Undercover Heat (13 page)

Kyra whipped her head around to stare at him, Nico waited for him to continue, and Quinn cursed himself for not speaking up sooner.

“There's a fundraiser. Friday night. Lots of big money, and Whitney Bianca is going to be there. She invited us.” He forced himself not to wince as he said the last.

“She did? When was this?” Kyra asked, sounding baffled.

“This morning, when I was taking out the garbage. She happened to be driving by and stopped to say hello. Mentioned the fundraiser. I told her we'd love to go. Figure it's the perfect in.”

“I didn't realize you had a little chat with our neighbor this morning,” she said, her voice cool.

“I hadn't told you yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because we were on our way here, and if you'll remember, we were running late,” he snapped.

They'd been standing side by side in the closet, trying to determine what to wear into the office that day, teasing and flirting like usual. He'd made some crack about more action and less words and the next thing he knew, she was on her knees and his pants were around his ankles. It hadn't been his idea. Not that he was complaining—would
ever
complain—but it still had not been his idea.

She flushed and her eyes turned stormy. Ouch. He'd said the wrong thing. He wasn't particularly worried about Nico figuring out what was going on between them, but apparently Kyra was. Too late, he recalled her story about what happened in Dallas.

I'm not Keith Oshard, and Nico's not your old director.
But he bit his tongue and did not say the words out loud.

She was so hypersensitive about this case that half the reason they hadn't made any real headway was because he was doing his damnedest to try to prove to her that he
wasn't
like her ex-boyfriend. That meant he'd turned down plenty of opportunities to get closer to Whitney Bianca, and therefore, find a crack in the case.

The fake financial planner was all but throwing herself at him, and she was becoming bolder with her attempts. He wasn't interested in the least, of course—God knew he could barely keep up with Kyra, and frankly, he had a hard and fast line about criminals—but convincing Kyra of this was a difficult process.

She'd obviously been more burned by her experience with Keith than Quinn had initially thought. Every time he broached the subject of taking advantage of Bianca's advances, he met with a solid stone wall. Impenetrable stone wall. As he did not want to risk whatever the hell was happening between them, they were going to have to figure out some other way to solve the case.

“It was a half-hour drive here,” she pointed out icily.

“We were talking about other things.”

“The weather. Planting flowers along the front of the house. Nothing quite as important as a possible break in this case.”

I didn't want to upset you
. Just the mention of Whitney Bianca's name sent Kyra into a dark mood. Like now. Quinn liked it better when she was happy.

“Jesus, you two are like an old married couple,” Nico interjected.

Without looking at Kyra, Quinn quipped, “Don't call me old.”

Nico shook his head. “Don't make me regret putting the two of you together on this case.” He stabbed his finger at Kyra. “And if you want to hightail it back to Dallas, I suggest you go to this fundraising gig and close this damn case. Your director called me yesterday afternoon and wanted to know how much longer I intend to keep you.”

• • •

“What the hell did Nico mean by that comment?” he demanded as they made their way out of the federal building later that afternoon.

She didn't pretend to not know what he was talking about. “I don't know,” she admitted. “I didn't think he even wanted me back.”

“You were planning to go back?”

When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Kyra stopped walking. “When I asked to be reassigned here, it was temporary.”

“When the hell were you planning to tell me?”

She gave him one of those cross looks women reserved for men they had determined were a particular kind of idiot. He'd received that look from plenty of women in his life, but he did not at all appreciate Kyra giving it to him.

“I haven't thought about it.”

He knew that was a lie, which pissed him off all over again. He strode toward the parking garage, leaving her to chase after him.

They didn't speak on the way home. Quinn pulled her sports car into the driveway and revved the engine as he shifted it into park. She reached for the door handle and paused.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I'm going out. Going to see if Court wants to get a drink.” He added that last out of habit—it had become a habit already?—so she would not think he was going to drive around the block to take care of the ample assets Whitney Bianca offered. That knowledge angered him further, until he gripped the steering wheel and ground his teeth and stared straight ahead, waiting for her to climb out of the car.

“Quinn, you should—”

“I'll be fine.” He bit off the words as he deliberately shifted the gear into reverse. He left her little choice but to step away from the car and close the door. Then he roared out of the driveway and down the street.

• • •

She heard the front door bang open when Quinn arrived home later that evening, and she slid off the window seat and hurried to the top of the stairs. Court, another agent from the office, was all but carrying him inside. She rushed down the stairs to greet them.

“Um, hi, guys,” she said, giving Quinn a wary look and avoiding Court's gaze altogether.

Quinn swung his arm, wrapping it around her shoulder on the third attempt. “Baby, you're going to have to do all the work tonight,” he slurred.

Their colleague snickered. “He's going to have to get your car tomorrow,” Court said, and she heard the question in his voice:
Why was he driving your car
?

Conscious of the fact they had yet to discuss how they would handle their relationship with regard to their co-workers, Kyra forced a chuckle and tried to play light of the situation.

“Typical Quinn.”

“I'm surprised he didn't call his fuck buddy, but he insisted on me bringing him here,” Court said.

Okay, she didn't need to know that.

“
This
is my fuck buddy,” Quinn said right before he gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

Court arched a brow and she shook her head. “I'll get him up to bed, let him sleep it off.”

“Upstairs, my love,” Quinn declared as he tried to swing both he and Kyra toward the stairs. “We have a lot to discuss. Naked.”

“I think he thinks I'm his fuck buddy.” Maybe it would work to pretend Quinn was so drunk he didn't know what he was saying.

“Uh huh,” Court said.

“You
are
my fuck buddy,” Quinn insisted.

“Okay, upstairs. 'Night, Court. Thanks for getting him here in one piece.”

She half carried Quinn to the master bedroom. He flopped onto the bed and rolled over onto his back. When he couldn't even manage to pull off his shoes, she helped him undress.

“That's more like it,” he slurred as he lay back and allowed her to strip him.

“Tomorrow you're going to have to convince Court there's nothing going on between us, you know.”

“Why? There is. Or is this your way of dumping me?”

“I'm not dumping you.” She chuckled. “Besides, we haven't even defined our relationship, so I'm not exactly sure how to dump you.”

“You're gonna leave me.”

She cocked her head to the side. “No, I'm not.”

“Dallas,” he muttered. “You're going back to Dallas.”

“Oh.” She sucked in a breath. She'd suspected that was why he got so upset earlier, but surely Quinn Daniels did not care enough about her to want her to stay in Detroit. Did he? They were just playing house—right?

“Nothing's definite at this point,” she said carefully. “I'm not sure what I'm going to do.”

“It
is
a relationship,” he mumbled, sounding half asleep. “What we have. A relationship. That's a big step.”

“So is what you have with your fuck buddy,” she pointed out.

“Nah. We both knew that wasn't forever. Our understanding was very clearly defined.”

Kyra paused in the process of taking off his pants. “When's the last time you saw her?”

“The night I closed the kid trafficking case. But I was too drunk to take advantage of the situation.”

“You haven't talked to her since?”

“Sure, I have. She had a date the other night. Wonder how it went?”

“You talk to your fuck buddy about her dates?”

Quinn frowned. “Not usually. I was annoyed with you, so I called her.” He lifted his hand into the air, stabbing his finger at the ceiling. She assumed he meant to stab it at her.

“But she had a date. So I struck out twice.”

When, precisely, had this happened? Before or after she and Quinn started sleeping together?

“You're thinking so hard it's making
my
brain hurt.”

“Sorry. Just thinking about your fuck buddy.”

“I don't want to think about Phoebe. Or talk about her. Come here.”

“You're so bossy,” she teased as she edged closer to his flailing arms. She let him catch her and pull her onto the bed.

“Sleep with me,” he said.

“I am sleeping with you.”

“I mean really sleep, like cuddling. I want to cuddle with you. Don't you like to cuddle?”

She lay down next to him and smiled. “I cuddle with you every single night, silly.”

“That explains why we have sex so often. Well, tonight is official cuddle-only night. Mr. Happy is too drunk to do anything else. You aren't disappointed, are you?” He wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her close. He rested his chin on her head and sighed deeply.

Kyra took a moment to savor the feeling, this closeness, like they were a real couple, like what they had was sincere and long term.

“No,” she said into the quiet. “I'm not disappointed.”

He was already asleep.

• • •

“I thought I was supposed to stop doing this,” he said when a dry mouth and a raging headache greeted him the next morning.

“What was the catalyst this time?” Kyra asked.

At least he'd managed to return to the faux home they were sharing instead of doing something infinitely stupider, like call Phoebe. Hell, he hadn't even thought about Phoebe since the last time they spoke and she turned him down because she had a date.

“Life.” He groaned, rolled out of bed, and walked to the bathroom. He wasn't sure what the hell else to say to her.

Because I can't stand the idea of you leaving me
, was what he added while he stood in front of the toilet and pissed away the remnants of last night's drunk. He had a feeling he'd given Court enough ammunition to make fun of him for at least a year. He'd acted like a lovesick fool, and Court had let him know it while he'd plied Quinn with drinks.

“With Kyra Sanders?” Court had said, his voice overflowing with disbelief. “Hell, half of us thought she was a lesbo.”

“She's not. Trust me.”

Now Quinn climbed into the shower and grimaced at those memories from last night. His buddy Court was cool as shit, fun to drink with and hang out with on football Sundays, and he was a damn good agent, but he was not exactly the kind of guy one turned to when he needed to talk through relationship problems.

Hell, were there any guys in the world who could fall under that definition?

“So you're banging Kyra Sanders. Good for you,” Court had said with a shrug.

“I'm not
banging
her. Okay, yes, I am banging her. But that's not the problem.”

“It rarely is.”

Quinn had given his friend a solid glare and downed another shot.

“It's all the other shit.”

“Women tend to bring all that other shit into the bedroom.”

Quinn shot his friend a surprised look at that comment. “That sounded like you have firsthand knowledge of this type of situation.”

Court did not reply. He lifted his mug and took a healthy swallow of seasonal beer.

“She's moving back to Dallas,” Quinn admitted at that point. “She's going to leave me.”

“What's in Dallas?”

“Her life. Her family. She's one of those family types.”

“You could move to Dallas if you're that serious about her.”

Quinn had downed another three drinks while mulling over that statement. He could move to Dallas. What the hell did he have in Detroit, anyway? He had the job, of course, and Nico would probably be disappointed if he asked for a transfer, but he was equally as certain his boss would give it to him, if he really wanted it.

His mother was dead. He had no siblings. His father was rotting in prison and Quinn had never once stepped foot inside to visit him. Their only communication was via telephone, and it hardly mattered where Quinn was in the world; he could still take calls on his cell phone. Or better yet, he could finally take that step he thought about every single time the man called, and simply not answer the phone.

He had no contact with his extended family. His friends weren't exactly the sort you clung to. Court was the only friend he might regret leaving, but considering they were both FBI agents, they'd stay in touch regardless.

He really could move.

The fact that he'd spent so much time seriously contemplating moving across the country for a woman had pushed him to do another couple of shots. By the time Court declared that he was ready to go home for the night, Quinn could barely walk. But he had been lucid enough to insist his friend take him back to the house he shared with Kyra, because he wanted to be with her, even if he was too drunk to actually take advantage of the situation.