Undercover Heat

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Tami Lund.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8890-2

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8890-7

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8891-0

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8891-4

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © Shutterstock/Alan Poulson Photography

 

 

To Emma and Heather, for the inspiration for Quinn and Kyra's house.

“A toast!”

“Another one?”

“Shut up, Baxter. If I want to toast all damn night, I will.”

“If you do, you won't have nearly as much luck in your personal life as you had at work this past week,” Baxter called out from the small crowd gathered around him.

“Good point.” But Quinn lifted the shot glass anyway. “To all the women I've never loved but have slept with anyway. May one of you be willing to try again tonight.”

Laughter preceded a chorus of “hear, hear,” before the small group of federal agents lifted their glasses and drank deeply. Quinn tossed back the shot in his hand. And called for another.

“You aren't even going to be able to walk, let alone hook up with a woman tonight, Daniels,” someone quipped. The dark, cozy pub was just a block from the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Detroit field office and was a favorite after-work hangout.

“I have a better chance than you, Jones.”

The laughter was even louder at that one.

“Another toast,” Quinn Daniels called. Before he could lift his glass, however, the door to the pub opened and the dim light from the street lamps spilled into the room. A tall, lean blond woman stepped inside. She wore a gray pinstriped pantsuit, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore the barest hint of makeup and a frown on her face.

“Kyra Sanders!” Quinn called out as the woman paused just inside the door, probably waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark atmosphere. “A toast to Sanders,” he said. He lifted his shot glass. His cronies all did the same and looked at him expectantly.

Kyra narrowed her eyes and watched him, but did not say a word.

“To the agent with the longest-standing open case in the Detroit office. Hear, hear!”

“Hear, hear!”

“To Kyra!” Another round of cheers. Another round of drinks. She stood by the door, enduring it for a moment before she strode past him, walking on sensible yet not unsexy heels, and bellied up to the bar. She ordered a beer while he stumbled over to stand next to her, swaying slightly on his feet. He figured he was about three sheets to the wind, heading toward four.

Quinn generally kept his personal life—or lack thereof—and his professional life strictly separate. But when a hot blond started working in his office, it was hard to ignore her. Kyra had transferred to the Detroit office some six months prior and thus far had hardly said half a dozen words to him—or any of the other male agents, so far as he could tell.

She was different from the women he normally hit on. More introverted, more—shy. Which, in truth, pissed him off that he was even attracted to her, because those were qualities his mother had, and he had a strict rule to avoid all women who even remotely had anything in common with his late mother.

“A beer? Don't you want to do a shot with me?” he asked, leering at the chest tucked away behind her standard business suit. No sexy lace, no hint of cleavage for him to ogle.

“I'm good, thanks.”

“That accent of yours sure is sexy.” Had he realized how alluring a drawl could be, he might have considered taking a position in one of the southern offices when he was first starting out with the feds.

“It's not an accent. Now go away, Quinn. I'm not interested.”

“I've heard you aren't interested in anyone. How come? Don't swing this way? You and Raquel are best buds, but I know she swings this way, considering she hasn't stopped smiling since she hooked up with that civilian.”

“Jorge. Her husband's name is Jorge.”

“What? She up and married that guy?”

Kyra shook her head. “They've been married for five years. I've been in this office less than six months and even I know that.”

He shrugged. “I don't give a rat's ass what everyone else does when they aren't on the clock.”

She paid for her beer and took a sip before giving him a mock salute with the bottle. “See you around, Quinn.” She moved away from the bar in the opposite direction of where he had been gathered with his cronies. When she slipped into a booth, he sat on the bench opposite her.

Even in his drunken state he recognized a strange attraction to Kyra Sanders, one that was different from the standard desire to sleep with a woman simply because she had tits and nice legs. Actually, it was only when he was sloshed that he was willing to admit to the allure. When he was sober, he stayed the hell away from her.

Tonight, Quinn was trashed. So instead of heading back to the other agents, he followed Kyra. “Where are you going? The party's over there. We're celebrating.”

She sighed. “I know you are thrilled to have finally closed that kidnapping case. I'm glad for you. But I'm not really in the mood to be sociable.”

“Why? Because your case is still open? Come on, Sanders. We're all friends here.”

“I just want to drink my beer alone and in peace, Quinn.”

“Why'd you come to a bar, then?” he slurred. “Hard to be alone in a place like this. In fact, people come here for the express purpose of not being alone.”

“Good point.” She pushed away the barely touched beer and slid out of the booth. “Good night. I'm out of here.”

He snagged her arm before she could slip away. “Why don't you take me home tonight?” he suggested. “I'll make sure you wake up alone.” Shit, he really was wasted. Did he just proposition her? Quinn wasn't at all above taking random women home from bars—in fact, that was his preferred modus operandi—but Kyra Sanders was not that type of woman. Which was one of a dozen reasons he stayed the hell away from her—again, when he was sober.

“You're a real sleaze, you know that, Quinn?”

He shrugged. “Beats the alternative.”

A peculiar look crawled across her face before she shook her head and it disappeared. “Find someone else,” she suggested as she shook off his hand. “You aren't my type.”

She brushed him off and took a step away. Quinn grabbed her arm again. When she lifted that cool blue gaze to his face, he saw trepidation there. He dropped his hand.

“You'll close your case, Sanders. You're a good agent. Definitely better than this perp you've been chasing.”

Her eyes flared, the apprehension shifting to surprise. He wasn't one to dole out compliments. Hell, he wasn't one to talk to her at all. They'd been working out of the same office, their desks a dozen feet apart, for six months, and he hadn't done anything beyond the obligatory handshake on her first day, when his boss, Nico, walked her around and introduced her to the other field agents.

“Thanks,” she said, and then she left the bar before he could figure out a way to stop her.

• • •

Unlike his promise to Kyra, he wasn't alone when he woke up the next morning. It was okay, though, because the bed partner was his stand-by fuck buddy, Phoebe Manard. Quinn cracked one eye and waited for it to focus on the shape of the sleeping woman. A mass of dark waves splashed across the pillow. Her big, dark eyes were closed at the moment, and her red, sensual lips were pursed in sleep. One naked breast was revealed by the blanket that had slipped off at some point in the night.

He rolled away from her and muttered a few choice oaths as he struggled out of the bed. It took him a minute to comprehend that he was naked, too. Unabashedly he walked through the room to the bathroom, then pissed without closing the door. He swallowed a handful of pain pills to combat the pounding headache and returned to the bedroom.

Phoebe was awake, lying in the bed, her head propped in her hand. The sheet draped over her waist, revealing beautiful breasts that he had no idea if he'd even touched last night.

“Morning,” she said, her voice a purr.

Quinn rubbed a hand over the stubble coating his chin and walked over to the dresser, grabbed a pair of gym pants, and pulled them over his hips. “I take it I called you at some point last night?”

She smiled as she sat up and dressed. “Apparently, your friends would not let you leave the bar on your own last night. You were too drunk, and they were afraid you would do something stupid. So you called me and I picked you up.”

“Oh. Did we …?” He couldn't remember. It wasn't the first time, so he figured Phoebe wouldn't be insulted.

“Nope. You had good intentions, but you passed out before anything could happen.”

“Huh.” Phoebe was hot as hell and was almost always up for a quick fuck, but his head felt like it was about to explode, dampening any possible interest he might have in making up for last night.

“Can you give me a ride to pick up my truck?” he asked.

She looked into the mirror attached to the dresser and ran a hand through her tangled curls. “You really are an ass, you know that, Quinn? It's a good thing I know that and have no other expectations.”

“If you don't like the terms of our relationship, you can just ignore my calls, you know.”

She tossed a saucy look over her shoulder as she headed toward the bathroom. “I didn't say I didn't like the terms. You're pretty fantastic in bed, when you're not drunk. And I have no desire whatsoever to attempt any sort of real relationship with you. I could not handle your emotional baggage. But just once, I would like you to be grateful when I rescue your ass. Just once.”

She closed the bathroom door.

Emotional baggage
. He did not respond to her accusation, because, frankly, she was right. He had a shit-ton of emotional baggage. He wouldn't wish his issues on anyone.

• • •

He was back home, his truck securely parked in the garage, before the call came. He knew it would, eventually. He just never knew precisely when. For a brief moment, he contemplated not answering, but he was helpless to cut these ties, and so he pressed the button and accepted the charges.

“Closed your case, I see.” The voice was sandpaper rough from too many cigarettes over too many years.

Quinn sometimes wondered if one day, this call would be of a different nature. “I have cancer. I'm dying.” How would he react to a call like that?

“Yeah, I did.” The miserable, love-starved child in him still waited for praise that never came. Never had, never would. And he hated himself a little more each time he hoped.