patio door unlocked. She helped herself.”

Kyra flipped open the folder. It contained the fake financial statements Nico had made for them to lure their perp into bringing them on as clients.

“How do you know she was here?”

“I can tell the folder was moved.”

She glanced around at the still sparsely furnished home. “I don't like the idea that someone's been wandering around my house.”

He laughed. “It isn't your house, Kyra. And I doubt very much she went any farther than that red folder. We set up those financials so she wouldn't be able to resist. Now that she knows how much money she stands to steal, she'll move quickly, mark my words.”

“I hope so,” she muttered, more to herself than to Quinn. She glanced at the wall of windows overlooking the backyard. She would really like to close this case and move on with her life. Where and how she intended to move on were both still giant unknowns, but at least she would finally be able to do so.

• • •

She liked his steak and the wine he chose to go with it. And yeah, the salad she'd made wasn't half bad, for salad. They ate on the deck, and once again Kyra had become uncomfortable as they pretended to be a happily married couple, enjoying their first dinner in their new home.

Her fork had clattered onto her plate no less than three times, for no obvious reason. She raked her fingers through her hair so often, most of the tendrils had come loose from the ponytail at the base of her neck.

“Why are you so nervous?” he asked as they sat around the patio table after the food was gone, enjoying an after-dinner glass of wine.

“I'm not nervous.” Now, that was a lie.

“Sure, you are,” he countered. He leaned forward. “Is it me? Or is it the perp?”

Her gaze strayed to the yard butting up against their own, where Whitney Bianca lived. They hadn't seen her all evening. Quinn figured she was inside, in front of her computer, running the numbers and trying to figure out how quickly she could secure them as clients.

“So it's Bianca, then.”

She didn't respond.

“Why does she make you nervous? Because she got away? Trust me, babe, we won't let that happen a second time.”

Kyra leaned back in her chair and sipped wine. He liked the way she looked. Her hair mussed, sloppy, and still windblown, since he'd demanded they drive with all the windows rolled down in her car earlier. She wore a basic T-shirt and a pair of khaki pants and no lipstick, and he found himself mesmerized as he watched her lift the glass to her lips.

Kissable lips
. The impromptu kiss out on the deck—purely for their neighbor's benefit, of course—had proven as much. Even though she had been shell-shocked and had hardly responded, it had still been a damned tempting kiss. Enough so that he vaguely wanted to do it again.

Not good
. He shifted in his seat, suddenly irritated with how tight his pants felt, especially in the crotch area. This was a job, Kyra was a fellow agent, and he wasn't in the market to hook up with a woman who reminded him of a slightly tougher version of his mother. Not even for one night. It wouldn't be worth it in the long run.

For one thing, this gig had no definite end date, and he knew damn well that Kyra would be uptight as hell the next morning—if he were even able to talk her into his bed in the first place. For another, he had no doubt he would get fucked up in the head if he slept with someone like Kyra. He felt like he was barely holding on to sanity at any given time anyway. The last thing he needed to do was make it even harder on himself.

Quinn abruptly pushed away from the table and began gathering dishes. She followed his lead, even though he would have preferred she stayed out on the deck. They cleaned the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher in silence.

“Which room's mine?” he asked when that chore was complete.

She looked relieved at his words. Had she been worried he would expect them to sleep in the same bed? He considered telling her she had nothing to worry about. The last thing he wanted to do was provide himself with even more temptation. Sharing a house with her was bad enough.

“The master bedroom is upstairs. There are two other, smaller ones up there too. Plus, there's a guest room in here.” She walked through the dining room and opened a frosted glass door that he had assumed led to a bathroom. Come to find out, it led to a guest suite.