Becoming Rain (7 page)

“If we don't have something solid to bring back to the judge, he's not going to extend the warrant. He was already being a tight-ass about granting it the first time around.”

“12 took that phone call,” I blurt out, desperate to get him off my back so I can think.

“You know better than that,” he mutters with irritation.

I do know better than that. I silently chastise myself for saying something so stupid to a high-level FBI superior as I head to the window, Stanley nipping at my heels.

“Your cover?”

“Still intact.”

“Good. I'll start looking over the agent files. Maybe I can still salvage this case . . .” Sinclair's words fade out as my eyes land on Luke, walking toward the adjoining bathroom in his bedroom. His bare ass in full view.

“Holy . . .” slips out, heat stirring through me as I admire his sculpted back.
He's a criminal, he's a criminal, he's a—

“What's wrong?”

I feel my cheeks flush. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Special Agent Cortez could pass for your sister. You'll introduce the two of them and then step back. She's a bit older but one hell of an experienced undercover. Never failed.”

My full attention snaps back to the phone call. Special Agent Cortez? Who the hell is that? And why is Sinclair using words like “fail” and “step back”? My arrest record is great. And screw experience! My competitive streak comes out in full force. “I'm close. Just another few days. If you bring her in now, it may cause more harm than good.”

“How's that?”

“He'll pull back altogether, not wanting to cause friction between sisters.” I cringe as the words come out of my mouth. Even I don't believe them.

“Oh, come on, Clara . . .”

“Just give me another week or two.” I'm borderline pleading now. Not good. This guy's not going to hire an agent who begs.

“The Bureau's dropped a ton of resources into this operation. I'm battling internal department feuds over my strategy. There's no more room for failure, do you understand?”

“Got it. I'm close. I really am.” I press “end” just as my forehead hits the wall, a heavy groan escaping me. “I'm not going to fail,” I promise myself, peeking across the way again in time to see Luke disappear to the right. I assume, into the shower.

I dial a new number.

“Yup.” That's how Warner answers the phone, whether he's working or not.

“Hey, Warner.” There's no missing the defeat in my voice. “Any chance you can swing by?” I hate talking candidly when I know that the call is being monitored for evidence. It'll get erased eventually, but you never know who's listening before it does.

“Doubt it. It's going to be a long one.” Voices hum in the background. He's got two other undercover cases going right now, and it seems like he works twenty-nine hours a day, dividing his time among them. “Why? I just talked to you. What's going on?”

“Sinclair called me. He's talking about bringing an agent in and having me pull back.”

“Shit.”

My panic sparks. “Shit? Shit, why? How bad is that? How often does this happen?”

He heaves a sigh and says with reluctance, “I don't know. It happens, sometimes.”

“And what happens to the pulled agents?”

“Sometimes they end up on other cases. Sometimes . . . they don't.”

A thought strikes me. “What happened to the other undercovers on this case?” The ones who failed.

There's a pause, and I picture him biting his bottom lip like he always does when he's not sure if he should say something. “Pushing paperwork in Nebraska or Utah or something like that, the last I heard.”

Perfect.
“This is my one shot at the Bureau, isn't it?” When I applied for the D.C. police force, I didn't have my sights on going Fed. Being
any
type of law enforcement—armed with a gun and the power to change a person's life forever—seemed both daunting and thrilling. But it didn't take long before I started to excel at my job and commanding officers took notice. That's when the career questions began.
How high do you want to go?
they'd all ask. The truth is, I didn't join with aspirations to be the next female chief of police, or run entire units. I just wanted to feel like I was making a difference. A year in, I was already making contacts in the various units, bored with street patrol. Major strings were pulled by high-levels and I was transferred into the MCU. I figured I was in the right place. Doing undercover work came surprisingly easy for me, and I had one of the best arrest and conviction records in the group. But still, I soon found that the cases weren't high-profile enough. I scoured the newspapers, reading about big arrests around the country. Those were the ones I wanted to work on. The kind where a bust shuts down terrorist cells, cripples trafficking rings, saves lives. The kind that the Feds typically spearhead.

So I filled out my application to join the FBI, along with about a hundred thousand other people. Without an “in,” I doubt I'll ever hear from them.

Sinclair is my in.

“Listen, I don't know what you want me to tell you. Is this case a big deal? Yes. But I can't say you won't have other shots. I also can't say you will. Sinclair can make anything happen if you impress him. If you don't  . . . he can be a real dick. Plus, jobs with the FBI are competitive. The ones who make it are there because they do what they need to do.”

I feel even worse now than I did five minutes ago. “ 'kay. Thanks, Warner. 'Night.” I hang up, his words cycling in my head.

They do what they need to do.

A snort by my heels reminds me that Stanley is waiting, staring at me, those giant bat ears perked. “Demanding little brat.” I crouch down to scratch his belly, my focus drifting across the way, into the fully lit bedroom, while Luke's in the shower. Searching for an answer.

A part of me simply waiting for him to emerge so I can get another view.

“How do I get through to this guy? Huh, Stanley?”

With an excited butt wiggle, he flips over and pushes his snout past the blinds. When his bulging eyes spy Licks across the way, he throws his head back and begins barking frantically.

“Get back!” I grab him by the belly and drag him away from the window, his claws grating against the hardwood floor. “Our target knows you now. He'll know we live here,” I scold.

And then I freeze. Suddenly, I know what I need to do
.

Deep into the gray area we go, Clara.

Chapter 9

■ ■ ■

LUKE

The hot water sliding over my stiff, tired muscles felt good. The soap seeping into the puncture wounds on my leg did not.

I towel off, thinking about Rain and that fucking little mutt. And Licks, for doing absolutely nothing. I swear someone could be stabbing me to death and that fat bastard would just sit there and drool.

I had the perfect “I'm getting laid” card tonight, after her dog bit me. On her knees in front of me, she looked ready to do just about anything to make up for it, stirring my blood and my cock. And then my burner phone had to ring.

And I panicked.

I seem to panic every time that phone has gone off this past week, since Rust handed it to me, along with the numbers of two fences I'll be funneling his requests through.

It ended up being a short conversation, not that I wanted her overhearing any of it. Rodriguez, one of the fences, saying he picked up a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. I said no, we only buy based on orders coming in from Vlad. Otherwise, we'll be collecting cars, and that's too risky. That's one of Rust's rules and it's a sound one.

So far, I just take requests from Rust and pass them on to Rodriguez, and I'm done. Nothing stressful. Sure as hell nothing that seems worth the kind of money Rust has thrown my way.

Nothing I'm going to complain about to him.

But all the same, I wonder if that nervous bubble that bursts inside my stomach every time the burner phone rings will ever go away. If I'll always be on edge, wondering what people know. Wondering if Rodriguez is a guy I can truly trust.

If this is really what I want to be doing with my life.

Rust promised that Rodriguez is trustworthy, that he'll never name me to the street-level fence he uses. That what I'm experiencing is only virgin jitters and I should always be wary, but soon it'll feel like just another business call. With two layers between us and the thieves, we're protected.

I could have turned around and chased Rain down inside her building, after hanging up with Rodriguez, but I make a point of
not
chasing women.

Maybe it all worked out for the best, anyway. She lives
right next door
. Too fucking close. Start up with her and the next thing I know, she's everywhere. With everything going on right now, I need more space, not less. I can't believe I didn't notice her address on her invoice at the garage.

It sucks, though. I kind of like her. She's gorgeous. She seems smart, and surprisingly nice for a girl who's “figuring out life” on her daddy's dime. I find myself already wondering when I'll run into her again as I step out of the bathroom and into my bedroom . . .

My legs lock up with the view of the lean, practically naked female body across the way.

Rain, standing in the middle of her bedroom.

In next to nothing.

I tighten my grip of the towel wrapped around my waist as I step forward. I've rarely noticed the condo in the twin building across from me. From what I remember, the blinds are always drawn. They're not now, though, and Rain's busy filling her dresser drawers with folded clothes, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and G-string. The woman is no stranger to the gym, her curves sharp, her muscles carved. Does she know that we live parallel to each other? That my bedroom looks right into hers?

I stand there and watch. I watch as she tosses her empty laundry basket to the floor. I watch as she picks up a book from her dresser and sets it on her bed. I watch her lift a glass of red wine to her lips. And I feel myself react. I adjust my towel accordingly, unable to peel my eyes from her as she dives into her bed, stretching out on her back, book in one hand, glass of wine in the other, her legs long and sleek and bent, one folded over the other.

Is she doing this for my benefit? Because . . .
damn
 . . . it's working. On impulse, I grab my phone and search out her number, remembering that I had programmed it in there.

I hit “call.”

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.

She ignores me and scolds in her thick accent, “Isabella calls Josephine every day. Every single day!”

I busy my mouth with a sip of coffee and let her go on about how her neighbors of twenty years—another Italian family who my parents spend half their time praising their rosebushes and the other half lobbing Italian insults at over the fence—have respectful children who call twice a day and visit every Sunday, and have already given Josephine and her husband, Gus, six grandchildren. And how her heart is broken that neither of her children has had babies yet.

I say nothing because I've heard it countless times before. I've given up on promising my mom that I do want children at some point in my life, but that right now my career is more important. She doesn't get it. Her jobs have never been anything more than a means to put food on the table. It's as if she thinks that she can irritate me into getting pregnant.

“How are things at home? How's dad?”

“Oh, you know. Busy fixing the coffeemaker.”

I sigh. “Again?” That basic twelve-cup machine has been “fixed” so many times that it only brews three cups of black tar now. I eye the machine on my counter, one of those high-end computerized gadgets that makes everything from espresso to cappuccino with the flick of a button. I considered buying one for them for Christmas but abandoned that idea when I looked up the price. I love my parents, but I'd need to take out a small loan to afford it. “Just go and buy a new one.” He's going to lose an entire day, standing around in his garage, tinkering with it.

“And what, just throw this one away?” I can picture her scowl. “Your generation is all about throwing everything away . . .” I tune her out. Another battle not worth having. This is my life, though. These are Clara's real parents. Not the sleek, sophisticated couple that raised Rain.

“How's the weather at home?” I finally manage to squeeze in as I peek past the blinds to see the moisture from a light drizzle cover the glass. And beyond that, Luke, milling around his living room, his coat in one hand, as if he's collecting things before heading out. I wonder where he's going.

My mother's heavy-accented voice pulls me away from him. “What kind of life is this that you can't even tell me where you are? I don't even know where my own daughter is! What if something happens to you?”

“You'll be the first to know if something happens to me,” I assure her.

That sets off yet another rant, too fast for me to catch all the words, this one in Italian. She doesn't usually harp on me this much. I know it's because she loves me and I haven't exactly made her life easy. She started sleeping with a Jesus statue by her bed the day I graduated from police college.

Luckily there's a knock on the door. “I've got to go now, Mom,” I interrupt, checking the peephole to see Warner standing on the other side. “It's my boss. I'll call you in a few days.” I hang up before I get any more grief. It can be exhausting, talking to that woman. Someday she's going to realize that I'm no longer that little girl who splashes around in puddles in her rubber boots and that I don't make my choices based on her approval. Then maybe we'll have a normal conversation.

“I could kiss you right now.” I step back to let Warner in.

“Because of my swarthy accent or because of this?” He drops a paper bag on the counter.

I stick my nose in, inhaling the fresh scent of a buttery chocolate scone. “Definitely this.” Warner learned of my weakness for baked sweets early on. Now he swings by the little shop at the corner anytime he's stopping by my place in the morning. Which is more than I'd ever expect from a handler. Aside from regular check-ins after meets and surveillance from my cover team whenever I'm with my target, I don't usually see or talk to them. I guess the Feds operate differently than your average city police force. Maybe they pay him to come by and check up on me.

“Bill tells me that 12 called last night?”

“Yup.”

“And you have a date tonight?” Warner pushes.

“Yup . . .”

His brow spikes. “That turned around quickly.”

“Crazy, right?” I lean over and scratch behind Stanley's ear, avoiding Warner's shrewd gaze. Hoping he doesn't notice the dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep. I tossed and turned, my body wrapped up in sheets, my mind wrapped up in Luke Boone, all kinds of insane late-night thoughts and hopes fluttering through my mind. Specifically, what could happen if we have it all wrong about him. What if he's an innocent in all this?

“What do you think made him finally call?”

“Besides my beauty and charm?” I glance up to see the smirk. “Who knows? He's a criminal. They run hot and cold, you know that. I can't say what's running through his head.” That's a believable answer. We've heard it all before. Interrogate a suspect and you'll get all kinds of skewed logic, crazy explanations for why they do what they do. Like, that murdering a father of two so they can make a grand cash off a stolen truck to pay their rent is completely reasonable.

Wanting the conversation to change course, I ask, “Will you be on tonight?”

“No. I'm heading to San Francisco for a wedding.”

“Oh yeah? Who's getting married?”

“My girlfriend's sister.”

I stop, mid-chew, unable to hide the shock from my face. “Dude. Girlfriend?”
In the time that I've known Warner, he has
never
once mentioned a girlfriend. Then again, he hasn't talked about his personal life at all. If he didn't have such a heavy accent, I wouldn't even know where he was from. “How long has that been going on for?”

He scratches the back of his head and seems uncomfortable. “A year now, I think? I don't know.”

“A
year
? Is she on the job?”

“Nope.”

“Wow. A year.” As much as all the cops I know say they hate dating other cops, dating non-cops—people who will never truly understand why we do what we do—rarely works out. I wonder if it's different for FBI agents. Doubt it. “Why didn't you ever say anything?”

He simply shrugs and then turns on my pricey Canon digital camera that sits on the counter and begins flipping through the pictures. “These aren't bad.”

I guess that's all I'm getting out of Warner about his personal life. “You sound surprised.”

“What's with all the trees?”

“That's my homework assignment for the week.” When we were working on the cover details, I warned them that I couldn't just sit in this condo all day every day. Not only would that look suspicious for a young, wealthy woman; I'd literally go insane. I couldn't get a steady cover job because it would restrict my schedule, so we all agreed that I should tie up some of my time with hobbies that I can easily walk away from. I've always wanted to take a photography class, so two evenings per week, I head down to a camera store to congregate with my “class”—a small group of eight beginners plus an instructor—and learn all about lighting and filters and angles.

“Your homework assignment is trees?”

“Not just trees. ‘Trees in different light,' ” I mimic my teacher, an eccentric little Asian man with a Mohawk who reminds me of Richard Simmons, minus the spandex jumpers.

“Sounds thrilling.” His dry tone tells me he doesn't think so. He sets the camera down on the counter. “Keep out of trouble tonight. You hear?”

“Don't worry. I don't think 12's the kind of guy to put a bullet in a girl's head on their first date.”

“Not what I'm worried about,” Warner mutters. “Just be ready to tell him anything you have to, to make him back off.”

“What, like that he has to wait for my gonorrhea to clear up?” That only works on pimps wanting to sample the goods before they put a girl to work for them. Any other guy will turn and run.

“Just watch yourself, okay?” Warner's eyes skate down over my body. Not in a leery way. In a way I'm used to, being around male cops all day long. I can't fault them. They see it daily—the pimps beating their girls, the husbands killing their wives, the rapists doing unspeakable things to women who dare to go for a run through a wooded area alone. Yes, I'm trained to defend myself, but few women can fight off a two-hundred-pound man with a temper. If Warner's read my case files—which, knowing Warner, he has—he knows that I've been to the ER on five separate occasions. That the three-inch scar across my forearm is courtesy of a gangbanger's knife; that the slight bump on my nose is where a crack whore head-butted me while resisting arrest. It's natural for his kind to want to protect and, whether I like it or not, right now he's seeing a five-foot-five twenty-six-year-old woman standing in front of him, not a trained undercover officer who's quick on her feet and can talk herself out of most situations.

I could get offended, chew him out for treating me like a weak woman, but I know his concern comes from a good place, so I simply smile and nod. And gesture at my baggy gray sweats and ratty Kid Rock T-shirt, a very “Clara at home” ensemble. “I'll go dressed like this. That'll turn him off, right?”

Warner frowns with mock seriousness. “Oh yeah.” He grabs my hand and examines my nails, half of my red polish already picked off. “And keep biting these, too. He won't touch you with a ten-foot pole.” I've been going for manicures every week to keep up appearances, only to ruin them within a day. I'm just not used to this level of grooming. When I'm playing a hooker, I throw on some press-ons; when I'm a crack whore, the shorter and dirtier and more jagged my nails are, the better. This prissy, put-together image is so much work. I hardly ever wear heels as Clara, and now I have ten pretty pairs lined up in the closet. Dresses are normally reserved for Christmas dinner and weddings, and they all reach my knee. Yet, as Rain, I have a dozen to choose from, all of them selected for one single purpose—to ensnare Luke Boone.

Reaching for the door to the condo, he says, “I'm heading for the airport now. I'll be landing just after two if you—” His words cut off abruptly.

When I glance over, curious, I find Warner standing in front of an open door, face-to-face with my target.

My stomach lurches as Luke's eyes roll over Warner, caught speechless for a moment. As am I.
What is he doing here?

Warner's skills kick in quickly enough, asking in a dry, almost irritated voice, “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah . . .” Luke hangs a thumb off his pocket in a casual way, his gaze darting over to land on me. “I'm here to see Rain.”

“Rain? There's
some guy
at the door to see you,” Warner calls over his shoulder, playing dumb.

I take easy, slow steps, keeping my face calm as I scramble to come up with a story. This is one of my strengths—lying—and yet right now I'm drawing a blank. We said tonight, didn't we? Why is Luke here now? How'd he get in? And how risky is this that he's meeting my handler? Do I introduce them? Who should Warner be to me? A friend? An ex-boyfriend?

“Hey, Luke,” is all I come up with.

Nails hitting hardwood sound behind me. Stanley, jumping off the couch and scrambling for leverage as he scampers toward the door, his curly tail like a screw as it wags. He climbs Luke's legs with his front paws, like a dog missing his owner would.

Luke chuckles and reaches down to scratch his head. “Better greeting than yesterday.”