Becoming Rain (16 page)

Chapter 25

■ ■ ■

LUKE

The drive went by too fast. I'm not ready to drop her off yet. That's probably why I blurt out, “So you're coming to my place tonight, right?” the second I pull my car into her condo building driveway.

“I am?” A smile of surprise touches her lips. Not an “I can't.” That's good. I guess that means she's not sick of me yet, and she doesn't hate me for what I admitted to her about Alex and ignoring what I knew was happening.

I shrug. “That was the deal we made last week, right? I cook dinner for you?”

Her head falls back with a smile as realization strikes her. “That's right. I was hoping you forgot.”

I chuckle. “Not a chance. I'm gonna prove you wrong.” Those sandwiches she packed for me were like nothing I've ever had. I was half-tempted to walk down to the food cart and force the guy behind the counter to take a bite and admit that his version is shit.

“Okay.” She grins at me. I'd kill to know what's going on inside her head right now. I'm just seconds away from leaning over to kiss her when she says, “Let me just grab a shower,” and jumps out of the car. I watch her walk through her doors. So beautiful, so graceful, so . . .
glass
. I have an hour. Enough time to go deal with this raging hard-on she's giving me. “Follow her lead, my ass,” I mutter, repeating Jesse's words. “She's going to lead me into some serious pain.”

Chapter 26

■ ■ ■

CLARA

“Well, you're definitely making up for the slow start,” Warner mocks by way of greeting.

“That was Viktor Petrova's fucking wife!” I exclaim, the phone tucked under my chin as I turn the shower on. “The one Sinclair had an informant on before she went missing.”

“Yeah, I caught that.”

“You should see the scar on her face, Warner. It's
bad
.”

“Knife?”

“Hard to say, but I'm guessing yeah. How she ended up on a ranch in Sisters, Oregon, though . . .” Running from her ex, likely.

“We're doing background checks on all of them. Alex, the sheriff, Jesse Welles. I take it the car detail is a bust?”

“Yeah, looks like it's all legit. I took some pics of the cars. I'll send them your way to add to the files. I've got to get ready for tonight.”

“ 'kay. Bob and Franky are on. Watch yourself. And can you try to get something useful for once?”

“Shut up.” I smile as I hang up, strip, and climb into the shower, washing the day's sweat and dirt from horseback riding from my body. Thinking about Luke. About his smile, his laugh, his piercing eyes, his full, plump lips . . .

My phone starts ringing, pulling me from the shower.

“Warner says you're with the target again tonight?”

“Uh, yeah . . .” I fumble with the tap and grab a towel, caught off guard by Sinclair and his abruptness. Not even a hello. “Heading over there soon.”

“Good. I want you to push hard on the Petrova angle.”

“You think she has intel on the ring?” I know she does, but I'm not admitting to it out loud.

“Maybe. But I'm looking for solid leverage that we can use to make 12 flip on 24.”

“It's an abuse case where a dickhead got what he deserved,” I blurt out.

“And more, I'm guessing. The property's listed under a ‘Water Fitzergald.' Willed to her a year ago.”

Huh.
“So, she's using a fake name.” I guess that explains Luke's confusion when he was introducing us.

“That or the real Water Fitzergald is buried in a deep hole on that massive, valuable plot of land.”

I frown. “I don't see it.” That would mean I read her wrong. I'm never
that
wrong about someone.

Sinclair chuckles and it's not at all warm. “Well, excuse me if I've seen a lot more in my twenty-plus years in the Bureau than you've seen in your two minutes of handcuffing local crackheads,” he snaps. “Stop questioning me and start digging. I'm guessing that sheriff is culpable, too. For all we know, 12 and his friend tampered with Petrova's car and they're the reason he's dead. Both of them have the know-how. If we can get 12 on a murder rap, he'll be singing Markov's name from the holding cell within a day.”

Even as Sinclair talks, my head's shaking, Alex's words, the look in her eyes as they passed over Luke, cycling through my mind. He saved her life. In the short time that I spent with her today, my gut says she was telling the truth—that she needed to be saved.

But, at what cost?

Oh God,
what if Sinclair's right? Am I going to help hang a murder around Luke's neck? No . . . I've met murderers. Even without proof, someone like me can see it in their eyes—the instability, the danger. There's none of that in Luke's eyes. I don't believe he's capable.

I grit my teeth. There's no point arguing. This call is all about posturing and personal agendas. I'm nothing but a soldier, expected to do as I'm told. This is the part about my job that I despise.

“Okay, I'll do what I can.”

“No, you'll do what you
have
to,” Sinclair corrects, his tone slow and clear and screaming “read between the lines.” “We've poured too much money and time into this case to lose it.”

“Got it.”

■ ■ ■

It's foreign, experiencing Luke's home as an invited guest walking through his door, instead of a lurker hiding behind a curtain. From my condo, it's just surveillance detail on another target.

But the moment I step through the solid wood door—my nose hit with the scent of sandalwood, my eyes admiring the mixed patterns and fabrics and perfectly positioned artwork that screams “decorator,” my ears lulled by the surround-sound rhythmic music—I feel like a switch goes off.

The switch that says I'm on the job.

“I hope you don't mind that I brought him.” The second I release Stanley from his leash, his snout hits the ground and he takes off like a hound. “I felt guilty leaving him all evening after being cooped up all day.”

“Nope. Maybe that'll keep Licks busy.”

I peer up to meet Luke's eyes and boyish grin as he takes in the sheer black blouse and simple miniskirt I chose for tonight. I need to dress to keep his attention, after all. “You look nice,” he offers, his voice low and gravelly. He steps in close and I hold my breath, expecting him to lean in and kiss me.

Hoping he does.

But instead, he slides his hands into mine and pulls me into the kitchen, walking backward, his bare feet padding softly against the hard wood. He somehow makes a pair of dark blue jeans and plain gray T-shirt look expensive. He smells expensive, too. And irresistible, I admit, inhaling deeply.

“So . . . what's for dinner?” I warily eye the collection of opened cans and torn packages set out over the kitchen island. An iPad sits in its holder next to it all, open to what looks like a recipe page.

He seizes the sides of my waist and hoists me onto a bar stool, his arm flexing beautifully. “Doesn't matter. Tonight's my turn to cook, so you're going to eat whatever I make.”

“I thought the deal was meatball sandwiches?”

“I can't win that, so I've revised our deal.”

“With Chef Boyardee?”

“With Chef Boyardee,” he repeats with a smirk. “Don't worry, I'm classing it up.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” I mutter dryly, holding up the jar of pickles and ketchup.

He ignores me, handing me a glass of red wine. “Here. Drink this and shut up while I make my specialty Italian meal.”

“I can do that.” At twenty-six, I probably drink a tad more than I should. That's another one of those stereotypes that no cop wants to admit to but is unfortunately a real side effect of the job for many of us. “Though I may need a lot more to stomach what you're about to serve me.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best. I should really bottle it and sell it by the case.” I watch his back with admiration as he passes the wooden spoon through the skillet over the stove. Every appliance in here appears pristine and brand new, never used.

“I wasn't allowed to eat it growing up.”

That stops him dead. “What kind of horrible parents would do that to a kid?”

“Ones who believe in only homemade.” I chuckle. “They grew up in Italy, so that's what they know. Old school.”

“So . . . what, that means—”

“No Chef Boyardee, no Kraft dinner, no Campbell's chicken noodle soup.”

The honest, shocked look splayed across his face makes me laugh. “I didn't think there were people like that in this country.”

“There are. I was a child deprived of fattening, crappy food. Such a sad life.”

“Wow.” He shakes his head absently, checking the recipe several times and then, with the awkward movements of a person who has no clue what he's doing in the kitchen, begins measuring out the shredded cheese and mustard. “I'm surprised, given what you said your dad does, that they wouldn't be more progressive.”

What my dad does.

He means what Rain's parents are like, and here I've been talking about what Clara's parents are like.

Shit.
My heart rate spikes. Warner's going to grill me for risking my cover when he listens to this later.

Thankfully I'm saved from an answer. “There was this week that Alex stayed with Jesse and me after Viktor bashed her up good. We came home to dinner every night. I thought I had died, I was so happy. She's a dynamite cook.”

Alex.
Sinclair's words jump out at me. Begrudgingly, I ask, “So, how did she end up all the way out there?”

“Sheer luck.” Luke licks a dab of sauce off his fingers as he stirs the pan, the simple action stirring flutters in my lower belly. Or maybe it's him in the kitchen, in general. He said he hates cooking and yet he's going to all this effort for me. Even my ex-boyfriend, David, who told me he loved me after a month of dating, never cooked for me. Not once.

I take another long sip of my wine. My body is already warming with the effects of the alcohol. It's too easy to forget myself, to relax and enjoy my company. I need to watch myself. While getting drunk isn't a career ender, it's definitely frowned upon when it comes time for the court case. Any evidence that I gather outside of what's recorded on the wire will be riddled with holes by the time a defense lawyer's done with me.

Knowing this, I still can't seem to control myself. Perhaps it's my subconscious, sabotaging my ability to gather hard evidence against Luke.

“She said she owned the ranch?”

“Yup.” He throws some buns on a plate.

“Did she buy it after she divorced her ex?”

“She didn't divorce him. He died.” He frowns. “Why so many questions about Alex?”

Shit.
“Sorry, I'm being nosy. I'm just really curious. She seems like such a strong girl, after everything she's been through. And she's so happy. I just hope that I can be like her, too, one day.” I keep rambling until I sense him relax. That's what a good undercover does—talks herself out of corners.

“Because of what your ex did to you,” he says softly, delivering a plate full of some strange concoction in front of me, and topping my wine up. “You'll get there. I'll help you in any way I can.” Sincere blue eyes gaze into mine.

I can tell that he means what he says.

A ring from his pocket breaks the spell. He quickly scans it and then drops it back in his pocket without answering. “Rain, meet Cheeseburger-roni.”

Knowing that the soft interrogation has to be dropped for now, I focus on my meal, poking it with a fork. “How am I supposed to eat this?”

“Shit,” Luke mumbles through a mouthful as a gob hits the floor. He snaps his fingers. Stanley, the faster and arguably smarter, beats the bulldog, cleaning the hardwood with his tongue.

“Like that, I guess,” I say, laughing. “Well, you have Stanley's approval.”

“Do I have yours?” He watches me take a bite using my fork.

“Not bad,” I admit, washing it down with more wine, flashing him a smile. “I still win, though.”

“Oh yeah? And what do you win?” His eyes dip down to my mouth, stealing a heartbeat. I like having Luke's attention, his interest. His affections. Too much.

When I don't answer, he merely smiles, taking a drink.

“Water?” I glance at the clear liquid.

“Rust got me on vodka. It's pretty much all I drink now. When I'm not drinking twenty-thousand-dollar-a-shot scotch, that is.”

“Vodka and Chef Boyardee.” I make a gagging sound, earning his roar of laughter.

We finish dinner in comfortable silence, sharing frequent glances and smiles, both dogs waiting patiently by our legs for another accident. I'm sliding the piece of soggy bun into my mouth when his phone rings yet again.

He offers me an apology and answers. “Yeah?” A pause and then his eyes flicker to me.

I'm immediately off the stool, collecting plates and heading for the sink, using it as an excuse to stay within earshot while looking preoccupied.

Luke grabs onto my forearm with a frown. “No, don't worry about it,” he says to me, nodding toward the living room. “Go and relax.” Then into the phone, “No one. Just . . . a friend.”

I earn another twenty seconds of hovering time by pouring another glass. It's the Bureau's fault if I get drunk tonight.

“No . . . I can't  . . . not tonight. I'm busy . . . No!” Aside from when Stanley bit him, I don't think I've heard him snap. “Tomorrow . . . Yeah. No . . .
Tomorrow
.”

Still within earshot, I float over toward a wall of pictures with mismatched frames that match in that perfectly eclectic way. The faces that stare back at me are all ones that I've seen before, that sit within the safe in my condo. His sister, both as a bright-eyed, plump-lipped little girl who you want to put on a shelf and simply stare at, and as the curvy blond who garners plenty of attention; his mother, both as the knockout that ensnared Luke's father and as the sallow-faced, haggard-looking woman she has become.

My eyes are transfixed on Luke, though, through many stages of his life. The little boy in pajamas who sits in his grandpa's lap, skinny legs dangling over the side of the burgundy armchair, a swirl of cigarette smoke creating a grainy haze above their heads. The gangly preteen boy sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game, his uncle's arm thrown over his shoulder, that wide, innocent grin stretching across his face. The tall, lean young man in a blue graduation cap and gown, flanked by his mom and sister on one side, his uncle on the other.

Basically, all the versions of Luke that aren't within my case files.

The human side of him, which always gets lost in the ugly.

A small lump forms in my throat as I step away from the pictures and shift toward the windows in Luke's cozy, dimly lit living room.

I'd hate to see what prison does to him.

The call doesn't last much longer, though, and I've gotten nothing out of it, other than that someone's trying to get Luke to go somewhere or do something, and he's refusing. I assume, to be with me. I wonder who the someone is.

That small voice in the back of my mind whispers female names. I shush them away, because there's no room for jealousy here. “So that's what my condo looks like from your angle,” I call out over my shoulder.