Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(26)
“Just watch yourself, okay?” Warner’s eyes skate down over my body. Not in a leery way. In a way I’m used to, being around male cops all day long. I can’t fault them. They see it daily—the pimps beating their girls, the husbands killing their wives, the rapists doing unspeakable things to women who dare to go for a run through a wooded area alone. Yes, I’m trained to defend myself, but few women can fight off a two-hundred-pound man with a temper. If Warner’s read my case files—which, knowing Warner, he has—he knows that I’ve been to the ER on five separate occasions. That the three-inch scar across my forearm is courtesy of a gangbanger’s knife; that the slight bump on my nose is where a crack whore head-butted me while resisting arrest. It’s natural for his kind to want to protect and, whether I like it or not, right now he’s seeing a five-foot-five twenty-six-year-old woman standing in front of him, not a trained undercover officer who’s quick on her feet and can talk herself out of most situations.
I could get offended, chew him out for treating me like a weak woman, but I know his concern comes from a good place, so I simply smile and nod. And gesture at my baggy gray sweats and ratty Kid Rock T-shirt, a very “Clara at home” ensemble. “I’ll go dressed like this. That’ll turn him off, right?”
Warner frowns with mock seriousness. “Oh yeah.” He grabs my hand and examines my nails, half of my red polish already picked off. “And keep biting these, too. He won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.” I’ve been going for manicures every week to keep up appearances, only to ruin them within a day. I’m just not used to this level of grooming. When I’m playing a hooker, I throw on some press-ons; when I’m a crack whore, the shorter and dirtier and more jagged my nails are, the better. This prissy, put-together image is so much work. I hardly ever wear heels as Clara, and now I have ten pretty pairs lined up in the closet. Dresses are normally reserved for Christmas dinner and weddings, and they all reach my knee. Yet, as Rain, I have a dozen to choose from, all of them selected for one single purpose—to ensnare Luke Boone.
Reaching for the door to the condo, he says, “I’m heading for the airport now. I’ll be landing just after two if you—” His words cut off abruptly.
When I glance over, curious, I find Warner standing in front of an open door, face-to-face with my target.
My stomach lurches as Luke’s eyes roll over Warner, caught speechless for a moment. As am I. What is he doing here?
Warner’s skills kick in quickly enough, asking in a dry, almost irritated voice, “Can I help you?”
“Uh, yeah . . .” Luke hangs a thumb off his pocket in a casual way, his gaze darting over to land on me. “I’m here to see Rain.”
“Rain? There’s some guy at the door to see you,” Warner calls over his shoulder, playing dumb.
I take easy, slow steps, keeping my face calm as I scramble to come up with a story. This is one of my strengths—lying—and yet right now I’m drawing a blank. We said tonight, didn’t we? Why is Luke here now? How’d he get in? And how risky is this that he’s meeting my handler? Do I introduce them? Who should Warner be to me? A friend? An ex-boyfriend?
“Hey, Luke,” is all I come up with.
Nails hitting hardwood sound behind me. Stanley, jumping off the couch and scrambling for leverage as he scampers toward the door, his curly tail like a screw as it wags. He climbs Luke’s legs with his front paws, like a dog missing his owner would.
Luke chuckles and reaches down to scratch his head. “Better greeting than yesterday.”
“I guess it’s not you that he has a problem with,” I murmur, trying for a relaxed tone.
There’s another awkward moment, and then Warner sticks his hand out. “Hi, I’m Jack. Rain’s brother.”
Brother! Good call.
“Luke. I live in the building next door.”
I have to pause for a moment as the two of them shake hands. Warner, a guy in a faded Boston Red Sox T-shirt, pretending to be my brother when he’s the FBI agent who wants to lock Luke in a small, windowless room and pressure him until he cracks. Luke, in a fitted black golf shirt, pretending to be just a regular neighborhood rich guy, when he’s the criminal that the FBI is betting their entire case on.
If this weren’t a risky situation, I might laugh.
Was Luke listening at the door? He very well might have been, to figure out if he had the right condo. How much would he have overheard? I quietly play back my conversation with Warner, trying to remember exactly what words were used.
I’m guessing all those same thoughts are going through Warner’s head. That’s why he’s not budging. I need him gone, before Luke decides his surprise visit was a bad idea and hightails it out of here.
“You’d better go, Jack, or you’ll miss your plane.”
Warner’s back stiffens, his entire body unnaturally still. He’s weighing his options. If I’m not in danger, then this is a blip but no big deal. If Luke did in fact overhear our conversation, puts two and two together, and something happens to me . . .
But Luke—standing there with his arms now crossed over his chest, that self-assured smirk sitting on his lips—doesn’t look like a guy who just figured out that he’s under investigation.
Finally, deciding something, Warner stands aside, gesturing for Luke to enter. “Like I said, I’ll be landing just after two, okay?” Warner makes a point of tapping his chest as soon as Luke has walked past him. Get the wire on, he’s saying.