Undercover Heat (14 page)

Yep—he was a goner.

He wondered if she felt the same way, or anywhere close to it. Hell, he was a relationship virgin. He had no clue what the hell he was doing, and he was surprised on a daily basis that she didn't go running for the hills. Grateful, but surprised nonetheless.

He adjusted the temperature of the water pouring from the tap in the bathtub, turning it as hot as he could stand, then he stood under the spray, one hand pressed against the wall, his head bowed.
Is she really any better off with me than Keith Oshard
?

Okay, if he continued in that vein, he'd be a royal ass to Kyra when he climbed out of the shower, and frankly, he was beginning to feel human again, so therefore he was horny. If he played his cards right, he'd probably be able to make up for last night, show her a little appreciation for taking care of his drunk ass.

What he really should do is stop getting drunk in the first place. Even if he did quit drinking, he was certain he'd occasionally fuck up in some other way and have to atone for his sins by pleasuring her between the sheets. And he was okay with that.

I don't deserve her
. For the moment, though, he had her, even if it was all a guise. And damn it, he was going to take full advantage of the situation for as long as he had it. Because he knew without a doubt that at some point, this whole picture-perfect pretend life would all come crashing down around him.

He twisted the knob to turn off the water and reached for a towel.

• • •

A rattling sound pulled Kyra from her doze. She sat up in bed, focused on the noise, and realized it was coming from Quinn's pants, the ones she'd pulled off him last night and left lying on the floor. She climbed out of bed and retrieved his cell phone out of his pocket. The display on the screen read Jackson Prison.

His father. She hesitated, teetering on the edge of indecision. She wanted to answer the phone, to tell the man to leave Quinn alone. Quinn was a great guy, a solid agent, a generous, loving person when he wasn't hiding behind the façade he'd built as a defense mechanism against the very man who was calling.

Maybe, if his father were out of his life, Quinn would feel free to determine he was good enough to be loved, to love someone else. Okay, her reasons for wanting to protect him from his father's psycho-bullshit were selfish, and she was okay with that. Whether or not their pretend relationship turned into something real—something she was beginning to hope for with increasing desire—was beside the point. Someday, Quinn would be ready to settle down, get married, maybe start a family of his own. His father's calls were a constant reminder of his terrible childhood, of the horrible relationship between his parents.

Kyra touched the screen to accept the call even before she fully comprehended what she was doing.

“Unless I missed something pretty damn huge, this does not sound like Quinn Daniels,” the voice said into her ear. He sounded like a lifetime cigarette smoker. A habit that had undoubtedly increased since he went to prison seven years ago. What else was there for him to do?

“No, it isn't,” she said with a swift glance at the open bedroom door. She could hear the sounds of the shower running. Like anything related to the bathroom, Quinn rarely closed the door when he showered.

“Is Quinn there?” The voice sounded faintly uncertain, as if he'd never had to deal with someone else answering this phone before.

“He's indisposed at the moment,” she said in a prim voice.

A dry laugh barked. “Indisposed? What, do you have him tied up in a closet or something?”

“He's in the shower,” she admitted.

“Ah. I didn't think this was one of his one-night stands. I highly doubt he would ever let one of them answer his phone. So you must be the temporary partner.”

How did he know so much about his son, given Quinn did his damnedest to try to keep the man at arm's length?

“Chasing the financial planner case? Or should I say chasing your tails? How's that working for you, anyway? You ready to throw in the towel yet?”

“No,” she replied, becoming defensive, even though it was exactly what Lawrence Daniels wanted. Apparently, he didn't need to harass Quinn. Any old agent would do. “We're getting closer.”

“You're a lousy liar,” Lawrence shot back. “But then you goody two-shoes types usually are. I always knew when Quinn was lying to me when he was a kid. Too much like his mother. What a disappointment.” The man was probably shaking his head. She was surprised by the force of the hatred that suddenly coursed through her veins.

“Did you need something specific, or are you just calling to be an ass to your son?”

Lawrence laughed again. “You've got spunk. I'll bet you and Quinn butt heads all the damn time. Wonder how long it will take him to realize that shit gets old?”

“Your wife was subservient, yet you still weren't satisfied.”

“Not subservient enough.” The first real emotion cracked through in his voice. “Do yourself a favor. Give it up now. You're never going to catch Whitney White or Bianca or whatever the hell she's going by these days.”

He knows her name
.

“What do you know about this case?” Kyra demanded.

“I know you're going about solving it all wrong.”

“What do you know about our decisions?” Was there a leak somewhere within the FBI?

“I know you should have let your boy toy down in Dallas help you solve the case months ago. Instead, you let it get personal and you ran away with your tail between your legs. Now you're right back in the same situation, and you're going to screw it up again.”

“I'm not,” she insisted.

“If not you, then my son. He's too fucking self-righteous for his own damn good. Sees everything in black and white. But there's too much gray in the world. There's always gonna be gray in the world. Until both of you figure that out, you're never going to catch the bad guys. Oh hell, looks like my phone time's up. Tell my son I called, would ya?”

The line went dead. Kyra dropped her hand to her lap and stared at the phone. She felt certain there was a hint, a clue, something in that conversation. He knew too damn much, and he'd been too willing to let her know it. But what the hell had he been trying to tell her?

“Is that my phone?”

Quinn stood in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his hips, his hair damp and finger combed away from his face. His sharply defined chest glistened with water droplets where he'd no doubt been in a hurry and hadn't quite managed to get himself fully dried with the towel. “Yes,” she admitted.

“Did someone call?”

“Your father.”

He looked startled. “You spoke with my father?”

She nodded, braced for the onslaught. She suspected Quinn would not appreciate her attempt to shield him from his father. He had a great deal of pride. Too much.

“You answered my phone?”

She nodded again. “I assumed it was him. It said Jackson Prison on the caller ID.”

He raked his hand through his hair and paced over to the dresser. As he pulled out clothing, he said, “Good guess. Pretty sure he's the only person who calls me from that place.”

He didn't say anything else. He didn't even look at her but instead pulled on a pair of gym shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. When he turned toward the bedroom door, she blurted, “Where are you going?”

He paused, and then without turning around, he said, “To the basement. I need to work out. Alone.”

She blinked back tears because damn it, no communication at all was far worse than yelling at her for invading his privacy.

• • •

“Thanks for agreeing to come with me to find a dress for the fundraiser, Raquel.”

“Are you kidding? First of all, I love shopping. Second, I have been dying to get out of the house. It's hard to adjust to having a tiny being attached to your boob all the time.”

Raquel smiled at the sleeping baby cradled in Kyra's arms. Kyra brushed her hand across the downy fringe of hair. The baby stirred and then turned her head toward Kyra's chest, nuzzled for a moment, and then relaxed back into deep sleep.

“As scary as it sounds, I could get used to this,” Kyra said as she rocked the sleeping baby.

“Yeah, it's pretty cool. You should see Jorge, though. He's hilarious. Still afraid he's going to break her.”

How would Quinn act around a newborn?
Don't go there
,
Sanders
. Especially not right now. He had disappeared into the basement and hadn't emerged yet. Meanwhile Kyra had taken a shower, dressed, and prepared for her day.

She'd violated his trust, and she felt terrible for it. She wanted to go downstairs and apologize, but she'd already made plans with Raquel, and her own fear of looking dowdy next to the confident and sexy Whitney Bianca forced her to put her personal life aside and deal with the more pressing matter of solving this damn case.

“We'd better get going,” Raquel said. “We have about two hours before she wakes up and wants to eat again.”

The basement door opened just then, and Quinn stepped out into the living room. He was soaked through with sweat and had a towel slung around his shoulders. Kyra's libido jumped to attention. Suddenly, the very last thing she wanted was to go shopping. Instead, she wanted to go upstairs and take another shower—with Quinn. She wanted to get very, very dirty.

His gaze dropped to the baby in her arms and then widened, and the most peculiar look crossed his face.

Nope. No shower now
. She watched his gaze dart around the room, as if he was looking for something.

“Raquel. Hey. I take it that's what you've been carrying around in your stomach the past few months?” He nodded at the baby.

She chuckled. “Yes. I like her better on the outside,” she quipped. “Meet my daughter, Aimee Jefferson Smith.”

Quinn observed the baby from where he stood. It was as if he were afraid of getting too close to Kyra. She felt a pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
I just keep screwing this up
.

“She sort of looks like you,” Quinn finally decided. The new mother beamed as if he'd just given her a high compliment, which Kyra supposed he had.

“But I guess she has some of that civilian in her, too. She is his, right?”

“I'm almost positive,” Raquel teased. “Although in truth, he couldn't deny her. She has his eyes.”

“We're going shopping,” Kyra interrupted, unable to keep from speaking to him any longer.

He didn't look directly at her, which both irked and injured her.

“All right,” he said. He waved at the staircase. “I'm going to go take another shower.”

Both women watched him climb the stairs. “What's wrong with him?” Raquel wanted to know.

“Let's go,” Kyra said.

When they were in Raquel's SUV, heading toward the mall, she pressed again. “Quinn seemed … off. Not at all his usual crude, insulting self.”

Kyra stared out the passenger-side window and wondered how much to confide. She and Raquel had only known one another for six months, but their friendship had blossomed instantly when Kyra transferred to the Detroit regional office.

“You slept together, didn't you?” Raquel guessed.

The way Kyra's body jerked was undoubtedly answer enough, but she admitted, “We've been sleeping together for weeks. Just about a month, actually.”

Raquel whistled. “Wow. I've never known Quinn to sleep with the same woman twice, and I've worked with him for going on ten years.”

“Actually, he had a fuck buddy,” Kyra said, and then she glanced into the backseat.

“Relax. Aimee isn't old enough to have to worry about your language just yet. So when you say
had
…?”

Kyra shrugged. “I assume he isn't seeing her anymore. We sort of … I mean, it's pretty hard to …”

“You two are doing it so frequently, you can't imagine how he would possibly have time to do it with anyone else too?” Raquel guessed.

She gave a nervous laugh. “I'm glad you can read my mind. I'm not very good at speaking, apparently.”

“So what is it? Just screwing around? Serious?”

“No idea. None whatsoever. He brought it up once, when he was drunk, but I'm not even sure he remembers. Although he did sort of freak out yesterday when Nico suggested that my director in Dallas wants me back.”

Raquel gave a thoughtful nod. “I've always thought that when Quinn did fall, he would do it hard. And for the right woman,” she added.

“Quinn hasn't fallen,” she insisted. “He's just happy he's getting laid regularly, that's all.”

“You're selling yourself short, Kyra.”

When they reached the mall, it took a solid twenty minutes to get from the vehicle into the building.

“My mother swears it gets easier,” Raquel said as she snapped the car seat into the massive stroller she'd pulled from the back of her vehicle. “You should see her. It's been thirty years since she's had a kid, yet she handles all of this like a pro.”

“That's because your mother is a quintessential mother,” Kyra pointed out.

“So what are we looking for?” Raquel asked once they were inside the mall. “What sort of affair?”

“Black tie,” Kyra muttered as the reality of what she was doing there hit her like a ton of bricks. “I hate the idea of dressing up like a freaking beauty pageant contestant. This is supposed to be a fundraiser for a good cause, yet they won't let you in if you don't dress appropriately? Give me volunteering at the church over this anytime.”

“Luckily, this is for work, not personal. When this is over, you can go back to volunteering in sweatpants and T-shirts.”

Kyra and Quinn had gone back to St. Nicholas's, the church where they both had once volunteered individually, this past Tuesday, and unloaded the food delivery truck for Father Benedict. They'd both worn sweatpants and T-shirts. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience, even when the priest had expressed his happiness that they'd formed a friendship—a word he used along with an exaggerated wink and a nudge of his elbow into Quinn's ribs.