Undercover Heat (19 page)

Funny, she was having a hard time really staying angry about that part. If Whitney hadn't seduced Keith, if Keith hadn't admitted it was happening and then covered his own ass, Kyra never would have moved to Detroit, never would have met Quinn. Never would have experienced the best sex of her life.

Not that it was all about the sex. Not by a long shot. And she knew, despite his sometimes lewd teasing, that it was more than that to Quinn, too. Which was pretty freaking cool.

She walked into the house and paused when she caught a glimpse of the dining room. All of a sudden, as clearly as if it were happening right this moment, she could see Thanksgiving, at her house. Well—this house. She could see her mother wandering about with a bottle of wine, refilling everyone's glass; her father walking in from outside, holding the deep-fried turkey on a platter, steam billowing behind him. Her brother commenting about all those people who thought oven-roasted turkey was so good, and how they would never go back if they had a taste of his dad's fried perfection.

And Quinn. He was there, too. Smiling. Saying something semi-crude to her mother, who blushed and giggled and playfully swatted his arm before tossing Kyra an approving look. She could almost hear her mother, whispering as she brushed past, “You done good, sugar. He's a keeper.” Her mother would love Quinn. They all would. Even her slightly overprotective brother.

A dog barking as it was walked past the front of the house pulled her out of her reverie, and she reminded herself that this house wasn't hers. Even if she and Quinn—well, even if something happened with this relationship, when the case was done—which arguably would be soon—they would have to move out of this house. It belonged to someone else, and the federal government was only renting it short term to help with her case.

It's a short sale. The owners are trying to get out from under it.

What if, when the case was closed, she approached the owners, offered to buy it? She liked the house. A lot. She loved the sunroom, the layout. The dining room that was the perfect size for Thanksgiving dinner. The two smaller bedrooms upstairs, for two kids. The suite downstairs, perfect for guests, like her parents.

I could do it.

She had plenty of money saved. She'd hired an agency to rent out her condo back home in Dallas. The agency told her just last month that the renters were interested in buying, if she was interested in selling.

I could move to Detroit.

Quinn was here. And he'd made it clear he didn't want her to leave.

What if she didn't?

She walked through the house, viewing it with a more critical eye than she had the first time she walked through it, after Nico slid the keys across his desk and said, “Let's close this.” There were scuff marks on the baseboards. Easy fix. The screen on the back door needed to be replaced. She would need a new hot water heater soon. She would need to buy a lawn mower, or rehire the service the government was currently paying to keep the yard manicured.

None of it turned her off. If anything, she grew more excited. Even more so when she imagined Quinn living here with her. Why not? They were already living together, even if it was due to an undercover assignment. And it was working. Really well. Look at the heat they generated together—

She felt her cheeks warm, even though she was all alone in the house at the moment.

She placed her laptop on the dining room table and wandered into the kitchen, still critiquing and still loving the idea. Nothing could change her mind at this point. She was going to do it. She was going to buy the house and move to Detroit. She couldn't wait to tell Quinn.

Kyra pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and walked into the sunroom, dropping onto the flowered wicker couch. This furniture definitely had to go. Besides the fact that it wasn't her style, it wasn't terribly comfortable, either. She twisted, propped her feet on the other end of the couch. Yep. Uncomfortable. Something scraped the back of her ankle, and she sat up frowning, and reached down to see what it was.

She pulled a red thong out of the couch cushions. It was barely there, just two pieces of string and a tiny triangle of sheer material with a small black bow on the back, which would have been positioned just above the wearer's ass.

It wasn't hers.

By the time Quinn arrived home on Tuesday evening, he wanted only two things: a stiff drink and to lose himself in Kyra's warmth and affection. They didn't even have to have sex. He just wanted to be near her, to touch her, to hold her. He was certain she would bring his world back into focus and everything would be okay afterward.

He'd helped Court with his case, which had taken no time at all. Then he'd gone to Nico's office to discuss Kyra's case, but that turned awkward when Nico asked him point blank if he and Kyra were sleeping together. Not exactly the type of conversation one wanted to have with his boss. Especially with the very real fear that Nico could send her back to Dallas hanging over his head.

That conversation had been followed by another with his father, who'd called just as Quinn climbed into his truck. Larry had taunted that Whitney Bianca was way smarter than either he or his new little FBI girlfriend, and for once, Quinn hadn't let the man get to him. Larry had said his piece, and Quinn had thanked him for the call and hung up. It had felt strangely cathartic.

Because he hadn't initially packed for a long-term stay at the house that he shared with Kyra, Quinn went to his own home and packed more clothing. While he was there, he also went through the mail, paid a few bills, and did some general housekeeping. By the time he headed to the bungalow, he was more than ready to put this particular day behind him. He could hardly wait to see her again.

He found her seated on the wicker couch in the sun room. “Hey,” he said as he stepped up and tried to give her a kiss. She deliberately turned her head so that he ended up kissing her cheek instead of her lips.

“Bad day?” he asked as he kicked off his shoes.

“You could say that.”

The tone of her voice was off. Something was definitely up. She needed a stiff drink too, he figured. The last time they'd split a bottle of Jack, they'd ended up tumbling into bed together. Which sounded like a damn good idea, so he walked into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle sitting on the counter. When he turned back around, she was still sitting on the couch, but she'd thrust out her hand, and something red dangled from her finger.

“Look familiar?” she asked in that same flat voice.

He squinted at the red material. Unless he was mistaken, it looked like a pair of women's panties. A thong, actually. Kyra wasn't a thong girl. Something clicked in his head, like pieces of a puzzle coming together all of their own accord. Oshard had mentioned Bianca was pissed off that Quinn hadn't succumbed to her feminine wiles.

“No,” he said, confident as he strode across the room and snatched the panties from her hand. “I've never seen these before in my life. I haven't seen a thong since I started sleeping with you, as a matter of a fact.” He made a fist around the panties. “This is a setup, Kyra. I know you can see this.”

“Can I?” She looked up at him, all doe-eyed, looking as wounded as if he'd just slain her firstborn. Or cheated on her.

“I didn't do it.”

“Isn't that what they all say? Keith did, until I hit him with all the proof I'd gathered.”

“Well, hit me with the proof you have against me. Come on, let's hear it.”

She waved at his fisted hand. “Right there. Don't really need anything more than that.”

“Where were they?”

She smirked. “You tell me.”

“I have no fucking clue, since I wasn't here when they were planted. Where did she hide them?”

“Right here,” Kyra said, and she stood up abruptly, like it had just occurred to her that he'd had sex on that couch with another woman. Except he hadn't.

“I didn't do it,” he repeated. He needed her to believe him. “Goddamn it, Kyra. You know me better than this.” His temper flared. He was so angry he was shaking. He was about to lose control, he could feel it. He needed to get the hell away from her before he did something stupid, but he needed her to believe him more.

“Do I? I dated Keith for almost a year before he cheated on me. We've only been sleeping together for what? Three, four weeks? Hell, we weren't even dating in the beginning. I'm not even sure that's what you'd call what we're doing now.”

“It is,” he said evenly. “We
are
dating. Exclusively. Monogamously.
I didn't do it
.”

“I don't believe you,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears and she swiped at them before she wrapped her arms around her midsection and hugged herself, looking devastated. He ought to feel sorry for her, but he was so angry at her accusation, so bitter that she did not believe him, he did not have it in him.

“Goddamn it, Kyra,” he said with a snarl, and he flung the bottle of booze against the nearest wall. The bottle shattered on impact and brown liquid splattered everywhere. Kyra winced and let out a startled cry, and then she fled the room. He stood there, listening to her retreating footsteps as they hurried up the stairs, heard the bedroom door slam.

With a resigned sigh, he set to work cleaning up his mess. What he really wanted to do was get into his truck and go to the nearest liquor store to buy a replacement bottle, because now he wanted to get rip-roaring drunk. Instead, he headed to the basement and took out his frustration on the workout equipment. Then he took a shower, and afterward, collapsed onto the bed in the downstairs bedroom.

• • •

Kyra woke alone in bed the next morning. She felt disoriented, confused, until she recalled why she was alone. Then she felt angry, bitter, sad, frustrated. Her stomach lurched, and she leapt out of bed and ran into the bathroom, half afraid she was going to get sick.

After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she stepped out of the bathroom just as Quinn reached the top of the stairs. His gaze swept over her, and it felt as though he dismissed her before stepping around her and walking into the bathroom. She turned away from the sight.

I knew better.

She'd been burned once before, in this exact same scenario. Recalling Keith and his impassioned speech about Whitney Bianca's breasts made her head hurt. She headed downstairs in search of a distraction, in the form of coffee and food.

She was halfway through her Corn Flakes when Quinn stepped into the kitchen doorway. He wore a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. His hair was damp and brushed away from his face, but he hadn't shaved. She felt a ridiculous urge to scrape her fingers along his scruffy jawline. Instead, she fisted her hand and dropped her gaze to stare at her soggy cereal.

“I'm going to work,” he said. “Don't change the locks while I'm gone.” Then he headed toward the door, and it was closing behind him.

Kyra sagged in her seat. Her entire body ached, right along with her heart. She waited until she heard his truck backing out of the driveway, and then she gave in to the urge to cry. Great wracking sobs shook her entire body and did nothing whatsoever to ease the ache in her heart.

• • •

It took several hours, but she finally managed to pull herself together enough to be presentable enough to go into the bureau. She carefully avoided looking in the direction of Quinn's cubicle as she made her way to Nico's office. He beckoned her inside and she closed the door behind her.

“I need to pull myself off this case,” she said before he could speak.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm too emotionally invested. I need to give it to someone else.”

“Kyra, you've been working this case for damn near two years. And the good agents always get emotionally invested. That's what makes them so good.” He slid a file folder across his desk, toward her. She took it and opened it.

“Warrant. Just came in. She's moving her offshore money around. She's getting ready to run. Go get her, Kyra. Bring her in and close this damn case once and for all.”

She stared at the warrant. “Quinn and I are—”

“Fighting. Yeah, I know. He already told me. It'll pass, Kyra. Everybody fights. You wanna know how many times I've slept on my own damn couch over the course of my marriage? Hell, when I buy a new couch, I make sure it's comfortable just in case.”

Kyra shifted her gaze from the warrant to Nico. “You … you know?”

“That you and Quinn are dating? Yes. To tell you the truth, half the reason I picked him to help you with this case was because I thought the two of you would be good together. And I don't mean professionally.”

She sank into the cracked leather chair facing Nico's desk. “You were playing matchmaker?” she said weakly.

Nico grinned. “More like hopeful big brother. Quinn's like a son to me. Actually, he reminds me a lot of one of my own sons, although my own sons had a pretty decent life. At least I like to think so. Quinn's had a screwed-up life, but he's a good man, and when I met you, I thought you might be the perfect woman for him.”

“He cheated on me.”

“He says it was a set-up. Keith's story leads me to believe it. Apparently Bianca had it out for you since you almost caught her in Dallas.” He paused, then added, “Oshard admitted that he told her. She knows you were the agent who almost caught her.”

She knew.

Quinn had suggested it several times, and every time, she insisted it wasn't true.

“He never even loved me.”

“Quinn? You're wrong, Kyra. I think—”

She shook her head. “No. Keith. I thought he loved me. But he didn't. I'm not sure he ever did.”

“Whatever he felt for you, he's a dirty agent, Kyra. He shouldn't have hooked up with Whitney Bianca, and he sure as hell shouldn't have told her about the case. That's besides the fact that he never should have cheated in the first place. He's scum, as far as I'm concerned.”