Undercover Heat (6 page)

Whitney wore a white sundress with a halter top and a flared skirt. The dress complemented her lightly tanned skin and her bleached blond hair, which was styled into heavily hairsprayed fat curls. Her lips were burgundy and shiny, and a matching skinny belt and heels completed the outfit. She looked like a sexed-up 1950s housewife.

As Kyra watched, Whitney smiled and leaned forward, giving both Kyra and Quinn an eyeful of smooth, ample cleavage. She lifted her gaze as Kyra walked into the room, and then very deliberately placed her hand on Quinn's knee.

Kyra hesitated in the doorway and narrowed her eyes. The memories of what happened to her case back in Dallas—another man, another knee—hit her like a physical blow. She pressed her palm against the door frame and tried to convince herself this was not the same situation.

“Hello, Kyra,” Whitney said with sugar and honey in her voice. “Quinn and I were just discussing the fact that the two of you don't have a retirement plan.”

Her anger was instantly replaced with adrenaline-pumping excitement. Whitney really
was
hooked. Forcing herself to step into her role, Kyra feigned an innocent look.

“Well, we haven't been married for very long.” She hoped she sounded sweet, innocent, newly wed. What the hell did a newlywed sound like, anyway?

Whitney waved that comment away. “It's never too early to start planning for your future. I assume you intend to have children?”

Kyra felt her face warm. Of course, she wanted kids—just not with Quinn. There had been another man, another life, and conversations about children. A little over a year ago, Kyra had thought she had it all, but Whitney Bianca had destroyed her glass house with one well-aimed stone.

Stay in your role, Sanders
. “Well, not
right
away,” she said with a forced giggle she hoped sounded genuine.

Quinn watched her steadily as he added, “We have lots of friends who already have kids, and they keep telling us to take our time, because our lives will never be the same again.”

Whitney nodded sagely. “You should still start saving now. Eventually, you'll have college to pay for, weddings, retirement. Trust me, you need to sock away that money now, while you actually have it to sock away.”

“Whitney's a financial planner,” he mentioned helpfully.

“Quinn gave me a peek into your financials,” Whitney added. “I hope you don't mind.”

Kyra did not react. She felt Whitney was baiting her, although she could not imagine why. Whitney had no idea she was the agent who had been thwarted a year ago.

“Anyway,” Whitney continued after a brief pause. “The two of you live significantly beneath your means. You have a great deal you could invest right now. You are in a much better position than most couples your age.”

Quinn leaned back against the flowered cushion and draped his arm across the back of the couch. “Blame Kyra,” he said, looking at her from under half-closed lids. “She's the financial expert in our relationship. If you want to talk investing, you need to talk to her. It's all Greek to me.”

Whitney let out a throaty laugh. Her hand squeezed his knee. “I think you sell yourself short. Although if that is really the case, I urge you to reconsider your choices. One partner should never rely entirely on the other to control something as important as money.”

“I trust her. Implicitly.” He stared at Kyra as he said it. She stared back, unsure what to say, what to do. How to feel. Why did this feel so
real
?

“Another mistake,” Whitney lightly chided. “Never trust another human being entirely. It's dangerous.”

It was just like before. Well, not entirely. In Dallas, Whitney hadn't realized the guy she'd seduced was Kyra's man.

But right now, she did. And as far as Whitney was concerned, she and Quinn were newly married, which meant he should be off limits. Yet here the homewrecker was, flirting, offering herself up. The woman wasn't even being subtle. Kyra had seen it two days ago, too, but she'd been so flustered by the way Quinn had been acting toward
her
, she hadn't fully comprehended her emotions until now.

Whitney lifted gracefully to her feet. “Could I use your bathroom?” she asked.

“Right through there, to the left,” Quinn said, waving at the entrance to the dining room.

Kyra stepped into the sunroom so Whitney could pass, and then she watched the woman walk away. When she turned back to Quinn, his face was impassive.

“Was that on purpose?” she asked.

He raised his brow in a questioning look and did not say anything.

“You know what I'm talking about,” she said. She gave an impatient wave at the doorway leading into the dining room.

“I know the walls are thin and that voices carry through heat ducts,” he responded, and she got the hint and fell silent. When Whitney returned, Kyra still stood just inside the room and Quinn still lounged on the flowered wicker sofa.

“Do you have visitors?” Whitney asked, looking at them expectantly. “I noticed your guest room looks as if someone is sleeping there.”

Quinn looked irritated for a split second, and then he surged to his feet and stepped across the room, where he draped his arm around Kyra's shoulders and gave Whitney a lopsided grin.

“First fight,” he quipped. “Can you believe it? The first night in our new home. I hope that isn't a bad omen.”

Whitney no doubt hoped it
was
a bad omen. “I hope it wasn't her who gave you that bruise.” She reached out, as if she intended to caress his jaw. Kyra bristled.

Quinn took a half step away and shifted his jaw muscles before stating, “Yeah, right. You think a girl could do this?” He rolled his eyes and added, “I was actually waiting for Kyra to get home so we could make up.” He curled the arm that was wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her close so he could drop a kiss onto her forehead. She fought hard to keep from wincing.

“I couldn't ever imagine sending
you
to sleep in another room,” Whitney commented. She fluttered her eyelashes and pursed her lips, as if preparing for a kiss.

Kyra wanted to pop her on the kisser. Whether she and Quinn were playacting or not, it was infuriating that the other woman assumed Kyra was responsible for making her new husband sleep in the guest room.

“Trust me, I deserved it,” he replied. He kept his arm firmly wrapped around Kyra's shoulders, but his gaze stayed on Whitney. “If she
had
punched me, she would have been well within her right to do it.”

Kyra stared at him. Sure, they were supposed to be pretending, but she couldn't help but wonder if—

“I was being a real ass,” he added.

Was he—apologizing for what happened in the basement?

“But it's all good now.” He winked broadly for Whitney's benefit. “I'm going to work harder at being less of a bastard, and she's going to work harder at forgiving me my faults. Right, babe?”

“Er …”

Quinn chuckled and kissed her forehead again.

“I think we'd definitely be interested in discussing how you can invest our money, Whitney, but maybe we can do it at another time?” He sounded hopeful, a devoted husband eager to have some alone time with his wife.

“Of course,” Whitney said smoothly. “You know where I live. I'll catch up with you two later,” she promised, and then she let herself out the door that led onto the deck.

Quinn tapped the bottom of Kyra's chin until she looked him in the face. The bruising on his jaw was pretty noticeable. She probably should not have hit him as hard as she did.

“Kiss me,” he murmured quietly, and he sounded awfully damn sincere. Too sincere.

We're just pretending
.

“Why? She's gone.”

“She's watching. Kiss me. And mean it.”

“Quinn, I—” He cut her off by cupping her face, slanting his mouth over hers and teasing at her lips with his tongue. Surprise caused her to open her lips, and he took full advantage and thrust his tongue inside. If this was purely for show, they were certainly going overboard, but the fact of the matter was Quinn was a hell of a kisser, and it had been far too long since she had felt the stirrings of lust whenever he launched a stunt like this.

They
were
supposed to be pretending they were newlyweds, after all.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and fisted one hand in his hair while the other grasped the collar of his shirt, as she canted her head and kissed him back the way a woman should.

Quinn broke the kiss and took a deep breath. “Okay, she's gone. And damn, I want to fuck you right now.”

Kyra stepped out of his embrace and shook her head. “I highly doubt we have to go quite to those lengths to convince the woman we're a happily married couple.”

“I don't give a hot damn about her right now. I'm serious.”

She moved further away, needing space between them. “No, you aren't. You're just reacting to the kiss. Getting turned on is a perfectly normal reaction to kissing.”

He did not argue her point. “I need to move my stuff upstairs,” he said instead.

She gave a start and immediately started shaking her head. He waved at the wall, behind which was his bedroom and the only bathroom on the first level of the house.

“We can't let something like that happen again. It will blow our cover. I can't believe she bought what I said, frankly. Newlywed couples do not sleep in separate beds the first night in a new home. They bang like bunnies in every room of the house, and then they fall into bed, exhausted. The same bed.”

“You sound awfully knowledgeable about this subject,” she commented as she followed him into the guest room.

“I have friends, acquaintances who've been in the situation,” he said shortly, and he began shoving clothes into his duffel bag.

“This really isn't necessary. Just keep the door closed.”

He rounded on her. “You want this case closed, Sanders? You need to do whatever it takes to get there. Even if that includes sleeping with me.” He grabbed the duffel bag and strode past her into the bathroom, where he grabbed his shaving kit and then left the room.

She chased after him up the stairs. “Sleep with you? No way. You take one of the other bedrooms if you have to be up here.”

He ignored her. He walked into the master bedroom, Kyra's sanctuary, and dropped his duffel bag and shaving kit onto the bed. She'd already made it her own, and she was embarrassed that he now knew that. But ever since moving to Detroit—actually, ever since the case went sour down in Dallas—she'd craved a home, a place she could feel safe and comfortable and could step away from the rest of the world for a while.

“We need a TV in here.”

“We do not need a TV in the bedroom.”

Quinn gave her his raised eyebrow expression. “You have other plans for how we can use our time in here?”

“Sleeping,” she retorted. “In separate beds.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Neither of the other rooms up here will fit that giant mattress and box spring downstairs. And by the way, just so we're clear: I don't want to sleep with you, either. But that woman is conniving and devious, and she will see through our façade in ten seconds flat unless we make it damned real. This is your case, Sanders. You make the decision.” He turned and exited the room.

• • •

He lied. He
did
want to sleep with her. He wanted to sleep with her so badly his balls ached. And by sleep, he meant fuck her brains out, make her scream his name, give her the greatest orgasm of her damn life.

Kyra Sanders, of all the women in the world. She was
not
his type. She was exactly the sort of woman he needed to stay away from. Quinn wanted nothing to do with happily ever after or any of the other shit associated with dating the same woman for any length of time, and Kyra was that kind of woman.

He knew she was, even though really, he knew precious little about her. But the fact that she refused to consider hooking up with any of the other agents in the office—and Quinn knew he wasn't the only one who'd hit on her—and given her perfect, fairytale childhood, the parents who were still together and, as far as she implied, happy, well, what else should he assume? People raised in that sort of environment wanted to have that same life for themselves when they grew up. It was only natural.

For all the highly inappropriate things he wanted to do with her, he knew damn well that to give in to his desires was to start something that went far beyond the agreement he had with Phoebe.

It didn't help to know that Kyra wanted him, too. That kiss proved it. Whatever the words coming from her mouth, the woman desired him nearly as badly as he desired her.

Which sucked, because he needed her to be the one to force him to keep his distance. Punching him in the face obviously wasn't working. He needed her to put on a goddamned chastity belt. He needed her to close this damn case, so he could get the hell away from her before he did something even stupider than what happened when they sparred yesterday. Or that kiss. He definitely needed to not ever kiss her again.

While she logged onto her laptop to check email, he headed downstairs to take advantage of the home gym she'd set up. He wasn't remotely surprised she did not join him. He was pretty sure they were going to have to set up a workout schedule so they never ended up in the basement at the same time. Just the thought of her in that tiny sports bra and those ass-hugging Spandex shorts made him hard all over again. Despite the throbbing pain in his jaw.

He grabbed a towel and wiped his face while at the same time snatching up his phone from where he'd laid it on a small table near the base of the stairs. He stabbed at the screen until Phoebe's name popped up.

“Are you drunk in the middle of a weekday, Quinn?” He could hear the amusement in her voice.