LOVER UNDER COVER Read online

  Craving. Yes, that was the word for it. And it was a word she'd never used in conjunction with a man before. It frightened her even as it excited her.

  But she would get over it. She had to, she told herself firmly. Because it was quite obvious that Quisto had no further interest in her, not when he'd dropped out of sight like the anchor on her parents' sailboat hitting murky water. She'd probably been merely a nuisance to him, and only whatever guardian instinct there was ingrained in the cop part of him had made him try to protect her.

  Yes, that was all it had been, and the sooner she—

  A thud at the front door made her heart and breath stop, as if the sound had been a blow. She spun around, her hand going to her mouth as if to stop a scream she knew she didn't have the breath to make.

  Not again. Please, not again, she chanted, as if the words could change reality.

  Another thud came, this time fainter. She looked at the phone, picturing herself running to it and dialing 911. But then she pictured the arrival of the police, who had told her more than once that she was crazy for trying to keep this place open. They would be kind, as always, but she would see it in their eyes, that if she would just give up this crazy idea, this kind of thing wouldn't happen to her.

  It was quiet now. She glanced at her watch. It was barely six, early for anyone to be stirring in this neighborhood. Except the Pack, she thought grimly.

  Steeling her nerve, she tiptoed over to the door. She put her ear up to it and listened. Nothing. She waited. Still nothing. And at last she unlocked the door. She turned the knob. She jumped back instinctively as the door seemed to open inward on its own.

  And she choked off a scream as a large, dark shape fell inside, on the floor. Again she saw blood, gleaming wetly in the morning light. This time on a man's face.

  It was Quisto.

  * * *

  "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to come here."

  "Hush," Caitlin said, rinsing out the washcloth she'd used in the basin of water once more. It was turning pink; she'd have to change it again in a moment.

  "I don't even remember doing it," he said. "I—"

  He broke off, sucking in a quick breath as she applied the cloth to the cut over his left eye. Then he winced, and she guessed the deep breath hadn't done much for his bruised ribs.

  "You need a doctor," she said for the third time since she'd helped him up from the floor and into the office. She'd quickly opened the couch out to convert it into a sleeper, and he'd nearly fallen onto it, barely staying upright long enough to help her peel off his shirt before he fell back on the pillow. She'd gasped at the sight of his torso, scraped and reddened with angry marks that would surely be grim-looking bruises soon.

  "No," he repeated. "I'm fine. No doctor."

  "Fine? Quisto, you could have broken ribs—"

  "No. I know the feeling."

  He closed his eyes. She just looked at him for a moment, worried. He looked pale, his usual color gone.

  "Then how about your face?" she asked. "That cut over your eye needs stitches, and—"

  "Caitlin, please. It's all right. I just need … to rest a while. No doctor."

  She rinsed out the cloth again and went back to wiping away blood and grime, not quite so gently this time. "I should just call the paramedics and have them cart you away."

  His eyes came open. They were clouded with pain, but he struggled to sit up. "Don't. I'll leave," he began.

  "No, you won't." She pushed him, gently but firmly, back down on the bed. "You scared me to death. I'm allowed to complain a little."

  He started to smile, but one side of his mouth was swollen, and he stopped, wincing.

  "What happened?"

  It was the third time she'd asked that, too, and she supposed she'd get the same nonanswer. She did.

  "I got in a fight."

  "No kidding." She'd nursed a kid or two through injuries like this; she knew what kind of altercation caused them. She supposed it could have been worse; he hadn't been knifed or shot. "A fight over what?"

  "I ran into some guys who didn't like my attitude."

  "So they beat up a cop."

  He shifted on the bed, as if trying to find a position that didn't hurt. "I didn't exactly tell them. It didn't seem like a good idea, at those odds."

  She didn't want to know how many of them there had been. She guessed by his skinned and swollen knuckles that he'd gotten in a lick or two of his own.

  "How many of them were still standing?" she asked dryly.

  He gave her a wary look. "A couple," he said.

  "And they just let you walk away?"

  "They got … interrupted." His mouth twisted ruefully, and again he winced at the movement. "And by the time I got out of their sight, I was crawling, not walking."

  She was surprised he'd admitted it. "Men," she muttered, and got up to go empty the basin and refill it with clean water.

  When she came back, his eyes were closed again, and she thought he'd either fallen asleep or passed out. But when she sat down on the edge of the folding mattress, his dark lashes fluttered, then lifted.

  "I really didn't mean … to bother you. I don't even remember driving here."

  Caitlin blinked. "Driving? You drove here? Like this?"

  He blinked in turn. "Well … yeah… At least I think so."

  "And you call me crazy," she said, shaking her head as she went back to her task. She finished with the cloth, and began to apply antiseptic to the cuts on his face, gingerly, because she knew it would sting.

  He bore her ministrations stoically, with only an occasional wince or grimace when she hit a particularly sore spot, and a throttled grunt when she dabbed at the cut over his eye. She concentrated on what she was doing, although with his shirt off it was impossible not to notice that Quisto Romero was nicely put together. Very nicely. Arms that were strong without being overwhelming, a smoothly muscled chest that was broad without making her wonder how many hours he spent a day working out, a flat belly that made her want to press her hand against it, just over his navel…

  She kept her eyes away from his face, just in case he was watching her as she again picked up the washcloth and cleansed some grit from an ugly-looking graze on his belly. It ran below his belt line, and she hesitated. She saw his stomach muscles contract, and pulled her hands back. And then she knew he had been watching her, because when she looked up his eyes were riveted on her as he moved his hands, fumbling at the buckle of his belt with fingers that had to be sore.

  She yanked her gaze away from his face just in time to see him succeed with the buckle and reach for the tab of his zipper. Her face flaming, she moved her eyes quickly to his knees, and the tear in one pant leg that told her he'd gone down hard at least once. She'd study that, she thought. That should be safe enough. And she'd think about something else, like why he was dressed like this in the first place.

  Every time she saw him, he'd been dressed nicely, usually in cotton twill pants and a sweater or knit shirt. Being used to mostly jeans, she'd noticed their absence. But what he was wearing now, a pair of expensive-looking black pants of some silk blend, seemed far fancier than his everyday wear. And she was certain the discarded black shirt that was now much worse for wear was pure silk.

  She nearly jumped when she felt his fingers closed around her wrist. Her gaze shot back to his face. He watched her steadily as he pulled her hand back to his belly, and the spot she'd been tending to.

  "You were about here, I think."

  She couldn't meet his eyes any longer, not when he was looking at her so intently that even the scrape on his jaw and the cut over his eye couldn't detract from the intensity of his gaze.

  She looked away hurriedly, thinking she would just quickly finish with this and then get herself a safe distance away—perhaps lock herself in the bathroom. Then she realized she was staring at his slightly unzipped pants, and the tantalizing vee of skin that was revealed, bisected by a path of dark hair that thickened as it disap
peared behind the fabric.

  There was no reason for this, she told herself. No reason for her to be reacting like this. He hadn't done anything inappropriate; he'd undone the zipper just enough for her to reach the part of that angry red weal that she hadn't been able to before. It wasn't like he'd taken his pants off or anything, or even said anything the least bit suggestive. If only he'd stop looking at her like that. She knew he was, she could feel it, and it was making her skin tingle in the oddest way.

  With a great effort, she managed to finish without visibly shaking. He made no sound when she applied antiseptic to the area of the scrape that had bled slightly, and she breathed an inward sigh of relief that she was done.

  "Thank you." His voice was quiet, yet somehow tense.

  "You're welcome."

  She recapped the bottle of antiseptic and leaned over to set it on the table. She heard him move, and turned back to see that he was pushing himself upright. Slowly, as if it hurt.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting out of your way."

  "Quisto, lie down. You need to rest. You said so yourself."

  "I didn't mean here—" He broke off, wincing.

  "See?" she said. "Now just lie down. It's a perfectly comfortable bed. I've used it a lot of times."

  "Not last night, I hope."

  She lowered her gaze to her knees. "No. I haven't stayed here since … that morning."

  "Thank you," he said again, this time rather fervently. She raised her eyes to look at him again. He was looking at her again in that intense way that was so unsettling, but she saw lines drawn by pain tightening his face.

  "Will you please lie down?"

  "Join me?"

  She drew back, startled, not quite believing what she'd heard. Or that he'd meant it the way it sounded.

  "Sorry," he said wryly. "I shouldn't make offers I'm in no condition to make good on."

  Caitlin blushed; she had heard him correctly. He smiled, carefully, as if testing how far he could go before it hurt.

  "Well," he said, "if I can't have that, I'll settle for this."

  He leaned forward then, and before she realized his intent, he was brushing his lips across hers. She didn't know what startled her more, the leap her heart took, or the sudden jolt that shot through her at even this gentle, tentative contact. The memory of touching him, of gently cleaning his face, of running her hands over his fit, strong body, came rushing back to her, sparking further memories of her heated, embarrassingly sensual dreams.

  His lips moved coaxingly, and she felt a little ripple of sensation at the feel of them, warm and firm on hers. He tasted like nothing she'd ever known before, hot, exotic, exciting. And the more she remembered, the more all the facets of this complex man swirled in her mind, the more she gave herself up to the incredible knowledge that he was kissing her so sweetly and that she was loving it.

  She heard him make a sound then, half pleasure, half pain, and only then realized she was kissing him back, eagerly. Too eagerly, she thought, flushing now with the heat of embarrassment, rather than arousal. She was no doubt hurting his sore mouth, although he didn't pull away. So she did.

  "I—I'm sorry."

  Was that her? she wondered, her eyes widening at the sound of her own words. That breathless, husky voice?

  "Don't be," he said, and he sounded nearly as breathless as she had. "I'm not."

  "But your mouth—"

  "Never felt better."

  He was looking at her like that again. Only this time there was something else in that steady gaze, something deep and sensual and smoky. It sent a ripple of heat through her.

  Flustered, she quickly stood up.

  "I'll get you a couple of aspirin. That should help a little."

  "What you just did helped."

  What she'd just done? Kissing him? Or her rudimentary first aid? She didn't know. And she couldn't bring herself to ask. Besides, she didn't know which answer would bother her more.

  She turned and darted out of the room.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  The man made him very, very nervous.

  Quisto studied the man called Ryan, as he'd been doing for the past two weeks, trying to decide whether it was his excessively calm silence or his chilling lack of emotion when he did speak that made him most uneasy. Or perhaps it was the way he looked at everyone with those dark eyes, constantly assessing but never revealing. Or the way he always had that knife in his hands, was always whittling small pieces of wood into seeming nothingness. The only thing Quisto was certain of was that he'd seen that kind of brooding intensity before, and it usually prefaced an explosion of some kind.

  The others seemed wary of him, too, and tended to get quiet when he appeared. Quisto wondered what the big man had done to warrant that watchful respect. And to gain his current position as Alarico's right hand. How far had he gone, this seemingly fierce and unyielding man? So far as to kill a child on Alarico's orders? Had this big, powerful man murdered a skinny fourteen-year-old boy?

  "We've let him get away with this for too long," Carlos exclaimed.

  Quisto ran a hand through his hair—grateful he'd been able to abandon the hair gel, at least, as part of his cover—and smothered a sigh. They'd been arguing over the approach to take with Martin Cordero, the owner of the grocery store down the street from the Neutral Zone. The man refused to pay the protection money the Pack demanded, a fact that made Quisto admire the quiet little man immensely.

  "That is true," Alarico agreed. "But he is very stubborn."

  "He should be very dead," Carlos said, a vehemence in his words that drew Quisto's attention to his thin face, to his dilated pupils and runny nose. Meth, Quisto thought yet again. The guy was perpetually high on the stuff.

  "I'm sure," Carny put in, in those beautifully modulated tones, "your desire for his demise has nothing to do with the fact that he ran you out of his store with a shotgun when you went to collect."

  Quisto smothered a grin. Carlos glared at the black man, who merely smiled back. Quisto glanced back at Ryan; the man's expression hadn't changed—it never seemed to—but something in his dark eyes made Quisto think for an instant that the man was feeling the same admiration for wiry old Martin Cordero.

  But Ryan still made him nervous. After the first week of testing, of trying to trip him up, trying to find a flaw in his story or catch him in a lie—and a few more confrontations on a more physical level—the others seemed to have accepted him. Especially when Alarico had given him the nod at last; Quisto knew from his contacts that the leader had checked out his story and gotten the answers he was supposed to get. But Ryan kept watching. Assessing. Calculating.

  Carlos said nothing to Carny and turned his gaze to Alarico again. "I say we just kill him and get it over with. He's been nothing but trouble."

  "And he'll keep on making trouble," another man said warningly, and was greeted with a chorus of assent.

  Damn, Quisto thought. He was going to have to stop this. He couldn't let them murder that innocent old man, whose only crime was being tough enough to stand up to these thugs. He just had to figure out how to do it without giving himself away. He'd had to walk a fine line, solidifying his position inside the gang, before they allowed him to even sit in on these little meetings. He'd had to outline a plan to make a big score during James Worthington's big party in three weeks to convince them he was serious. He just hoped he didn't have to really pull it off; Worthington would cooperate, had even offered whatever Quisto needed of his wife's expensive jewelry or his own art collection, with no guarantee of getting it back, but Quisto hoped fervently it never came to that.

  "All right," Alarico said at last. "But you will not do it, Carlos."

  "What?" The man sounded outraged.

  "You heard me. You will be highly visible somewhere else when it is done. Too many witnesses saw Cordero make a fool out of you. You would be the first suspect, and that would lead the cops right back to us.
"

  Quisto cleared his throat, not sure what he was going to say, but knowing he had to do something to halt this assassination. But before he could speak, there was a thud as Ryan's boots hit the floor, and a hush came over the assembled group as the big man got to his feet.

  "You have something to say, amigo?" Alarico asked, looking up warily.

  "Only goodbye."

  Alarico blinked. "What?"

  "You start taking directions from a fool who's fried what few brain cells he had to begin with, I'm out of here."

  It was the longest sentence Quisto had heard from the man. He watched the exchange with interest; little had happened to change his first perception of Ryan as the wild card in this operation.

  "Good riddance, Chief," Carlos said, his lip curling into a sneer.

  Ryan didn't say a word. But the look he gave Carlos made the man turn as pale as the white bandanna Ryan was wearing around his forehead today.

  "Shut up, Carlos," Alarico said, his gaze never leaving Ryan, as if he weren't quite sure of his control over the man. "You have a problem with this?"

  Ryan shrugged, as if the topic were nothing more important than a choice on a menu. "It's a mistake."

  "Why?"

  "You kill the old man, what do you gain? Revenge for a dimwit so stoned on meth he can't even do the simplest of jobs?"

  Carlos sputtered, but Alarico shut him up with a sharp motion of his hand. "We send a message to others who might have the same idea, that they can't refuse to pay."

  "You send a message, all right," Ryan drawled. "Straight to the cops. Murder of a man like this isn't something they overlook. This is not some homeboy, someone they will be just as glad to see gone. You really want to bring that kind of heat down on us?"

  Alarico studied Ryan for a moment. Quisto held his breath. "I know better than to think you've gone soft, amigo," Alarico said. "Or that you're afraid of the cops."