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  It took him a few moments to comprehend. He narrowed his eyes to study the man who had twenty years on him yet still had a head of thick, wavy hair and sharp, blue eyes. Nico greeted his look with a mild one of his own.

  “Are you telling me I’m going undercover?”

  Without breaking eye contact, Nico nodded.

  “As part of a married couple?”

  Nico nodded again.

  Hmmm. Among the various field agents in the Detroit office there were only three possibilities, unless Nico intended for him to be part of a gay couple.

  “With Raquel?” he said hopefully. Raquel Smith was hot. With all that dark, curly hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and slinky body, he had no problem with the idea of cozying up to her for however long it took to solve her case. Raquel had started at the Detroit office a year before Quinn, and over the years, he’d periodically gotten drunk and hit on her. She’d never taken him up on his offer. He didn’t blame her. But he still wouldn’t mind sleeping with her.

  Nico made a face. “Raquel just had a baby, not three weeks ago,” he said in a voice that indicated Quinn was an idiot for not realizing it.

  “Oh.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Now that you say that, I guess I remember she was getting pretty big here recently.”

  Nico shook his head in exasperation. “Quinn, I really feel sorry for you when you finally end up falling in love.”

  “Won’t happen,” he said with absolute conviction.

  “Sure, it will,” Nico replied. “You just won’t realize it when it does. I hope to hell you figure it out before you do something stupid and let her get away. Because she’s going to be worth keeping.”

  When in the hell had his boss started sounding like his mother, dead seven years now? He didn’t think about her very often anymore, but when he did, those thoughts were rarely positive. She’d been a timid, fearful woman who let Quinn’s father slap her around for far too many years. With those two role models, he figured he didn’t stand a chance of having a healthy, long-term relationship. Best to avoid it altogether.

  To make his comments even more bizarre, Nico knew about Quinn’s past. It was his boss who had fought to keep him as part of the team after Quinn’s father had been arrested.

  “Falling in love, all that domestic shit, it isn’t in the cards.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Quinn. You need to stop thinking that you or your offspring are going to turn out like your parents. You’re a good guy. You just need to believe it.”

  “Quit with the warm, fuzzy bullshit, Nico, and give me the assignment.”

  Nico slid a small stack of papers across his desk. “It’s Kyra Sanders’s case.”

  Chapter Three

  Quinn was scheduled to begin working with Kyra on Wednesday. He had two days to wrap things up at his own apartment, pack a bag, and head over to the address noted in the file Nico had given him. He and his fellow agent would be living as husband and wife, every second of every day, until the case was closed.

  Which meant he had something to take care of first.

  “What a pleasant surprise to have you here on a Tuesday, Mr. Daniels.” The elderly clergyman had known him since he was a pre-teen, yet refused to call him by his first name. He called it a show of respect. Quinn called it a reminder of his asshole father.

  Not that he ever said so in front of the priest.

  “I’m going undercover, starting tomorrow.” Quinn grunted as he lifted a heavy box, full of bags of flour. He carried the box of food from the back of the truck into the community hall attached to the church and placed it next to the row of boxes he’d already delivered.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back again. Could be a few weeks.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly take what I can get. Tuesdays are so much better for volunteering anyway, since that’s when we get most of our deliveries.”

  Quinn heard the hint, but he ignored it. He volunteered on Saturdays, because that was the only day of the week he could reasonably commit to, and they both knew it.

  “So who normally unloads all this stuff?” he asked as he returned to the truck and pulled out another box of donated food. The priest shuffled after him.

  “Oh, it depends. Usually I can talk whoever is donating into carrying it inside. In the case of this big truck, I either do it myself, or if it still isn’t done when the driver is ready to leave, he manages to stir up enough humility to do it for me.” He shot a disgruntled look at the guy lounging in the cab, reading a newspaper, and completely ignoring the two men.

  Quinn spared a glance at the frail priest. He had to be eighty if he was a day. His shoulders were stooped, his hands gnarled with arthritis. Maybe Nico would be open to letting him take a few hours each Tuesday to head over here to unload the food donations. His boss was a reasonable man, and he knew where—what—Quinn had come from. Nico understood his need to give back more than most would.

  He opened his mouth to say as much to the priest, but the old man’s face lit with obvious glee, and he trotted off, hustling down the sidewalk with surprising speed to greet the owner of a sleek, gunmetal gray Charger that had just pulled up to the curb. Quinn straightened and took a moment to admire the sporty car.

  The priest opened the driver’s side door and pulled the occupant out and into his arms, hugging what Quinn guessed was a woman as tightly as if she were a long-lost friend. When the old guy pushed her to arm’s length, Quinn blinked.

  Kyra Sanders? What the hell was she doing here? He stepped to the side of the truck, hiding himself from view while watching the interaction between her and the clergyman. Her wide, genuine smile slammed into Quinn as if she’d punched him in the gut, even though it wasn’t even meant for him. He was pretty sure it was the first time he’d ever seen her smile so wide. At work, she was usually frowning, or had an impassive expression on her face.

  The priest’s voice carried to Quinn, loud and clear. “Oh nonsense, Miss Sanders. Look at all those canned goods. I won’t let you carry all of that into the church.”

  “You aren’t getting all sexist on me, are you, Father Benedict?” she teased.

  “I’m old enough to be your great-great grandfather. You’d better believe I’m sexist. Come here. I have a handy-dandy volunteer here today, and I know he’ll be happy to help. Don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s even more of a contributor than you are. ’Course, he’s lived in these parts most of his life, whereas you’ve only been here for half a year or so ...”

  Quinn watched in horror as Father Benedict wrapped his claw-like hand around Kyra’s arm and dragged her toward the delivery truck. Shit. He twisted his head around, judging the likelihood of racing to his truck without either one of them seeing him. The truck driver must have noticed there was a female in the vicinity, because he abruptly tossed his newspaper to the side and leaped out of the cab, tipping his hat as he did so.

  “Hey, pretty lady,” he crooned, and Quinn had the urge to punch him in the face. He wasn’t seriously going to help now that there was a good-looking woman to watch, was he?

  Kyra arched her blond brow and gave him a cool look. When she made no indication she intended to respond to his greeting, the driver cleared his throat and nodded at her car.

  “You need help with something?”

  Father Benedict waved a gnarled hand in the guy’s face. “You can’t even deign to help with the supplies donated by the company you work for,” he scoffed. “Go back to reading the funny pages. Come on, Miss Sanders. Mr. Daniels will help us.”

  “Mr. ... who?” She stopped short, her arm slipping out of the priest’s grasp, just as Quinn stepped into view.

  “Quinn,” she blurted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Volunteering,” the priest answered for him. “He does it just about every week.” His voice was full of pride. Quinn winced. Volunteering weekly to help the local church distribute food to the poor did not mesh with the I-don’t-care-about-anything persona he worked so hard to por
tray to his co-workers.

  “What are you doing here?” he counteracted.

  Her cheeks tinged pink, and she averted her gaze to stare at the cracked sidewalk. “My parents taught me the importance of giving back to the community,” she said with a touch of defensiveness.

  “Why here?” he asked, even as his hackles rose. Giving back to the community. He’d bet one of the warm meals Father Benedict used to feed him that she’d never had need of a place like this in her entire life. Instead of appreciating her desire to help those less fortunate, it pissed him off. He’d been one of those less fortunate, when he’d been a kid. He had every right to volunteer at the church’s community center. Kyra’s parents probably did it to assuage the guilt they felt because they couldn’t even imagine what life must be like for those who were aided by their contributions.

  “After I’d lived here a few weeks, I felt guilty, I guess. I was so used to, I don’t know ... doing. So I asked Nico for recommendations of where I could possibly make a difference, locally. He suggested this place.” She waved her arm to encompass the church, with its weathered brick walls and sparkling, stained glass windows.

  “Miss Sanders brings donations every Tuesday,” Father Benedict added helpfully.

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” she commented.

  “I usually volunteer on Saturdays.” Why the hell had he told her anything at all? He could have lied, said this was his first time, that he was just doing it because he lost a bet, or some shit like that. Something far more emasculating than admitting he was a regular here.

  “But today’s Tuesday.”

  Again, Father Benedict answered for him. “He’s going undercover tomorrow. He’s one of those government types, just like you are, Miss Sanders. Anyway, he’s worried he won’t be able to get back here to help for the next few weeks, so he showed up today instead. Such a giving individual. Mr. Daniels has been involved with the community hall for most of his life. Isn’t that right, Mr. Daniels?” He gave Quinn an expectant look. Kyra arched her brows again, and he scowled.

  There went his masculinity. “Something wrong with volunteering?” he demanded, glaring at her. Challenging her.

  “Not in the least,” she replied so starkly that he was tempted to let his facade slip. Just for her.

  “I told him he would spoil me, if he was to start showing up on Tuesdays instead of Saturdays, since Tuesday’s our delivery day,” the priest said, oblivious to the strange interaction occurring between them.

  She broke eye contact first, glancing back at her car. “I’ll just, ah, go get the donations I brought. I’m actually going undercover, too, but I don’t think it’ll be a problem to continue to volunteer,” she said, and to Quinn, it sounded as if she was giving him permission. But what she didn’t understand was that he didn’t even want her to know he volunteered like this. No one, besides the priest and Nico, knew. And now, Kyra.

  He followed her to her car, then elbowed her out of the way so he could lift out the box of canned goods sitting in the passenger seat. “Nice ride.”

  “Thanks.”

  They walked side by side toward the community center. “Look, Sanders, this isn’t what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you regularly help out a church located in the middle of a community that desperately needs it.”

  “Okay, well, maybe it is what it looks like. But it’s not something I, ah, broadcast. To the rest of the guys in the office.”

  “You mean when you and Court are watching the football games on Sunday afternoon, you don’t discuss your latest volunteer efforts?” Her tone was saccharine. She sounded as if she was biting back laughter.

  “No,” he said shortly. He was not amused. She must have sensed it, because she quickly sobered. He placed the box in the corner where he’d stored the rest of the boxes he’d pulled from the delivery truck.

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  He couldn’t help it; he blew out a relieved breath. “Good. Now get your ass in gear and help me unload the rest of this truck so I can get the hell out of here.”

  • • •

  Kyra glanced up and down the street and then looked at her phone. Her new partner was already twenty minutes late. Even knowing as little as she did about Quinn Daniels, she probably shouldn’t be surprised, but still, it irked her. This was her case, damn it, and she wanted it managed, handled, and closed properly. By her standards and by the book. No more screw-ups. Whether she chose to return to Dallas or not, she needed everyone in that office to know she was finally able to close this damn case.

  Her reputation was at risk.

  Actually, her reputation was already in tatters, so closing the case would simply be the first step toward fixing it. The process after that, she knew, would be a long and arduous one.

  That was one of the reasons she’d visited Raquel Smith just the evening before. She had cuddled Raquel’s three-week-old baby girl, Aimee, and lamented the fact that she had to do this undercover assignment with Quinn Daniels, of all people.

  Raquel’s husband, Jorge, had asked his wife at that point, “Did you sleep with him?”

  She had rolled her eyes. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, dear, I did not sleep with every single guy I worked with. It’s the FBI, for God’s sake. It’s ninety percent male. That would be a hell of a lot of notches on my bedpost.”

  “He was drunk at the bar on Friday night and hit on me,” Kyra commented. She chose not to mention her most recent interaction with Quinn. She had made a promise, after all.

  Raquel made a face. “Don’t do it,” she advised. “He’s plenty hot enough”—she had to pause to reassure her husband no one was hotter than him—“but he has a lot of baggage and long term is the very last thing he’s looking for.”

  “What kind of baggage?” Kyra asked. It was best to know up front what she was getting into. She and Quinn would be living as man and wife until they were able to solve this case, after all.

  But Raquel shook her head. “It’s not my place to tell you, and besides, I don’t really know the whole story anyway,” she added quickly when Kyra opened her mouth to protest.

  The baby stirred at that point, blinking her wide green eyes for a moment before she squeezed them shut again and let out a blood-curdling scream. Raquel plucked her from Kyra’s arms, and the baby immediately stopped screaming as she focused on nuzzling her mother’s chest, clearly seeking something to eat.

  “Don’t worry,” Raquel had said as she settled the baby against her breast. “You’ll be fine. I’m sure Quinn hit on you because he was drunk. He’ll be a perfect gentleman while you’re working together. He may be an ass otherwise, but he has a work ethic unlike anyone else I’ve ever seen.”

  So, did that work ethic only carry over to Quinn’s own cases? Being now twenty-four minutes late on the first day of their joint assignment did not strike her as terribly ethical.

  She heard the sound of a gunning dual exhaust and turned her head to watch a sleek blue and chrome full-sized truck motor down the road. Slowing down at the last moment, the truck careened into the driveway and came to a lurching halt just inches from Kyra’s feet. She was too stunned to jump out of the way.

  Quinn climbed out of the driver’s seat and ambled around the truck to where she stood, frozen to the spot. As soon as he was close enough, she lit into him.

  “What the hell was that?” she demanded. “First of all, you’re twenty-five minutes late. And second of all, really? Do you always drive like a freaking manic? This is an average middle-class neighborhood with lots of children. You had to be driving at least ninety when you flew into the driveway.”

  Quinn lifted his hand in the classic stop motion. “Jesus. My mother never bitched at me this much in her entire life, and you managed to get all that in within thirty seconds. You aren’t going to do this the whole time we’re living together, are you?”

  She gripped the house keys she held in her hand. “Maybe I should,” she shot back. “It
sounds like somebody needs to.”

  “It’s a fucking assignment, Sanders,” he snapped. “Get over yourself.” He turned toward the house. “So this is it? Huh.”

  She followed his gaze to the quaint bungalow with white siding and dark green trim and shutters. Red and pink tulips filled the flowerbed in front of the wide front porch. She’d been watching the house for months, initially for purely professional reasons, but eventually, she found herself fantasizing about digging in the flowerbed, decorating the living room, placing a teak bench on the front porch, complete with a green and white striped cushion so she could sit in comfort and drink a beer after a hard day’s work, waving at the neighbors as they took their evening strolls.

  “Is that a good huh or a bad huh?” she asked, cutting her gaze to Quinn.

  He shrugged. “It’s an ambivalent huh. Let’s see what we’re working with here.” He waved at the front door, so Kyra thrust the key into the lock, twisted, and then pushed open the door.

  The living room was large and square, with a fireplace built into one wall. It opened into a small dining room and then into a kitchen that had a nearly entirely glass-walled sitting room attached, which led out onto a covered deck that wrapped around two sides of the house.

  “Perfect time of year for this assignment,” Quinn commented as she followed him outside onto the deck. “That the neighbor?” he asked, nodding at the house positioned directly behind this one the FBI was renting for their assignment.

  The yards were separated by a fence, but there was a gate built into it, so friendly neighbors could easily pass back and forth. The neighboring house, with its brown siding and black shingles, was larger and had significantly less yard space.

  “Yes,” she responded. “Did you read the file?”

  “Yep. Tough break.”

  Kyra knew what was in that file by heart—and what wasn’t.

  “I was so close to closing the case.”

  “When I read it, my first thought was that she had inside information. It’s the only thing that would cause her to flee when she did. Is that what you surmised?”