Becoming Rain (Burying Water 2)

She reaches back over her head to her nightstand to pick up her phone. With a quick scan at the screen—my name likely won’t show up because it’s blocked—she answers. “Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Luke.” I step closer to the window, waiting for her to turn her head toward me, to spot me standing here. Basically, to admit to me that she knows I’m here. That she’s known all along and that she’s putting on this show for me.

She doesn’t so much as twitch my way.

“How’s your leg?” Her voice has a certain huskiness that I don’t remember from earlier. One that stirs the blood flow in my body, especially as I continue watching her lying there, unaware of me.

“Fine.” It hurts like hell. The little asshole’s teeth sunk into muscle. I wouldn’t be surprised if I can’t run tomorrow. “How’s the mutt?”

A throaty laugh escapes, making me smile. “Resting up for his next attack.” She places the book facedown on her bed. Her hand trails up and down her thigh with painstakingly slow passes, stalling on the strap of her panties. Her finger curls under it.

Jesus. I’m not sure that I want her to look over and stop. I’m rather enjoying this show. “Should I be on the lookout tomorrow?”

“I’d highly recommend it.”

“What are you doing?” Besides torturing me.

She lifts up the book, scanning the cover. I’m impressed that she reads actual books. Priscilla has nothing but stacks of fashion magazines and the gossip rags they sell at the supermarket cash registers. “I was going to read a bit, but . . .” Her mouth moves with the yawn in my ear and then she arches her back in a stretch, pushing a nice pair of tits up into the air. “Think I’m calling it a night. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her back to me, her waist slender and long, her left shoulder blade decorated in swirls of sexy ink . . .

She reaches back and unclasps her bra with one hand, letting it slip off. And I find myself silently pleading for her to turn around.

She stands up and leans over—giving me a fantastic view of her apple-shaped ass—to hit the wall panel. Her bedroom falls into darkness.

I can’t keep my groan from escaping.

“Luke? You okay?”

“Uh, yeah . . .” I clear my throat, realizing that I’m probably breathing into the phone like a psychopathic stalker. She could be watching me right now, my bedroom lit up. I glance down at the formed tent, wondering what she’d think of this scene. I’m going to have to deal with that before I head out. She just gave me plenty to use while I do.

I don’t like women knowing how much power they really have over me, that they can turn my brain to mush so easily. I’ll lose my upper hand that way. So I punch the light switch on the wall, throwing myself into darkness, too. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Teaching Stanley not to bite people.”

I can’t help but chuckle.

“And going out with you.” There’s a smile in her voice.

I smile right along with her, because that’s exactly what I wanted her to say. “That’s right. You are.”

Chapter 10

CLARA

One of my strengths—and I don’t know if it’s a cop thing or just a Clara thing—is my peripheral vision. My brother jokes that I have extra sets of eyes hidden beneath my thick mane of hair.

I had my eye on Luke the entire time—when he stopped in the middle of his bedroom like he’d just walked into a wall, probably still dripping, towel wrapped around his lower half, to watch me. When he wandered over, adjusting his towel around himself repeatedly.

When I used my body to entice him.

My phone rang, and it took everything in my power not to look over when his voice filled my ear, knowing he was standing there. He didn’t warn me about the view. Didn’t mention it. I’m glad, given my phone is tapped. My surveillance team didn’t need to overhear that conversation. None of them would believe that I forgot to shut my blinds. I’m not supposed to open them to begin with.

I can’t believe I just did that. What would Warner say? What’s more, I can’t believe I don’t feel completely vile right now. I should. If I had done that for any of my past targets . . . My gag reflexes kick in just thinking about the last guy I busted—a beady-eyed pimp with greasy hair and a bad habit of spitting through the gap in his front teeth every few minutes. I quickly push those thoughts away and focus on the room across the way, now dark, wondering if Luke can so easily throw on a pair of pants and go out, or if he’s dealing with what I just did to him. I feel a burn course through my thighs at the thought, and admit to myself that I wish he hadn’t shut the lights off.

Good undercovers do what they have to do.

I think I’ve finally caught Luke Boone’s interest.

“You never call!”

“I called you three days ago, Mom.” I roll my eyes, dumping sugar into my coffee. Normally I need two cups in my body before I attempt a conversation with her. But when I pulled my personal phone out of the safe and saw that she had already called four times this morning, I panicked. “Don’t do that to me. I thought something happened to Dad.” At sixty-one years old, my dad has already been admitted to the hospital twice with chest pains and difficulty breathing. Between a diet of pasta, meat, and cheese and being a heavy smoker for forty-five years, the doctors say he’s a solid candidate for a heart attack. Fortunately, he quit smoking a few years ago, and my mom has managed to add one salad a day to his diet. Still . . . he’s far from healthy.