Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(11)

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.

Without a word, he strolls up to the counter, sliding his wallet from his back pocket. Despite all that he is and why I’m here, my eyes can’t help lingering on that pleasing view for just a moment, before I force my gaze up.

I mentally pat myself on the back as my self-confidence begins to creep back in. I have his attention and now I’m playing him like he’s my own personal marionette. This is what I’m good at.

“I hope you’re good with Diet Coke,” Luke offers, handing me the foil-wrapped sandwich and my drink.

I hate diet soda. “It’ll work. Thanks.”

He leads me toward two bar stools at a round-top table. After many failed attempts at garnering his attention, I feel like I’ve just taken a shot of adrenaline, the thrill of a small victory coursing through my veins.

“Well?” He gestures toward my lunch.

“Don’t be offended if I gag,” I mutter truthfully, unfolding the wrapper to reveal a mess that I’m liable to slop on this blouse—a blouse that cost more than I’d spend on an entire outfit. The FBI has paid an exorbitant amount of money to make my socialite cover authentic. Right down to the caffè lattes I drink while strolling through the flower markets as I embrace this role. The guys on my crime squad would be pulling aneurisms if they did the math. But that’s the FBI for you. Even the embedded listening device in my pendant is custom-designed for this case, the feed bouncing off satellites to reach Warner and my other cover guys. Technology that very few get to tap into. Certainly not an ordinary city cop.

Luke watches me take a bite. While I’ll silently admit it’s not half-bad—though there’s too much salt in the sauce and the meat is a tad dry—I can’t give him any excuse to back out of our “date.” So I place the sandwich back into its wrapper.

“Don’t like it?”

“Were you born without taste buds? Or is it a condition you’ve come down with?” I tease.

He gives me a lopsided grin; he doesn’t seem to care one way or another whether I’m satisfied. I wonder if he’s the same with the girls he brings home. And then I push that thought aside, feeling my cheeks heat a little.

I take my time washing the taste out of my mouth with my soda while he starts inhaling his own lunch. The guy must have one heck of an appetite, for the time he spends working out. He always does his grocery shopping on Sunday nights, and that consists of one bag that I watch him unpack through binoculars. He usually eats out or brings home take-out. On the rare occasion that I’ve seen him in his kitchen, it’s been to heat up the contents of a can of Chef Boyardee. A typical twenty-four-year-old bachelor.

My appraisal of him is distracted when he waves to someone behind me. I glance over my shoulder and spot a man in a suit shuffling by, and I’m immediately on edge. It’s a natural instinct to assume everyone your target knows is also a criminal and you may be about to witness something illegal.

“Hey, Willie,” Luke calls out, wrapping up the other half of his sandwich and thrusting it out.

With a slight frown, I really look at the man—at his gray and wiry beard, at his tattered and stained brown suit, at the ’80s-style briefcase clutched tightly within his grip; its seems cracked, the handle broken off.

“Mr. Boone,” the man named Willie answers as he accepts the meal with a nod of appreciation, smiling just enough to reveal several missing teeth. “Nice spring day today, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Luke agrees. “Looking forward to summer.”