Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(27)

“Yeah, okay. And you’ll call Dad for me?”

Dad. A.k.a. my surveillance team. They’re going to have to scramble to get into place.

“That’s the plan.”

Warner leaves, and I’m alone with my target in my living room, his eyes casually scanning everything. “Give me a sec?” I don’t wait for Luke’s answer, heading for my bedroom. I throw on a pair of tight jeans and a fitted sweater—enough to appeal to him—some makeup, and then fasten the necklace and switch on the wire. Everything that could be considered incriminating is locked up in the safe, so I don’t rush too much.

Except for my camera, I suddenly realize. It has a candid picture of him that I took one day at the food carts.

Shit.

Panic seizes me. I struggle not to run out of my bedroom, and sigh with relief when I find Luke holding a tennis ball in the air, teasing a now-frantic Stanley, his profile lean and muscular. “He’s not so bad.” He laughs. “He’ll do just about anything for this ball, won’t he?”

He’ll do what he needs to do. Just like me.

“So . . . this is a surprise.”

Luke finally relents, tossing the ball right into Stanley’s waiting mouth. “I like surprising people.”

“How did you know which condo was mine?”

As soon as I ask the question, I remember that I shouldn’t have. His gaze rolls down, over my chest, my waist, my thighs, and back up. He must be thinking about last night. He’s obviously impressed, given he’s here now. Maybe a little too much. If he mentions anything about my blinds being opened, Warner’s going to know what I did. I don’t want him to know.

I reach up, ready to cover my necklace and muffle Luke’s answer. “The invoice at the garage. I called Miller and he gave your address to me.”

I know that’s a big, fat lie. The two-minute read I got off Miller tells me he would tell Luke to f*ck off if he called for that.

“You looked pretty shocked when your brother opened the door. I got the impression he wasn’t too happy to see a guy there.”

“Jack can be a cranky * sometimes.” That was for Warner’s benefit, when he listens to this recording. Then I add, “You know how it is . . . protective brother.” Ironically enough, I don’t really know how it is. Or at least, I didn’t. My brother never stepped into that role until much later in life, when he got his shit together. I didn’t need it by then. Before that, he didn’t have much time for a kid sister. He was too busy getting mixed up in the wrong crowd, getting arrested for dealing pot. I was only six when our dad kicked him out.

“Yeah, I get it. I have a younger sister.”

I know he does. Ana Boone. Twenty-one. Blond hair and blue eyes, looks like a Russian porcelain doll. Drives a Maxima, supplied by her uncle. Enrolled in an esthetician’s program.

“You guys don’t look at all alike,” he muses.

“I know. I’m much prettier.”

He smirks. “I take it you didn’t grow up together?”

I feel the frown zag cross my forehead. Why is he assuming that? My mind, still in an odd state of slow motion, scrambles to . . . Right, Warner’s accent. “No, we didn’t. He’s actually my stepbrother. Related through marriage.” We’ll need to tweak my official cover story to keep track of these changes. I was supposed to be an only child.

Luke begins nodding to himself, as if that makes sense. “Is he out here on business?”

He’s asking way too many questions. This isn’t good. A good undercover profile is simple. Not completely boring, but it doesn’t spark questions or thoughts or curiosity from the target.

“He lives in Portland now. Thought he’d swing by on his way out of town to check up on me. He brought me scones.” I lift the bag for further proof. Needing the subject to change, I ask, “What brings you to my doorstep at . . .” I pick up my phone, “ . . . ten a.m.?”

Luke doesn’t answer right away, instead simply staring at my face. Like he’s deciding what he wants to say. A boyish smile finally curls his lips. “You owe me a meatball sandwich. I’ve come to collect.”

It’s so playful, so flirtatious, so genuine, that I can’t keep the grin away. “You couldn’t wait until tonight?”

“Nope.” He pats his stomach. “I’m starving.”

“And what if I’m not free?” I fold my arms over my chest, deciding how “hard to get” I should play with my target. With each passing minute, I’m more comfortable with this situation; less inclined to believe that he heard anything at the door, and more on the path that he’s simply hoping to put in enough time during the day to get laid tonight.

He grabs Stanley’s leash from the bench by the door. “But you are. Come on. Let’s go.”

I ball my hands into fists, hiding my chipped polish. I guess I’m not getting my nails painted again before tonight’s date. Or a blow-out. I’ve never just walked into a salon and asked for someone to blow-dry my hair, unless I was there for a cut and color already. It seems absolutely ludicrous to pay someone fifty dollars when I can do it myself, for free. At least, that’s what I told myself before I had it done for this cover.

I’ve been going twice a week, since.

“And where exactly are you leading me?” That’s for the team’s benefit. How long will it take to get them in place? Do I go with him? Or should I send him away for an hour, until I get the go-ahead?