Becoming Rain (Burying Water 2)

“It is. I run here every day.”

I know.

A small, dark red spot is forming through Luke’s light gray sweats. Blood. And an opening. I drop to one knee in front of him, Stanley still tucked under my arm, and curl a finger under the hem of his pant leg to lift it, my fingers sliding up his damp skin. Two puncture wounds and a small trail of blood mar an otherwise flawless, muscular leg. It’s more than a scratch but he’s right—it’s not a big deal. The blood has already begun clotting.

“This looks terrible!” I peer up, catching him getting an eyeful down my sweater before his gaze darts to my face, a few degrees warmer. “Let me clean and bandage that leg up for you. At least. I insist,” I push, letting a playful smile emerge.

His lips twist into a matching smile. “Well . . . if you insist.”

Another wave of adrenaline hits me, and I’m not really sure if this one is driven by success for the case. “I live just over there.” I gesture at the high-rise behind us.

His blue eyes drift to my building, and then to the one right next door. His. A flash of something unreadable passes through his eyes. “Nice and close.” Eyeing Stanley, he mutters, “What about Cujo?”

“I’ll lock him up.” Keeping my terminator within my grip—I’ve found a new respect for the bug-eyed fur-ball now that he’s actually earning his way in this case—I turn down the path that leads to the condo buildings.

He gives the leash a light tug to force Licks into an amble. “So how long have you lived here?”

“I moved in three weeks ago.” More like six. “My dad owns the condo. He’s letting me stay in it for a while.”

“Oh yeah? What does your dad do?”

“Buys and sells property.” I shrug. “Lots of it.” Rain Martines’s daddy has made his riches in real estate and land development. In reality, my dad spends his retired time tending to his tomato plants and making prosciutto in the basement.

“I’m surprised I’ve never run into you at the park before.”

“I’m usually here earlier in the day.”

“Right. And what do you spend the rest of your day doing?”

I shrug. “I’m taking a photography class. Sometimes I shop, or go to the gym. I’m figuring out life, basically.” As opposed to what my real life in D.C. looks like, which is running out the door with my travel mug of coffee and passing out the second my head hits the pillow well after midnight. To be completely honest, this assignment has felt like one long vacation so far.

“Sounds like fun,” he muses. By his lax tone, I can’t tell what he really thinks. Is this a deterrent? It shouldn’t be. Guys like Luke are attracted to money and a life of leisure. That was part of the cover design. “I bought my condo last summer. I love it here. Great area.” He plays it off well, but I know that his uncle bought his condo for him. I wonder if he’s embarrassed that Rust funds him for pretty much everything and that’s why he’s not admitting to it, or if he likes to fool girls into thinking he has money. Or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to elaborate.

We turn up the path to my condo building, my eyes focused on keeping my steps in line with his unhurried ones, to appear as relaxed. And I begin playing out scenarios inside my head. Scenarios no normal woman trying to pick up a guy would think of.

I doubt he’s armed, given he was out jogging and a gun would weigh him down. Plus, I’ve never seen any guns lying around on coffee tables in his home. Maybe he’s got a knife. It would have to be a small one, though, and I can buy some time if he pulls it on me, until the cover team gets here.

I should be able to restrain him with some difficulty, if he tries to force himself on me, for the simple fact that he won’t expect that I know how to fight back.

I don’t read him as that type of guy, though.

I read him as the type of guy who’s going to stroll into my condo, make small talk for ten minutes, ask for a tour, and then strip off his clothes in my bedroom, assuming the leg was just an excuse for my invitation all along.

This is where I have to do things that fit into the “gray area,” of my job, to keep my cover, and the case, going.

Like, if he tries to kiss me, I may have to kiss him back.

Sneaking a glance at that mouth right now—curled up at the ends in a perpetual, slight smirk, glossy from a fresh drink of water, and surrounded by the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow to match the caramel-brown hair on his head—I’ll admit it would be far from the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Nervous flutters begin to tickle my stomach.

And then his phone rings.

All at once, his demeanor changes. His face turns grim, a glimmer of panic flying through it. Taking backward steps away from me, he reaches into his pocket. “Listen, I have to take this call.”

No . . . “Go ahead. I can wait.”

“Maybe we can connect some other time?” His steps are hurried as he moves away, a low murmur of “hey” touching my ears. He doesn’t look back. Not even once.

I fight to keep the frustration from showing on my face as he disappears down the path to his building.

Stanley lets out a tiny playful noise and then licks my cheek.

I give his head a scratch. “You tried, buddy. We all tried.”

I don’t know what else to do.

“Warner said you were in after the last meet,” Sinclair’s deep, gruff voice fills my ear. Almost an accusation. “What happened?”