Sinclair chuckles and it’s not at all warm. “Well, excuse me if I’ve seen a lot more in my twenty-plus years in the Bureau than you’ve seen in your two minutes of handcuffing local crackheads,” he snaps. “Stop questioning me and start digging. I’m guessing that sheriff is culpable, too. For all we know, 12 and his friend tampered with Petrova’s car and they’re the reason he’s dead. Both of them have the know-how. If we can get 12 on a murder rap, he’ll be singing Markov’s name from the holding cell within a day.”
Even as Sinclair talks, my head’s shaking, Alex’s words, the look in her eyes as they passed over Luke, cycling through my mind. He saved her life. In the short time that I spent with her today, my gut says she was telling the truth—that she needed to be saved.
But, at what cost?
Oh God, what if Sinclair’s right? Am I going to help hang a murder around Luke’s neck? No . . . I’ve met murderers. Even without proof, someone like me can see it in their eyes—the instability, the danger. There’s none of that in Luke’s eyes. I don’t believe he’s capable.
I grit my teeth. There’s no point arguing. This call is all about posturing and personal agendas. I’m nothing but a soldier, expected to do as I’m told. This is the part about my job that I despise.
“Okay, I’ll do what I can.”
“No, you’ll do what you have to,” Sinclair corrects, his tone slow and clear and screaming “read between the lines.” “We’ve poured too much money and time into this case to lose it.”
“Got it.”
It’s foreign, experiencing Luke’s home as an invited guest walking through his door, instead of a lurker hiding behind a curtain. From my condo, it’s just surveillance detail on another target.
But the moment I step through the solid wood door—my nose hit with the scent of sandalwood, my eyes admiring the mixed patterns and fabrics and perfectly positioned artwork that screams “decorator,” my ears lulled by the surround-sound rhythmic music—I feel like a switch goes off.
The switch that says I’m on the job.
“I hope you don’t mind that I brought him.” The second I release Stanley from his leash, his snout hits the ground and he takes off like a hound. “I felt guilty leaving him all evening after being cooped up all day.”
“Nope. Maybe that’ll keep Licks busy.”
I peer up to meet Luke’s eyes and boyish grin as he takes in the sheer black blouse and simple miniskirt I chose for tonight. I need to dress to keep his attention, after all. “You look nice,” he offers, his voice low and gravelly. He steps in close and I hold my breath, expecting him to lean in and kiss me.
Hoping he does.
But instead, he slides his hands into mine and pulls me into the kitchen, walking backward, his bare feet padding softly against the hard wood. He somehow makes a pair of dark blue jeans and plain gray T-shirt look expensive. He smells expensive, too. And irresistible, I admit, inhaling deeply.
“So . . . what’s for dinner?” I warily eye the collection of opened cans and torn packages set out over the kitchen island. An iPad sits in its holder next to it all, open to what looks like a recipe page.
He seizes the sides of my waist and hoists me onto a bar stool, his arm flexing beautifully. “Doesn’t matter. Tonight’s my turn to cook, so you’re going to eat whatever I make.”
“I thought the deal was meatball sandwiches?”
“I can’t win that, so I’ve revised our deal.”
“With Chef Boyardee?”
“With Chef Boyardee,” he repeats with a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’m classing it up.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I mutter dryly, holding up the jar of pickles and ketchup.
He ignores me, handing me a glass of red wine. “Here. Drink this and shut up while I make my specialty Italian meal.”
“I can do that.” At twenty-six, I probably drink a tad more than I should. That’s another one of those stereotypes that no cop wants to admit to but is unfortunately a real side effect of the job for many of us. “Though I may need a lot more to stomach what you’re about to serve me.”
“Are you kidding? This is the best. I should really bottle it and sell it by the case.” I watch his back with admiration as he passes the wooden spoon through the skillet over the stove. Every appliance in here appears pristine and brand new, never used.
“I wasn’t allowed to eat it growing up.”
That stops him dead. “What kind of horrible parents would do that to a kid?”
“Ones who believe in only homemade.” I chuckle. “They grew up in Italy, so that’s what they know. Old school.”
“So . . . what, that means—”
“No Chef Boyardee, no Kraft dinner, no Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.”
The honest, shocked look splayed across his face makes me laugh. “I didn’t think there were people like that in this country.”
“There are. I was a child deprived of fattening, crappy food. Such a sad life.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head absently, checking the recipe several times and then, with the awkward movements of a person who has no clue what he’s doing in the kitchen, begins measuring out the shredded cheese and mustard. “I’m surprised, given what you said your dad does, that they wouldn’t be more progressive.”