Becoming Rain (9 page)

When I still don't move, they both turn to look at me, and I know that I have no choice. Anything else I say will be too suspicious.

“Sure. Don't worry, I've got it.” I shake my head at the cash that Luke holds out.

As soon as I see the slight frown zag across his brow, I realize my error. He's not used to seeing girls turn down money. It seems like such a minor thing, and yet it's the seemingly minor things that can be the most explosive when you're undercover.

I walk out, silently chastising myself.

Chapter 11

■ ■ ■

LUKE

The bell over the door rings as Rain disappears around the corner.

“Beautiful girl,” Dmitri notes, his brows arching in question.

“She is.”

“That thing,” he nods at Stanley, still tucked under my arm, his bulging eyes somehow bigger, “is not.”

I chuckle, giving Stanley's head a rub and earning a snort in return. “He's not so bad.”

“You always were a sucker for the ugly dogs,” he murmurs, moving to wash his hands. “Thank God you don't pick your girls like you pick your dogs.” A long pause. “She's not our people, Luka.”

She's not Russian
. My deda always told me to stick with “our people.” Old-school thinking. It obviously made an impact on Rust, given the vast majority of people he does business with are Russian. I suspect the people he does the illegal kind with are
all
Russian.

Me . . . I'm much more open-minded. “I just met her, Dmitri.”

“And yet you're shopping for meat with her.”

I can't help the chuckle. “It's not a ring.” Not that Dmitri ever would have bought his wife an engagement ring.

“Well, hopefully you will be settling down with someone and soon. Don't be like that uncle of yours,” he mutters. “Sometimes I wonder about him . . .”

All these guys wonder about Rust. Why doesn't he settle down and get himself a wife? They've all got one—women to parade around, cook their meals, and wash their clothes. Basically, to mother them.

“Tell me what this business with Nikolai is about.” No more time for relationship talk. It's Saturday. We have a small window of time before the next customer comes in. Perhaps only minutes.

Dmitri pauses, eyeing me. I'm sure he still sees me as the fat little kid who came in here every Saturday, stealing pieces of ham and shoveling them into my cheeks when no one was looking. “We need to sell a car. Stefan . . .” His voice drifts off with a sigh, the displeasure in his face evident.

I don't have to ask what he means. His grandson, Stefan, a fucking pothead and disgrace to Dmitri's family, must have gone out and stolen a car. He's a few years younger than me. I knew early on that he was short half a deck of cards. He has a penchant for theft and has caused Dmitri and his son, Nikolai, problems in the past.

“Hard to sell?”

A severe gaze levels me. “Likely impossible in America. Too risky. I was hoping Rust could help us get rid of it.”

I ask what Rust is going to ask. “You can't just wipe it clean and ditch it?”

“What is that saying? When you are given lemons, you make lemonade.” Dmitri shrugs. “I could use some lemonade.”

“Right.” Too much money to just ditch, I gather. The bell announces an elderly couple and the end to our conversation. “I'll talk to Rust. We'll sort this out for you, I promise.”

He places his hand over his chest and then holds it outward. A sign of respect and love. Something my deda and he used to do when saying goodbye. My heart instantly warms.

“Talk to you soon.” I wave the package of meat at him on my way out the door.

And walk right into Rain.

Chapter 12

■ ■ ■

CLARA

“You used, like, four ingredients. You're telling me that if I do
exactly
what you just did, my sauce still won't taste as good, just because I'm not Italian?”

I lick the tomato sauce off the spoon before dumping it into the sink. “Sounds about right.”

He chuckles from his perch beside my kitchen island, elbows resting on the granite, where he's been sitting since we got back. “That's bullshit.”

“Fine. Next week we'll do this at your place. I'll sit on my ass and watch you cook for me.” The perfect plant for another “date,” if all goes well tonight.

His eyes drop down at the mention of my ass, and I feel my cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Turning the sauce down to a low simmer, I move on to the meat mixture, pushing my sleeves up so I can begin rolling the meatballs into perfectly round spheres. Something I could do in my sleep. It used to be one of my Saturday morning chores, helping my mother make this staple in our household. As odd as it may seem, I've always found this process relaxing.

“I guess I should be paying more attention, then, shouldn't I?” Luke slides off his stool and comes around to stand next to me, rolling a sleeve up over a defined forearm with slow, precise skill. He steps in until he's hovering over me, his chest butting against my shoulder.

I pretend not to notice.

Just like I pretended that his hand on the small of my back as we walked home from the store didn't affect me.

He leans toward the simmering pot. “My buddy's girlfriend's sauce smelled as good as this.”

“Is she Italian?”

“Russian.”

I groan. “Have you listened to nothing I've said today?”

A playful pinch against my ribs has me jumping. “That market has good stuff, from what I've heard.”

“Yeah. I'll definitely be going back.” I barely noticed what they carried, too busy scrambling through, grabbing what I needed so I could get back to the butcher shop in time to overhear even a word or two of whatever business Dmitri and Rust have together.

Unfortunately, their discussions must have been quick or cut short, because I plowed right into Luke in my rush, already on his way out the door to meet me. We shared a laugh about it, as I hid my disappointment.

And now he's standing so close, and I'm being hit with mental flashes of last night and the body that's against me now heading toward the shower, and I'm needing to remind myself exactly why I'm here in the first place.

To arrest him, and put everyone he works with in cold, dark cells.

I've been in this deceitful place before. And yet this time, it feels completely new and different.

And somehow, more dangerous.

Minty breath grazes my cheek and I can't help but breathe deep. Can't help but turn into it. Can't help but look up into a set of blue eyes that belong to a guy who helps young mothers pick up groceries and feeds homeless old men and doesn't
look
criminal at all.

“You'll have to wash your hands if you want to touch these balls.”

He breaks into a broad grin. Replaying the words in my head, I roll my eyes and laugh. “What are you, twelve?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “I know this may sound chauvinistic, but I love a woman who can cook.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I answer, sensing him shifting in slowly. Preparing to let him have a small kiss before I break away with excuses.

But then his phone begins to ring.

The slightest groan escapes him. “Sorry, I've gotta take this.”

I swallow the mixture of relief and disappointment rising inside me. “Go ahead.”

He makes his way straight for the small patio off the living room, digging into his pocket.

It's obviously a call he doesn't want overheard. I have to give him some credit—he's already smarter than every other scumbag I've busted. They always assume that their code language is ingenious, that no one will understand that when they're talking about types of birds and numbers and what intersection they saw them flying past, they're talking about illegal stuff. Maybe a normal person wouldn't.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Luke take a seat in the wrought-iron chair and light up a cigarette, phone pressed against his ear. He glances over at me a few times but I keep my head down, rolling the meat. Watching the clock. When the first few balls are sizzling in the pan, I grab one of Warner's beers and a glass.

And I push through the patio door, acting like nothing's wrong with stepping out here to offer my guest a drink.

Wary blue eyes flash up to me.
What are you going to do, Luke
?
Risk looking suspicious by getting up and walking away? Or just stop talking altogether?

I hold up the can. He nods. So I take my time, placing the empty glass on the table, cracking the can, and slowly pouring its contents in.

“No . . . No . . . He's a dumb ass . . . We have to help . . . You should give him a call . . .” I feel Luke's eyes on me. I turn and offer him my most innocent, oblivious smile and then keep pouring.

While I and the FBI listen in.

“Yeah . . . Can you call Vlad and see what he can . . .”

Vlad
. There's that name.

“Really? . . . I don't know . . . Yeah, I guess so. 'kay . . . Thanks, Rust.” He hangs up just as I'm holding out the glass for him. “Sorry, that was work.”

“No worries. I just thought you might be thirsty.”

He pauses for a long moment to consider me, a curious, unreadable look passing over his face. “I am. Thanks.” He stands and, instead of taking the drink, he curls a hand around the back of my neck and pulls my mouth into his.

I'm somehow completely unprepared as the taste of mint and just a hint of tobacco fills my mouth, as his other hand slides around my back, as he slips his tongue against mine with the skill of a guy who is confident that it's okay that he's doing this.

And for about three seconds, it
is
okay. As my heart begins racing and I lose my ability to breathe, it's more than okay. As I feel the heat from his hard body press up against me, warming me, this kiss is all-consuming. But then reality comes crashing down and I remember that this is
not
okay. This is my job, and there are several agents sitting in a car right now, listening to every close-range sound coming from us. All of this is being recorded and entered into evidence for people to listen to at a later date.

As gently as I can, I push against his chest until he breaks free. I clear my throat and offer him a genuinely embarrassed smile, though not for the reasons he assumes. “I'm going to burn the meat if I don't get in there.”

“So?” He leans in for another kiss, but this time I manage to turn away and his mouth skates across my cheek.

“Listen, Luke . . . That bad breakup I told you about?” I wasn't planning on using this excuse yet, but I guess I don't have a choice. I just hope it doesn't derail everything so soon. “It was
really
bad. Like . . .” I frown for impact.
Lord, forgive me for this lie.
“. . .
abusive
bad. I'm just not ready for this yet.” I give his chest a gentle pat to ease the rejection, wishing for the moment that I didn't know exactly what he looked like under this shirt. “I really like hanging out with you, though.”

He steps back, his face softening. “Of course. Okay.” He has a knowing look in his eyes. Does my little criminal have a sympathetic side when it comes to a woman being hurt? There weren't any records of domestic violence in his family, which is usually what sparks that kind of reaction. But my gut is telling me he knows a thing or two about battered women.

I laugh, an attempt to lighten the mood. “You're just trying to sabotage my cooking. Give yourself a fighting chance for next week when you have to feed me. Nice try.” I head for the kitchen, sensing him trailing behind me.

“Listen, I'm sorry I have to do this but I've got to head out. Some work stuff to deal with.”

“At the garage?” I don't even need to fake the disappointment in my voice as I start switching out browned meatballs for raw ones. Is this about that phone call? Or is he pulling his chute in this “friendship” of ours already because I just denied him? If so . . . I'm screwed.

“Something for my uncle.”

“That's too bad, but I understand. You can come back and eat after, if you want,” I offer, nonchalantly. If it really is work, then I can't scare him away with guilt trips and neediness.

“I'll call you.” He gives my elbow a light squeeze and then he's on his way out the door.

No mention of going out tonight.

No attempt at another kiss, to my relief.

So why do I also feel a twinge of disappointment?

I lock my front door and, whispering, “Officer Bertelli, out,” I switch the listening device off. My phone rings almost immediately.

“You did great.”

I frown and glance at the clock. “You're calling me from San Francisco, right?”

“The others were tied up with their kids. They couldn't make it in time.”

I shake my head. I should have known that Warner wouldn't leave. “Dammit, Warner. You should have told me. I would have put him off.”

“And risk the case? No way.”

He's right. But . . . “Does your girlfriend understand that?”

His heavy sigh fills my ear. “She understands that my job comes first.”

I roll my eyes. “Good luck with that.”

“Whatever. Drop it.” The irritation in his voice swells. “How are you feeling after that? Are you okay?”

I know what he's referring to. “I'm fine. Nothing some Scope won't cure.” I chuckle, thinking about a story I once heard about a female undercover who was forced into kissing a meth head she was trying to bust, to prove herself and keep from getting shot. She downed half a bottle of mouthwash afterward, trying to rid herself of the vile taste.

There's no vile taste in my mouth, though. In fact, if I concentrate, I can still feel my target's lips—softer than I expected them to be—on mine, and my heart begins to race again.

“Okay, go relax. I'll be on for tonight.”

“If there is a tonight,” I mutter.

“Don't worry. You've hooked him. He just may not know it yet.”