LOVER UNDER COVER Page 13

  That thought was quickly erased by the surprise of seeing another man in the small room, a man leaning back so far in a plain wooden chair that the front legs were at least ten inches off the floor. His feet were up on the corner of the desk that took up much of the room's space. In his right hand was a large knife with an intricately carved wooden handle, and in his left hand something Quisto couldn't see. The man barely glanced up as they stepped into the room. And he was a man who had apparently been in here during the entire scuffle outside and had never moved.

  And that made Quisto both curious and nervous.

  The man looked nearly Chance's height, and was just as strongly muscled. But there the resemblance ended. No blond and blue-eyed good looks here. Bronzed, chiseled features, obsidian eyes, and a mane of straight black hair that fell well past his shoulders, held by a black bandanna tied around his head, this man couldn't be much more Chance's opposite. Then Quisto nearly smiled at the irony of it. Chance had always been teased about his all-American good looks, but it was this man who truly fit that description. There was little doubt that his ancestors were the original Americans, who had walked this land long before Chance's fair-skinned forefathers, or even Quisto's own Spanish ones, arrived.

  And there was little doubt of something else, as well. Whoever he was, this man who was so cool he never moved at the sound of a fight and the cocking of multiple weapons a bare ten feet away, he had the coldest eyes Quisto had ever seen.

  And he had the gut-level feeling that he'd just met the wild card in this game.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  "So you moved for your health, is that it?"

  Quisto grinned at Alarico. "Climate, actually. I needed someplace a little … cooler."

  "And just what was making it so hot?"

  Quisto shrugged. He glanced up at the map on the wall behind Alarico's desk, studded, as were the others outside, with various colored pushpins. He wasn't sure what it depicted, but the pins covered an area that was disturbingly large. Marina del Mar was the one mostly blank spot, he noted with satisfaction. Not bad for us "fancy types," he thought.

  "I ask questions, I expect answers," Alarico said.

  Quisto shifted his gaze back to the man behind the desk. He'd been grilling him for a couple of hours now. Quisto had fed him the story he'd prepared, in bits and pieces, hoping the man would buy it before he ran out of things he'd been able to prepare for on such short notice and without many of his usual resources. He hadn't gotten the warning he'd been expecting, that no one did anything in Pack territory without their permission, and that encouraged him. A little.

  "One damn cop had it in for me. Wouldn't let it drop."

  Alarico lifted one scraggly eyebrow. "Why didn't you just take care of him?"

  "Kill a cop? No thanks. That earns you a coffin."

  "So you let one cop run you out of Sacramento?"

  "Better to move here than into Folsom," Quisto retorted. "I've done time once, and I don't ever intend to again."

  Quisto saw Alarico look at his hands, his neck, his face. He knew the man was looking for what was usually considered proof of time served, and gave a snort of disgust. "Tattoos are a kid's game. You can't do what I do with your rap sheet inked across your chest."

  Alarico flushed angrily, and Quisto guessed there was a permanent record or two of his own time inside on the man's body somewhere.

  "He's right."

  It was the first time the man Alarico had referred to only as Ryan had spoken. His voice was as big as he was, but low and controlled. And utterly inflectionless. He never looked up, merely concentrated on apparently destroying a tiny piece of wood with that six-inch knife blade.

  "What?" Alarico said, seeming as startled as if the chair the man was in—still having never moved—had spoken.

  "Marks that advertise you're a con are for fools. If you wish to walk between worlds, you must blend into both."

  Alarico said nothing to the man, just turned his gaze to Quisto again. "Is that what you do? Walk in two worlds?"

  Interesting, Quisto thought. Whoever Ryan was, his words were taken seriously, even by the leader of the Pack. He nodded in answer.

  "And I do it well."

  "And you plan to do this here?"

  Quisto laughed. "Hardly. No offense, my friend, but you don't have my kind of targets in this town. But your friends to the west, in that lovely, rich town of Marina del Mar, are ripe for the plucking."

  Quisto knew he wasn't imagining the sudden tension in the room. Alarico leaned forward, his gaze suddenly sharper. Ryan, much subtler than the man who thought he was his boss, hadn't moved at all—Quisto was beginning to think it would take something akin to a flash-bang grenade to make him even blink—but Quisto sensed a new tension in his body.

  "You may have overestimated your talents," Alarico said slowly. "Marina del Mar is a very tough nut to crack."

  Quisto smiled; it was a taunting smile that he risked only because he knew Alarico was intrigued. "Yes. I heard you tried to crack it a while back, and your former leader and his henchmen wound up in the slammer."

  Alarico's lip curled into a snarl, but before he could speak, Quisto went on.

  "That was stupid. Why bring drugs into a town that already has so much wealth for the picking, without the risk?"

  "Those lovely rich people you mention pay a lot of money for their protection."

  But not necessarily to their police force, Quisto thought wryly. "Yes. That makes it difficult," he agreed, "but not impossible."

  Alarico snorted. "You may not be so cocky once you try."

  Quisto lifted a brow. "Ah, but I have not only tried, I have succeeded."

  "What?"

  "Don't you read the papers? You should, you know. A man in your line of work should know what's going on around him at all times, don't you think?"

  "I have other ways of finding out," Alarico said, sounding defensive. Definitely proud, Quisto thought.

  "Then you've heard about the two unsolved jewel thefts in the past month," Quisto said easily.

  His tone belied his inner tension; this was the biggest part of his gamble. The thefts were real, that they were unsolved was a fact, but he was taking the big chance that nothing would break on the case before he was through here. It was a calculated risk; he knew the burglary detectives had few clues, and that, as professional as the suspect seemed to be, it was unlikely they'd turn up anything very soon.

  "The ones for over a quarter of a million in hot rocks?"

  "Closer to a half million, actually. There were some very nice pieces. It was a shame to break some of them up."

  Alarico stared at him. "You? You're saying you pulled those robberies off? How?"

  "Simple. I did my shopping in advance, at a charity ball. Then I er … lifted the guest list, and made a couple of late-night visits."

  "A charity ball? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Walking in both worlds," Ryan said softly, speaking for only the second time, his ceaseless movements with the knife halting for a moment. Quisto turned to look at him. He could have sworn there had been a note of near-admiration in the man's deep voice, but, as it had been since Quisto had first laid eyes on him, his face was expressionless.

  "Exactly," he said, acknowledging the man's perception.

  Alarico's gaze flicked from one man to the other, as if he saw something in them both that made him nervous.

  "You're saying you got into some big charity thing in Marina del Mar? How? Did you pass yourself off as a waiter?" he said, snickering.

  Quisto looked at him coolly. "Actually, as the son of a former Cuban aristocrat."

  Alarico blinked. "A what?"

  "A man of distinction, as it were," Quisto said, dropping into the formal inflection that was second nature to him. "Used to the finer things, as are the people of Marina del Mar. They welcomed me. I have become their … token cause. I speak of the loss of human rights in Cuba, and g
ive them a way to show support for a politically correct cause without disturbing their lives overmuch."

  He was surprised at the bitterness that rang in his voice; he hadn't realized it was still so … close. But it had made his words, and his sour attitude, even more convincing. He felt Ryan's dark eyes on him, but didn't look. He concentrated on Alarico, waiting. At last what he'd been expecting came.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Looking for you," he said nonchalantly.

  Alarico's forehead creased. "Why?"

  "Because I think we can be of mutual assistance to each other," Quisto said.

  Something flickered in the other man's eyes—interest, wariness, both tinged with a distinct flash of greed. Now, Quisto thought, the game really begins.

  He laid out the plan for both of them—he had no doubts now that Ryan had nearly as much say in things as Alarico, and suspected he was the new right-hand man—hoping it sounded as reasonable as it had at three yesterday morning.

  "So you see? I have the access you do not. But you have the manpower, and the network for … disposal that I do not. I do the scouting, provide the target and the time, keep them distracted … and you do the rest."

  "It has … potential," Alarico said.

  "It's your chance to move out of the small time here, Alarico."

  He could sense that the man wanted to go for it, but he hadn't survived to become head of the Pack by being foolish. "And just how do we know you're who you say you are?"

  "Why, you'll check me out, of course," Quisto said. "As I'm sure you intended to do anyway. You know, you really should computerize your operation. It's so much faster, and more efficient."

  Alarico frowned. "Computers," he snorted derisively.

  Quisto shrugged and stood up. "Rafael Romero. I did my time at Chino. Got out five years ago. And my rap is as blank as your buddy Carlos's mind ever since. I've reformed." He grinned. "Which means I've gotten very, very good."

  He knew it would hold up if they checked; that cover had been established when he first went into narcotics. And he doubted they'd have any contacts in the Marina del Mar upper crust to verify his presence at the ball that had taken place at the yacht club at the marina last month, but if they did, he had that covered, as well. The host, James Worthington, a wealthy local stockbroker, had good reason to say whatever Quisto asked him to say; that reason was now twelve years old, and alive only because Quisto had been there to administer CPR when she was pulled from the water after falling off her father's yacht in the marina below his apartment.

  He only hoped that would be enough. "You call me and let me know if you think we can do business," he said, scribbling a number on the back of a business card and holding it out to the man. "Oh," he added, turning the card over before Alarico took it, "that's my former parole officer, if you're interested. Call him. He can tell you what a fine, upstanding citizen I've become."

  He grinned again. This time, Alarico smiled back. They would check him out, Quisto thought, but he had a feeling the fish had taken the bait. Alarico was letting him leave, and not once had he warned him about Pack territory, or told him to get out of Marina Heights. It seemed almost too easy.

  He glanced at Ryan, who was looking at him steadily, calculatingly, with those eyes that were cold enough to give the bravest of men a chill. And never once had he moved, except to carve away at that little piece of wood. Quisto walked out thinking that if still waters ran deep, Ryan was one of those ocean trenches that went halfway to the earth's core.

  He was aware that Alarico was following him, at a discreet distance, but the man said nothing, so he kept going. But the moment he stepped outside the warehouse, he knew he should have expected this. It had been too easy. Gathered outside in the dark were a half-dozen men, clustered behind the now sneering Carlos. And Alarico had halted in the doorway, no doubt to watch with some amount of glee.

  "Let's see how tough you are now, pretty boy!" Carlos exclaimed.

  "I'm flattered," Quisto said dryly, as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction. "It will take seven of you to prove how tough I am?"

  "They're just here to make sure you don't run."

  The group fanned out, starting to circle. Quisto glanced at Alarico.

  "Initiation?" he asked.

  The man smiled a not-very-pleasant smile of anticipation. "Only if you survive."

  Damn, Quisto thought. He was getting too old for this macho crap. Or too civilized. But he only shrugged and looked back at Carlos.

  "You're very sure you want to do this? You're ugly enough already."

  Carlos swore at him.

  "Original," Quisto said mockingly, but inwardly he was groaning, wishing he'd kept a little more up to date on all that fancy martial arts training the department provided.

  Carlos started toward him, wiping at his runny nose in what was clearly a habitual motion.

  "Very well," Quisto said with an exaggerated sigh of resignation as he shrugged out of his canvas coat. "Let me just take off my—"

  He flipped the duster at Carlos's face. The man jumped back. In the second that gave him, Quisto retreated to a darker part of the street. His night vision, better than most people's, wasn't much of an edge, but that and his quickness were all he had right now. He just hoped he could stay alive long enough for either to be of any help.

  The circle closed in. He'd survived worse than this, he told himself. It wasn't much comfort.

  It began as if orchestrated. A few feints, jabs and swings that he dodged easily. He knew it meant nothing; they'd done this before, and often, and this was only the beginning. He resigned himself to taking a beating. All he could do was try to keep it as mild as possible.

  And, he thought suddenly as he remembered Alarico's smile of anticipation, take as many as he could down with him. If he was judging the man right, that would be the determining factor. And they'd probably be especially hard on him, since he didn't have the street credentials others came in with.

  Then he had no more time to think, only to react. At first it was enough. He dodged, ducked and spun away, and the blows that landed on him were only glancing. And he landed a few solid ones of his own. More than a few, if you counted the kick that sent Carlos reeling backward. He saw at least two of the seven go down hard, and another slip and fall when his expected target suddenly wasn't there. It was an elaborate dance, with overtones of ritual that he sensed even though his hands were more than full with the constant onslaught. For a while, he was almost proud of doing better than just holding his own.

  But Quisto knew when the tide had turned. He could sense that now they weren't simply testing a newcomer's skill, they were angry. He'd hurt too many of them. Instead of coming one at a time, they came in pairs now. Quisto picked the one he saw the most vulnerability in and attacked. He knew the blows the other delivered were doing damage, his body was screaming in protest, but he concentrated on doing as much damage as he could in return. Time and again they came at him, until his head was spinning and he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears.

  But he kept his feet. Despite the pain, the blood he could feel running down his face from a strong punch that connected with his head, the blows that were making it almost impossible to breathe, he stayed on his feet. Somehow he knew that was important, that he stay upright. If nothing else, he had to do that.

  It wasn't until he saw the glint of light on a set of metal knuckles that he began to wonder if he'd made them too angry. Or if Alarico hadn't actually bought a single word of the story he'd spun.

  Because it looked like they were going to kill him right here.

  * * *

  Caitlin hummed an upbeat, cheerful tune she'd always liked, thinking the words more than singing them—something about chasing away old ghosts—as she hung another picture on the yellow wall. The kids hadn't understood at first when she asked them to bring her some happy pictures. She'd had to explain what she meant, and even then, they'd been d
oubtful.

  It tugged at her heart, that they had so much trouble understanding about happiness, even the fleeting kind caught on film. But a few had brought in photos of birthday parties, a couple had brought in Christmas pictures, and one had, to Caitlin's delight, brought in this shot, an adorable picture of a batch of lop-eared puppies in a wicker basket. It was exactly the touch of normalcy she wanted for this wall, and she prayed that someday it would hold enough to heal some of the wounds left by the other wall.

  She stepped down from her precarious perch on a wobbly bar stool and looked up at her work in satisfaction. She'd arrived before full light this morning, after yet another restless night of little sleep; it had seemed pointless to lie there staring at the ceiling, when she had work she could be doing. Work that just might succeed in distracting her from the thoughts that kept returning, despite her efforts to stop them.

  She hadn't seen or heard a word from Quisto since he'd dropped her off here on Monday. And here it was Thursday morning, and she was still thinking about him.

  Caitlin Murphy, you are a fool, she chided herself. The likes of Quisto Romero, with all his dark good looks and his courtly charm, was not for her. Besides, he was a cop, who despite saying she was doing good here probably still thought that she was a fool for trying. A cop who let rules about things like jurisdiction sweep a boy's murder under the rug.

  But he wasn't just a cop. He was Celeste Romero's youngest son, little brother to Hernan and Maria and Enrique and all the others, uncle to Chico and a good twenty or so others, godfather to little Sean … and he was the man who had held her so gently that night, here in her office. And he was the man who had come in minutes when she called him Sunday morning, sickened by what she'd found at her door, the man who had quietly and quickly cleaned up the bloody mess so that she wouldn't have to, the man who had taken her to his mother's home, where she would be safe, the man who had practically begged her to be careful, when she knew instinctively that begging was something utterly foreign to his nature.

  And he was also the first man in years to make her heart take off on a crazy rampage every time she looked at him. And the first man ever to make her dream scandalous, erotic dreams, dreams about touching and kissing and the kind of driving sex she knew little about, until she woke up moaning, her pillow crushed in her grip, sadly lacking the heat and solidness of the man she was craving.