Becoming Rain (3 page)

Chapter 4

■ ■ ■

CLARA

I swear, these oversized sunglasses were created for undercover cops.

I watch my target stride toward me, a smug grin on his face. He doesn't have the first clue who I am. I hide the pleasure of knowing that behind a friendly smile.

Whatever they were discussing—something to do with that shiny Corvette, by the way they were hovering over it—must have been resolved, because Rust Markov heads toward his Cayenne with a light bounce in his step. I do my best not to watch him, afraid that anyone will see my disdain for the man radiating.

Just as clearly as I can see the burly shop manager's hatred for Luke. If looks could murder, he would have stabbed Luke ten times over with the glare he's shooting at his back right now.

And I get the impression that Luke couldn't care less.

“Welcome.” Luke's bright blue eyes do a quick scan of my black dress pants and low-cut sheer blouse. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest, knowing that he can see the lace bra beneath. It's not something I'd normally ever wear, but three of the women he brought home were wearing something similar.

His attention quickly shifts to the Audi, his hand sliding over the roof. “Beautiful.”

“I like it.” As I suspected, he doesn't seem to recognize me from last week's drink-spill incident at The Cellar.

He dips his head to scan the inside. “Leather interior . . . nav system . . .”

Well, I was right about one thing. Luke Boone loves a nice car. Apparently too much for my purposes. “Would you like some time alone with it?”

He dips his head to the side, giving me another eyeful of that confident smirk. It stills my heart for just a beat. I'm not used to targets looking like this. “How can I help you today?”

“I think something's wrong with my clutch.” I
know
something's wrong with my clutch. I know because Warner had one of his guys mess around with it yesterday, giving me an excuse to bring my car here.

Luke watches me closely. “And what did your dealership say?”

Shit.
Warner is sitting in the surveillance van right now, listening to the wire, high-fiving the others because he just made fifty bucks off me. When I filled him in on my idea, he argued that it wouldn't work. That someone who drives a brand-new eighty-thousand-dollar car doesn't go anywhere besides their dealer for repairs. I bet him that these guys wouldn't even mention a warranty, that they'd be only too eager to take full advantage of a twenty-something-year-old female.

I guess I was wrong.

I make a point of folding my arms over my chest and assuming an angry stance. “The dealer said that I need my clutch adjusted and that isn't covered after six thousand, two hundred fifty miles.”

“And you have . . .”

“Sixty-five hundred miles.”

Luke's face twists up. “And they wouldn't let that slide?”

“Nope. So I told them to go to hell and I left.”

“Dicks.” He shakes his head slowly. “Well, we can take a look at it. It's not covered under warranty here, either, but we'll make sure we're at a discount to what they'd charge you.”

“I was told your guys know Audis.” From the reports, Rust's Garage has a reputation for being top notch for any and all cars. I wonder if it's because their mechanics are top notch at dismantling any and all cars. Not that we have proof of that.

“My guys know every car. Keys?” He holds a hand out, his clean, filed fingernails hiding the fact that he has a mechanic's license and was working in the garage up until a few months ago.

“Great.” I let my gaze drift over to the bay windows. Beyond them, hoists sit loaded with vehicles. “You guys look busy in there, so I assume it's going to take a while. I can get a ride home from you, right?” I make a point of lifting my sunglasses and locking gazes with him, letting him take in one of my finer qualities, the light blue eyes I inherited from my mom.
Please let this plan keep falling into place . . .

Twisting his lips in pensive thought that I can't guess at, he first glances over to where the other manager hovers, and then at the large, dark-skinned mechanic who strolls out from an open door. “Zeke!” The man saunters over. “Can you do me a favor and get this car in to check the clutch? Sounds like it just needs an adjustment.”

“Miller said—”

“And I'm saying let's not make this lovely lady wait all day for such a minor fix.”

He salutes. “Right, Nur— I mean, boss.”

“Thanks, man.” Luke turns back to me, smiling wide. “Go and grab some lunch. It'll be ready for you when you get back.”

He's charming, I'll give him that. And,
dammit,
there goes that plan. I struggle to hide my disappointment. It's one thing when you meet someone and wonder if he's attracted to you. I
need
to attract him, if this is going to work. And, now that I've met him face-to-face, sober, the clock is ticking.

Placing a hand on my hip, I plaster on a playful smile of my own. “And where are you going to take me for lunch?”
Ugh.
I hate girls like this.

He cocks his head to regard me for a moment with curiosity. I wouldn't call it annoyance. It shouldn't be. From everything we've seen, Luke Boone is attracted to women who expect to be kept on ivory pedestals.

He holds out a hand. “Luke.”

A small sigh of relief escapes me as I take it, letting my polished fingertips graze his palm as I accept his hand. “Rain.”

“Rain,” he repeats. “I was actually just about to head out to lunch. Wanna join me?” He glances down at my shoes. “It's a few blocks. Can you handle that?”

Should I play agreeable? Or does he expect complaints? Should Rain Martines expect to be driven? It sounds like such a silly thing to consider, and yet some guys are attracted to bitches and I need him to be attracted to me. There's a fine balance between playing the role I'm supposed to play and being myself, to avoid any bipolar personality changes.

While I spend a few seconds grappling internally with exactly how high maintenance I need to be, Luke begins walking out of the lot. So I grab my purse from the driver's seat and hurry after him, doing my best to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk.

A quick peripheral scan down the side street finds the navy-­blue van, where my cover guys watch behind tinted glass. It's both comforting and irritating to have people spying on my every move, listening to my every word. But that's a nonnegotiable part of being undercover. They'll always be within arm's reach when I'm with my target, just in case something should go wrong.

Luke falls into step beside me as we make our way along the sidewalk, his hands hanging from his pockets. “So? What's your story? Where are you from? I'm guessing you're not a Portland native.”

“Why do you say that?”

His eyes flicker over my clothes. “You don't look like the type of girl who owns hippie skirts and combat boots.”

“And you don't look like the kind of guy who wears skinny jeans and penny loafers.”

That's what Portland's all about, after all. Hippies and hipsters. If you don't fit into one of those two groups, then you're stepping off the pages of a Columbia sportswear catalogue. People like Luke and me—or at least Rain—are a minority around here.

“Fair enough. So?”

I'm more than ready for these kinds of questions, though. “Originally from out east, but I decided to try the West Coast for a while.”

“Why not farther south? California's nice.”

Valid question. One I can answer with a half-truth. “Would you believe me if I told you I love the rain?”

“You moved across country because you
love
the rain.” I glance up in time to see his smirk. “I guess you're well suited to your name then.”

That's the reason I chose it, I want to say. As part of the cover design, I get to pick my own name—something that would roll off my tongue, that I'd answer to without hesitation. Normally you go with your real first name and your mother's maiden name, but I've used it so many times, I chose my mother's nickname for me instead. She used to call me Rainy when I was little, because I'd be the kid who threw on her pink rubber boots and grabbed her umbrella at the first sign of showers. I'd spend hours outside, fascinated by the feel of cold drops splattering against my skin as I stomped and splashed through mud, much to my mother's bafflement. It made the hot bath and curling up under a blanket afterward all the more rewarding.

“So you just decided to move across country and try something new because you love the rain,
Rain
.”

When he says it like that, in that tone, it sounds suspicious. “And because I needed to get away.” I pause before adding, “Bad breakup.”
That confirms that I'
m single. Check.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, sounding like he understands a bad breakup. I wonder if he does. “How are you liking Portland so far?”

“It's nice, but . . . you know, new city. It's hard to meet people and make friends.” Another seed planted. That's the guise. Become “friends” with the target. It's a deceptive term because we all know what that truly means. I'm supposed to entice Luke, make him want more but not give him too much. Therein lies the ethical dilemma that so many undercover operations face. Where do I draw the line? If my target places his hand on my knee, do I let him? Or do I push his hand away? If he tries to kiss me, how do I refuse him? How many times can I refuse him before he loses interest? How far do I let it go? There was no official rulebook of “can” and “can't” handed to me when I took this case on.

I have only my gut.

And my moral integrity.

And the respect of my colleagues.

And concern for my safety.

And the reputability of my testimony for this case.

“I'm sure it won't take you long. Portland's full of nice people.”

“Well, I met one today, didn't I?” It's as close to me handing him a “will you be my friend?” card as I can get without sounding desperate.

Luke merely grins.

We continue on, my heels clicking against the concrete as we weave our way around other pedestrians, most of them also on a lunch-hour mission. A woman ahead juggles a bag of groceries in one hand and a toddler throwing a proper fit in the other, who's kicking and screaming until she loses her grip on her bag and some of its contents spill out the top. People all around pass by without any offers of help. There's no way they missed the debacle.

But Luke doesn't. I watch him as he crouches down and quickly gathers up the contents before offering them to the frazzled mom, who smooths her stray hair behind her ears while blushing. “Stop giving your mom a hard time,” he scolds the little boy with a smile, who in turn sticks a thumb in his mouth and tucks himself next to the woman's thigh.

And the entire time, I'm watching Luke from three steps behind, expecting to see his hand slide into her pocket or purse and make off with her valuables. Because that's what thieves do—seize opportunities. Not until he glances over his shoulder at me and then keeps walking do I accept that he was just being a nice guy.

The surveillance reports never mentioned him being a nice guy.

My thoughts are distracted by the scent of deep-fried food as we round the corner. A strip of colorful sheds extends out in front of us, each one covered in menu boards.

“Have you ever eaten here?” Another downward glance tells me he believes what I've led him to believe so far—that I'm too good to patronize a garden shack turned burrito buffet.

“No, can't say I have.” The truth is, I've been to these Portland food carts three times already, mainly because
he
comes here for lunch almost every day. More of my failed attempts to grab his attention. Once, I had my camera out and trained on him, waiting for him to look up, to notice me so I'd have an excuse to apologize and assure him that it was just for my latest photography class project—capturing candids of attractive men. Another time, I even sat at the table next to him. But his attention was on his sandwich and his phone screen. He didn't notice me.

Luke juts his chin toward a burgundy cart with a black wrought-iron sign. “They make really good meatball sandwiches.”

“No they don't,” I throw out before I can stop myself.

Luke's brow spikes.

“No one makes better meatball sandwiches than a born-and-bred Italian. That guy in there, with his Carrot-Top orange hair and freckles, is
not
Italian. So, by default, the sandwiches must be terrible.”

An amused smirk settles on his face. “That's a little prejudicial, don't you think?”

“Maybe.”

His eyes drift to my mouth, which I've painted with bright red lipstick today. “Let me guess . . .”

“Yes, I'm one of those snobby Italians when it comes to cooking, I'll own that.”

“Well, it's the best meatball sandwich I've ever had, but I guess I don't know any better, do I?”

“You do, now that I've told you.” I catch the amused twinkle in his eye and I jump for my chance. “Tell you what . . . I'll try this
spectacular
sandwich of yours, and then I'll make you a real one, and you can tell me that you're wrong and I'm right. Deal?” I hold my breath, waiting for him to respond to what some might consider the offer of a date. If he blows me off now, it will be as much of a “thanks, but I'm not interested” as I've ever seen. And I can't tell which way he'll swing. He's harder to read than most. The degenerates I usually deal with wear their intentions like aprons, eyeballing my body, taking any chance to touch me that they can. But Luke isn't a degenerate. At least, not like any I've dealt with before—a twenty-four-year-old guy with perfect nails and a gold Rolex watch and tailored pants, who works behind a desk at a car garage and eats lunches prepared at food carts.