Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(20)

No doubt his gun is hidden inside the folded magazine under his arm.

“Everything’s fine, Stanley,” I say slowly and clearly, for the surveillance team’s benefit. The last thing I need is them blowing the case by charging in here.

“Jesus! You need to keep that thing on a leash!” Luke snaps, checking his dog’s leg.

This can’t be good for our relationship. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. He’s never done that before.” Maybe this is why Stanley’s owners abandoned him.

Luke looks up. And frowns. “Hey . . . Rain, isn’t it?”

At least he remembers that much. I feign surprise to match his. “Yeah. And you’re . . . Luke, right?”

He sighs, and it’s like all the anger lifts from him in that one act. “Yeah.” I can’t help my eyes from wandering to his damp shirt. It’s clinging to every contour of his chest. Trying to attract a guy like this is an easier pill to swallow than, say, a forty-year-old pimp with plated teeth and extreme body odor. Even drenched in sweat, Luke Boone is easy on the eyes.

He smiles, and I find myself doing the same. Genuinely. “I’m sorry about my dog.”

“Yeah . . .” His hand pushes through his soaked hair, the ends curling at the nape of his neck. “So, you named your dog Stanley?”

“He’s adopted.” Like that explains everything. There’s a long pause, this one awkward. “We should probably get that bite looked at. Let me take you to the hospital. I’ll pay the bill.” I wonder if the FBI budget covers being sued by the target.

His easygoing demeanor slides back in with a chuckle. “It’s just a scratch. But it’s good to see how loyal Licks is.” Uncapping his water bottle, he gestures at the panting bulldog sitting next to him, which is sounding ready to keel over from exertion. Taking a long chug of his water bottle, he mutters, “Here you go, traitor,” and begins pouring the rest into his dog’s mouth. It happily laps it up. “So, you’re just hanging out at the park on a Friday night?”

“Stanley loves it here.” My gaze drifts past the spot where Bill was standing only a moment ago—now empty—and over the line of cherry trees in full bloom, fallen pink and white petals forming a romantic carpet over the surrounding grass. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is. I run here every day.”

I know.

A small, dark red spot is forming through Luke’s light gray sweats. Blood. And an opening. I drop to one knee in front of him, Stanley still tucked under my arm, and curl a finger under the hem of his pant leg to lift it, my fingers sliding up his damp skin. Two puncture wounds and a small trail of blood mar an otherwise flawless, muscular leg. It’s more than a scratch but he’s right—it’s not a big deal. The blood has already begun clotting.

“This looks terrible!” I peer up, catching him getting an eyeful down my sweater before his gaze darts to my face, a few degrees warmer. “Let me clean and bandage that leg up for you. At least. I insist,” I push, letting a playful smile emerge.

His lips twist into a matching smile. “Well . . . if you insist.”

Another wave of adrenaline hits me, and I’m not really sure if this one is driven by success for the case. “I live just over there.” I gesture at the high-rise behind us.

His blue eyes drift to my building, and then to the one right next door. His. A flash of something unreadable passes through his eyes. “Nice and close.” Eyeing Stanley, he mutters, “What about Cujo?”

“I’ll lock him up.” Keeping my terminator within my grip—I’ve found a new respect for the bug-eyed fur-ball now that he’s actually earning his way in this case—I turn down the path that leads to the condo buildings.

He gives the leash a light tug to force Licks into an amble. “So how long have you lived here?”

“I moved in three weeks ago.” More like six. “My dad owns the condo. He’s letting me stay in it for a while.”

“Oh yeah? What does your dad do?”

“Buys and sells property.” I shrug. “Lots of it.” Rain Martines’s daddy has made his riches in real estate and land development. In reality, my dad spends his retired time tending to his tomato plants and making prosciutto in the basement.

“I’m surprised I’ve never run into you at the park before.”

“I’m usually here earlier in the day.”

“Right. And what do you spend the rest of your day doing?”

I shrug. “I’m taking a photography class. Sometimes I shop, or go to the gym. I’m figuring out life, basically.” As opposed to what my real life in D.C. looks like, which is running out the door with my travel mug of coffee and passing out the second my head hits the pillow well after midnight. To be completely honest, this assignment has felt like one long vacation so far.

“Sounds like fun,” he muses. By his lax tone, I can’t tell what he really thinks. Is this a deterrent? It shouldn’t be. Guys like Luke are attracted to money and a life of leisure. That was part of the cover design. “I bought my condo last summer. I love it here. Great area.” He plays it off well, but I know that his uncle bought his condo for him. I wonder if he’s embarrassed that Rust funds him for pretty much everything and that’s why he’s not admitting to it, or if he likes to fool girls into thinking he has money. Or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to elaborate.