Undercover Heat (11 page)

The shrubbery lining the front of the house was comprised of manicured boxwood bushes. There were no flowers. According to the case file, Whitney had moved in about six months ago. She was renting the place month by month from a couple who had been temporarily transferred to Germany due to the husband's job. It was clear to Quinn that she was in town to hit a couple of marks, and then she would pull up roots and move on.

What was really interesting, though, was that when she'd lived in Dallas, her residence had been permanent. She'd lived there for fifteen years and owned her home. According to the background check, she'd started out legit, but the assumption was that somewhere down the line, she'd gotten greedy and began a series of lucrative Ponzi schemes. The feds become aware, Kyra had been assigned to the case, and all had been going like clockwork—until Whitney fled in the middle of the night, just as Kyra was about to nab her.

It was definitely inside information. Kyra admitted as much, but she hadn't given him any insight as to who or how. Quinn would have to delve deeper into that aspect when he returned from his jog. If somebody in the Dallas office leaked info to Whitney, they needed to go down too.

He deliberately jogged at a slow pace, just in case Whitney happened to look out her window. If she stepped out onto the porch and waved and offered him a cup of coffee, he'd take her up on it. He wanted to see the inside of her house. He didn't know if it would give him any additional clues, but he wasn't one to leave any stone uncovered.

There were two cars parked in the driveway. One was a silver Jag, which he knew to be Whitney's car. The other was a yellow, piece-of-shit foreign vehicle—Quinn was as loyal to his country as he was to the Bureau—with Michigan plates. He memorized the plate number so he could run it through the system later. Then he continued on, jogging around the block and back to his house.

The smell of frying bacon and eggs assaulted his senses when he stepped inside. His stomach growled. Hot damn, the woman was an animal in bed and she cooked breakfast too? Oh, wait. Shaking his head at his stupid thoughts, Quinn toed off his shoes and walked to the kitchen doorway.

Kyra stood over the stove. Her hair was down around her shoulders, which he liked. It was straight, with just the hint of a wave at the ends, and he recalled how silky it felt against his skin.

She wore a simple pair of sweatpants and a pink T-shirt. Her feet were bare and there was no makeup on her face. He wanted to step up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist, and rub his erection against her ass. He wanted to touch her breasts, her face, the back of her knees. He wanted to whisper naughty words into her ear, words that would make her giggle and moan all at the same time.

Christ, he had it bad.

He adjusted his swollen package and turned away from the sight. Kyra stopped him.

“I'm making breakfast,” she said. “How do you like your eggs?”

Burned, because we're too busy screwing each other to care
.

“Over easy,” he grunted. “I'm going to take a quick shower first.”

It
was
quick, because he was so damn hot for the woman, it took all of two minutes to jerk himself off while he imagined he was pistoning into her instead.

• • •

He'd shaved. He smelled like the lavender soap she'd put in the shower. He'd dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a navy T-shirt with “USA” embroidered over the left breast pocket. All he needed was an American-made beer and to lean against his American-made truck and he'd be a shoo-in for a television commercial model.

Would he find that funny? Quinn was so quiet this morning, she couldn't gauge his mood. She was reasonably confident he wasn't in a bad mood, because he wasn't snapping or glaring at her. But neither was he really talking.

They ate breakfast mostly in silence, sitting across from one another at the dining room table. He began clearing the table without being asked and didn't say a word when Kyra stood up and helped. She almost quipped that in her family, when one person cooked, the other had to clean, but she was afraid to be too friendly because she was unsure of what he was thinking.

After breakfast, he pulled out his FBI-issue laptop and sat back down at the dining room table, presumably to work. When he asked to see the file on the Whitney Bianca case, she finally asked him what he was doing.

“Research,” he said without taking his eyes off the screen. “You said you suspected she had inside information. I think you're right, and we need to look at that angle. Just because she moved to Detroit does not mean she has completely cut off her internal source.”

Kyra went to the bedroom and retrieved the case file. When she returned to the dining room, she placed it on the table and said, “My director looked into that aspect personally.”

Actually, he'd informed her that there was no way in hell Keith would have blown her case. And when Kyra pushed, he said, “Fine. I'll talk to him.” The next day, she'd gotten pulled into the director's office. “He's clean, Kyra. Other than breaking my policy and having a relationship with you, Keith Oshard hasn't don't anything wrong. He's been a good agent for damn near twenty years. Don't fuck his life up by spreading rumors.”

When it was all said and done, Keith's name wasn't even mentioned in the file.

“Maybe he missed something,” Quinn suggested.

Kyra blew out a breath. Part of her did not want to rehash what happened in Dallas. Well, all of her didn't. But if Quinn had an idea that could close this case for good—

“And even if he didn't, maybe we try that angle anyway.”

“What angle?”

“The inside information angle. I'm sure it did not escape your notice that our perp has been making moves on me,” he drawled.

“I noticed.” She cleared her throat. She couldn't help but notice. It had been like reliving the whole thing with Keith, except this time, she'd been boiling mad instead of hurt, and she'd reacted in a way that was wholly inappropriate for the situation. She was supposed to stay away from Quinn—for her own sanity—and instead she'd pranced right over to the couch and practically sat in his lap.

While it had been initially worth it to see Whitney's reaction, having to endure Quinn feeling her up every chance he got had been utter torture. She would have liked nothing more than to push him down onto his back on that couch and consecrate that piece of furniture. Hadn't he been the one to say something about newlyweds purposely having sex on every piece of furniture in the house?

“I say we use that to our advantage.” He stood up, paced to the window. “She obviously didn't know you were the one who nearly caught her down in Dallas,”

It wasn't a question, but when he turned around and arched his brow, she replied, “No. Not unless the informant told her.”

She didn't think Keith would have done that. He had wanted a piece of ass, but he also wanted to keep his job. She knew Whitney figured out the feds were after her through Keith, but Kyra had always assumed it had been accidental, that Keith had said something during the throes of passion. He used to talk in his sleep, but to her, the words had never been intelligible. Maybe Whitney had been better at deciphering what he said. Either way, Kyra was certain it had not been deliberate.

“I know this case is personal to you,” Quinn remarked. “But it's weird—it seems personal to her, too. I would swear she is hitting on me because she thinks I'm yours.”

Kyra barked out a humorless laugh. “She's hitting on you because you're … you're—”

When she did not finish the sentence, he arched that dark brow again. “Yes?”

“Attractive,” she finished lamely.

He looked surprised by her assessment. But surprise quickly morphed into predatory, and suddenly he stalked across the short distance between them until she was leaning back against the edge of the table, her palms flat on the surface, holding her up. Her breath went choppy. He was a scant two inches away, and she had to curl her fingers against the wood to keep from reaching out and pulling him closer.

“If I'm so damn attractive, why won't you fuck me again?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

She swallowed. Her heart rate quickened. For a moment, she couldn't recall why. Then she shook her head.

“We can't,” she whispered. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

Her temper flared, thank God. She gave him a small push, and he backed up enough to allow her to slip out from between him and the table. She stumbled across the room and pressed her hand against the wall. She knew she looked like an idiot, bumbling around like this, knew it looked like exactly what it was, that he affected her, but she couldn't think about that right now.

“I can't separate it,” she finally admitted. “I can't have sex with you and then walk away and not feel something. I'm not wired like that.”

He appeared to be bowled over by her honest answer. So much so that he actually staggered backward and dropped hard into the chair he'd vacated a few minutes prior. They remained like that for several silent heartbeats, until Quinn finally said, “Shit.”

He shook his head. “Shit, Kyra. I'm going to need another bottle of Jack.”

She fled the room.

• • •

He let her go. What the hell else was he supposed to do? Say,
yeah, I'm having a hard time separating it too
? He'd frigging told her about the day his mother died, for Christ's sake. If that wasn't personal, what the hell was?

But she was right. Neither one of them had any business whatsoever playing house quite that thoroughly, no matter how fucking awesome it was. This was a case, and their job was to solve it, period. All the other bullshit didn't matter.

Besides, what the hell did he think would happen when the case was closed? Dating her was such a ludicrous idea, he almost laughed out loud. Quinn Daniels hadn't
dated
a woman in his entire adult life. He wasn't even sure he knew how.

Not to mention, they'd already gone way beyond dating at this point. Hell, they were living together. They went grocery shopping together. They were sleeping in the same bed, he pissed with the door open, his toothbrush was parked next to hers in the little ceramic holder on the bathroom counter.

Oh, and they worked together. Even if he honestly considered the idea of giving dating a try, did he really think it would work? How would they act when they were at the bureau? He had a feeling Kyra would not be able to handle the ribbing that would undoubtedly ensue.

“I can't separate it,” she'd said. He knew she was right. And that alone was enough justification. It wouldn't work. He needed to stay the hell away from her, because otherwise, she would end up hurt, and it would be his fault. He'd already killed his mother, and he was barely hanging on to the edge of sanity as a result. Hurting Kyra would, without a single doubt, send him flying headfirst over that edge.

Damn it all to hell. Sometimes it really sucked being the good guy. His psychopath father wouldn't have let something as insignificant as Kyra's feelings get to him.

Angrily, Quinn stabbed his finger onto one of the keys of his laptop, then punched in the security code because it had gone to sleep. When the screen flashed on, he saw that he had a handful of new emails, including the one he'd been waiting for—the one containing information about the license plate number of the car parked in Whitney Bianca's driveway.

It was a rental. Listed under the name of Keith Oshard. It took only a handful of minutes to learn that Keith Oshard was a field agent from the Dallas regional office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Kyra was curled up in the window seat again. She knew he was home because she heard the slam of the door, indicating he'd closed it. Where had he been all afternoon and evening—no, wait. She wasn't supposed to care. Still, she couldn't help but wonder if he'd acted on his earlier idea of reacting to Whitney when she hit on him.

Lord, please don't let that be it
.

He wasn't Kyra's, not technically, and frankly he could do whatever the hell he wanted, but she was not sure if she could handle it if he actually hooked up with Whitney White-slash-Bianca.

She listened to his footfalls as he climbed the stairs. Funny how she knew it was him, not because there was no one else living in the house, but because she recognized his walk. Like they really were married. She was anticipating that first glimpse when he reached the top of the stairs, so she deliberately turned away and tried to focus on the computer screen.

And turned right back to the door, just as he stepped into view.

Their gazes met across the short expanse of space. His looked faintly accusatory. She furrowed her brow, confused. She hadn't seen him all day. How could she have pissed him off now?

He walked into the room, dropped his computer bag onto the floor next to the door, stepped over to the bed, and dropped like a stone onto the edge.

“Tell me about Keith Oshard.”

Her entire body jerked as her heart rate suddenly zoomed into the stratosphere. “H-how do you know that name?”

Quinn tapped his temple. “I'm a smart little agent. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm also a fucking idiot, but generally that's not associated with the job. In this case, I'm not sure, since the job and everything else are all mixed up here.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked in alarm. He wasn't making sense.

“Tell me about Keith Oshard,” he demanded again.

She swallowed. “He—he's another field agent. In Dallas. He's, ah …”

“Your boyfriend?” Quinn sneered. “Or fuck buddy? Which one? Does it matter? You were fucking him, and he blew your goddamn case.” He pushed off the bed, as if he needed to move.

She closed her laptop. “Yes, he blew my case,” she said, enunciating each word.