Undercover Heat (7 page)

“No. What the hell makes you ask that?”

“Because you only call me when you're drunk.”

“That's not true,” he protested, but it was true. He felt slightly guilty for his actions.

Phoebe, to her credit, did not argue with him. “I assume, despite the fact that you aren't drunk, that you are calling for the regular reason. And unfortunately, I cannot accommodate you at the moment. I have a job too.”

Quinn grumbled a few choice curses.

“Nor can I accommodate you later this evening,” Phoebe went on to say. “I actually have a date tonight.”

“A date?” He was so surprised, he blurted the words.

She laughed. “Contrary to the relationship you and I had, that is not how I intend to spend the rest of my life. Like most normal adults, I would like to find my Mr. Right and settle down someday. And you and I both know you are not my Mr. Right.”

“I'm not anybody's Mr. Right.” If Phoebe was going off the market, what the hell was he supposed to do? They'd had the perfect relationship, in his opinion: straight sex, nothing else, and they had both been satisfied with that situation. He had a feeling finding another woman like her was going to be damn near impossible.

There was Kyra.

No. Not in a million years.

“Sure you are, Quinn. I am a firm believer there is someone for everyone out there. You just have to find her.”

“I don't want to find her.”

“Why not?”

“Come on, Phoebe. You don't even really know me, but you know me better than anyone else does. You said yourself that I have a pile of fucked-up baggage no woman would be willing to take on.”

“Actually, I said
I
wouldn't take it on. But that's just me.”

“No one could handle my baggage.”

“You're wrong. Baggage or not, there's a good man in there somewhere. You just have to decide to let him out. And when you do, I bet your baggage doesn't seem quite so big, nor will the woman care. She will be happy to handle it. Look, I gotta go. I need to get back to work. I'll let you know if the date doesn't work out. Bye, Quinn.”

She disconnected the call, and he stood there, staring at the wall, trying not to contemplate her words. A small sound caused him to turn his head, and he spotted Kyra, hovering on the stairs, a sheepish look on her face.

“What?” he said with a growl.

“Everybody has baggage, you know,” she said, clearly having overheard his side of the conversation.

“Don't go there, Sanders. Trust me, you do not want to.” He pushed past her and headed upstairs to take a shower.

Later that night, he fell asleep on the couch in the living room, much to Kyra's relief. The very last thing she needed in her life was Quinn Daniels in her bed. It was the very last thing she needed, because it was becoming the very thing she wanted.

Quinn Daniels, for crying out loud.

The next day, she paid a visit to Raquel.

“How's the undercover assignment going?” Raquel asked, as she let Kyra cuddle the baby.

“I think the perp's interested,” Kyra said, in between cooing at the bright-eyed little girl. “In both our fake financials and Quinn.”

Raquel furrowed her brow. “Isn't that what happened last time?” Raquel was the only one besides their boss, Nico, who knew what happened in Dallas.

“Yes, but this time, I'm prepared for it.”

“Does Quinn know?”

“Only what was in the file. He's smart, though. His first comment after reading the file was that Whitney had inside information.”

“He
is
smart. Unfortunately, he does a great job of hiding his intelligence behind a bottle of booze. It's almost like he wants everyone to underestimate him.”

“I overheard him on the phone yesterday. He said he had a bunch of baggage no woman would want to take on.”

Raquel gave her a surprised look. “He said that? I had no idea Quinn was even interested in having a real relationship with a woman.”

She shrugged. “I have no idea who he was talking to. A brother, maybe?”

Raquel shook her head. “I'm pretty sure he's an only child. But he's right. He does have a great deal of baggage.”

“Like what?”

“Ask him,” she suggested. “It isn't my place to say.”

“Come on, Raquel. You know he won't tell me. Maybe if I know, it will help us get along better. We aren't doing a fabulous job of it at the moment.”

Her friend hesitated. “Ask him,” she said again. “If he wants to tell you, he will.”

Asking him would be a waste of her breath. He'd never tell her about his past. Hell, he didn't even want his co-workers to know his heart was big enough to just show up and unload heavy food boxes for an elderly priest. Actually, he probably didn't want any of them to believe he even had a heart at all.

Raquel was right about him hiding behind the booze. How many Monday mornings had Kyra sat at her desk and tried to tune it out while Court or Baxter or one of the other agents teased Quinn about how wasted he'd gotten the weekend before?

Why the hell was he so secretive? Why the hell was he so worried about showing his true self to the people he worked with, people with whom, essentially, he should be able to trust his life?

Since Raquel wouldn't tell her, and she knew better than to bother asking Quinn, she chose an alternate route. After she returned to the bungalow the government had rented for her case, she researched Quinn Daniels, using the extensive FBI network she had at her fingertips. She curled up on the window seat in the master bedroom, and with her laptop perched on her thighs, she typed in her access code to get past the security surrounding the information, then she sat back and began to read.

The story was so riveting, she didn't even hear him until his hand came down onto the top of her laptop, slamming it closed.

“Hey,” she protested as he towered over her, looking more furious than she ever thought possible. Her eyes widened and she resisted the urge to shrink away.

“My file is
private
,” he said. “Stay the fuck out of my life.”

“H-how did you know?”

His eyes were spitting fire. “You think I wasn't going to set up so that if anyone tried to get into my personal file, I would be notified? How much did you read?”

She swallowed. “Enough. I'm so sorry, Quinn.”

“Don't give me your goddamn sympathy,” he snarled. “I don't need it.” He turned and strode from the room.

She found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. She waited until he took a breath and then said, “Can I have a hit?”

He was clearly surprised by her request. He probably expected her to condemn him for turning to alcohol. But after reading that file, she honestly couldn't blame him for wanting to numb the pain once in a while.

He offered her the bottle. “Not surprising that file would get to you,” he commented as he watched her take a swig.

Kyra gasped and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “That file would get to anybody.”

Quinn grabbed the Jack back, took another swallow. “Not anybody. Plenty of people in this world live through what I did. Trust me, I've seen them. But you—that world has to be completely foreign to you. Anybody whose daddy read her a bedtime story every damn night of her childhood has no fucking concept of what my childhood was like.”

She pulled the bottle from his hand. “Nope. But I can be a good listener, if you want to talk about it.”

He scowled. “I talked plenty enough to the shrinks. I'm over it.”

She snorted and took one more drink. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She flapped her hand. “You're afraid of women.”

A surprised laugh burst from his mouth. “I'm not afraid of women, Sanders. Far from it.”

“You're afraid of me,” she amended. “That's why you're such an ass to me. Trying to push me away. You're afraid of what will happen if you don't.”

Quinn watched her through those half-closed eyes. Bedroom eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware that she was moving into dangerous territory.

“I have a pretty good idea of what would happen if I didn't push you away. And trust me, I'm not afraid of
that
.”

Kyra took another slug of whiskey.

“You're going to get drunk, Sanders.”

She offered him the bottle. “So are you, Daniels.”

He obligingly took a swallow, watching her as he did so. She stared back, unflinching. He lowered the bottle to the counter. “What are you looking for here, Kyra?”

She shrugged and lowered her gaze. “I want you to know that I don't feel sorry for you. I mean, I feel sorry for the kid you were, but I don't feel sorry for
you
. You're an adult. You know how to make your own decisions, despite your past.”

“You think so? You think my past doesn't influence my decisions?” He took a step toward her, crowding her. She allowed him to push her back against the counter.

“Influence? Of course. Control? No.”

“I know the Jack's starting to numb my brain, but I'm pretty sure you're challenging me, Sanders.”

“You think so?” She thrust out her chin and gave him a daring look. “Probably won't work. I don't think I'm your type.”

He arched an eyebrow. “No? What is my type?”

She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder. “Our hot neighbor-slash-perp back there.”

He laughed. “She'd eat me alive. And she isn't my type.”

“Why not?”

“She's a criminal. Bit of a turn-off for me. I like women who operate on the right side of the law.” He trailed his fingers along her cheek, down her neck to the collar of her shirt. She sucked in a breath and tilted her head. Just a little.

“This is a bad idea, Kyra,” he murmured before he dipped his head and kissed the exposed skin above the collar of her shirt.

“Yeah,” she agreed as she tilted her head further. “It is.”

“You should stop me.” He hooked a finger into her collar, then tugged it aside so he could kiss more skin.

“Stop yourself.” She clutched at the edge of the counter and stood on tiptoe so he could more easily access whatever part of her body he wanted.

“Why aren't you stopping me?” he whispered, his breath fanning over her skin. He smoothed both hands down her sides and then up again, to cup her breasts through her shirt. “I'm no good for you. You're too good for me.”

A laugh burbled up and escaped. “You don't give yourself enough credit. You're a far better person than most I know.” The secret volunteering, his unique apology. The way he threw himself wholeheartedly into his cases. His insistence that Whitney didn't do it for him because she was a criminal. The horrible past she now knew about.

Kyra had been down this road before. She'd had a relationship with a fellow agent and had gotten burned. Badly. She really should be pushing him away, Jack Daniels's influence or no. But she didn't want to. Quinn was—different. He was a lost soul, a broken man, yet with a heart of gold he kept well hidden from the world. And he'd let her see it, at least a small glimpse. Whether it was intentional was not the point. She'd seen it. And at this moment, she'd determined he would not do her wrong.

She deserved this.
They
deserved this.

“I promise you,” she said as she lifted her arms over her head. “I'm not too good for you.”

He stared at her for a handful of heartbeats before grasping the hem of her top and pulling it over her head. He tossed it aside and stared at her peach-colored, lacy pushup bra. He skimmed his thumbs over her nipples and she made a noise of approval. He reached down, wrapped his hands around her thighs, and lifted her onto the counter. Then he buried his face in her cleavage. She arched into his touch.

“You're going to make sure this isn't awkward afterward, right?” he asked as he unclasped her bra.

“I'm not thinking about afterward right now.” She lifted his shirt and pulled it over his head and then stared hungrily at his chest.

“That's a damned erotic look, Kyra.”

“I can't help it,” she said in a breathy voice as she smoothed her hands over his sculpted chest. “You're beautiful.”

He chuckled. “Isn't that my line?”

“We can share it.” She leaned forward and kissed his chest, then trailed kisses to one of his nipples and sucked gently. She heard the hiss as he sucked in a harsh breath.

“I'm not on birth control,” she murmured, and then she took a moment to suck on his other nipple. “I hope you have condoms.”

“Never leave home without them,” he managed to say, although the words were strangled. He reached around, patted his back pocket, then pulled out his wallet. She knew by his jerky movements that he was rifling through the contents behind her head as she kissed and fondled his chest.

“Upstairs,” he said. “We have to go upstairs. Condoms are in my shaving kit.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and slid off the counter. He caught her easily. She hooked her legs around his waist, and he carried her through the house to the stairs.

When he dropped her onto her back on the bed, she said, “The fact that you just carried me all that way and you aren't even out of breath is such a turn-on.”

“I expect you to change that, here in the next twenty or thirty minutes,” he said. She laughed as he disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a foil wrapper in his hand. He handed her the condom and made quick work of divesting her of her pants. He smoothed his hands over her legs before lying down on the bed, on top of her.

“How is it possible that you are so damn sexy, Kyra? You don't even try.”

She laughed and spread her legs, allowing him to nestle more comfortably between them. “I'm taking that as a seriously high compliment. I used to try, when I lived in Dallas. But things changed, and I decided I didn't want to present that image anymore.”