Becoming Rain (Burying Water 2)

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.”