Undercover Heat Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    “I’m Quinn, and this is my wife, Kyra.” He nodded at the woman tucked under his arm, and the neighbor offered her hand to shake.
    “Kyra. A pleasure. I’m Whitney. Whitney Bianca.”
    “You married, Whitney?” he asked casually, trying to glean information and give her an opening, let her know they were newlyweds with a nice little nest egg to invest. According to the file, the woman posed as a financial planner. That was how she stole her marks’ money. Ponzi scheme at its finest.
    Whitney laughed, a throaty sound that made him think of satin sheets and heated baby oil. If she weren’t the main suspect in Kyra’s case and he bumped into her in a bar, he’d probably consider hitting on her. She was older than him, maybe ten years or so, but she looked like the kind of woman he liked: willing to do pretty much anything in bed but with no interest in sticking around for breakfast.
    “Oh heavens, no,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “I divorced my fourth husband several years ago.” She lifted the sunglasses and gave him a
fuck me
look. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was hitting on him. Either that, or she really was into threesomes.
    He felt Kyra’s body jerk. Why was she letting this woman get to her? Nico had assured him that Kyra was a damn good agent, but Quinn already had his doubts. This case had become personal to her and it shouldn’t be. It was just a case.
    “Men are only good for one thing. Well, two, actually,” Bianca said, her voice smooth, rich, full of deep, dark promises.
    “Good thing Kyra doesn’t think like you,” he commented. Sometimes, being an FBI agent required damned impressive acting skills. Just two days prior, he’d informed his boss that he would never be in the exact situation he was now pretending to be in, with Kyra Sanders, of all people. “She never would have let me catch her,” he added with a wink.
    He had a feeling his partner had to force herself not to roll her eyes.
    When the Bianca woman deliberately rolled her hips and thrust out her ample chest, Quinn blatantly compared the two women. The neighbor was sexy in a made up, slinky, I-know-what-I-want-and-I’m-not-afraid-to-own-it way. Kyra was significantly lower key. She didn’t wear the sexy suits with the short skirts. She barely wore makeup. Her natural blond hair was almost always in a ponytail. He tried to recall a time when he’d seen it down around her shoulders, and he couldn’t.
    She was fresh-faced, understated, and didn’t give off a single sexy vibe. Yet Quinn was strangely aroused whenever he was around her. That pissed him off, because his mother had been a fresh-faced beauty, and look what that got her: an abusive asshole husband who ultimately led her to a far too young and untimely death.
    He was sure his shrink would tell him he had an Oedipus complex, and that he was fucked up in the head.
    They made small talk with the neighbor-slash-perp for a few more minutes. He and Whitney sounded casual; Kyra, when she spoke, sounded clipped, uncomfortable. When Whitney’s wineglass was empty, she commented that she should head back home for a refill. It was the perfect opening to invite her inside, to share a bottle of wine, to begin to set the trap.
    But Kyra looked as if she was barely hanging on, so he smiled at Whitney and suggested maybe sometime soon they would have her over for a glass. Whitney said it was a lovely idea and then headed back across the yard to her own home.
    Quinn kept his arm firmly wrapped around Kyra’s shoulders as he steered her inside.
    “You can let me go now,” she said icily.
    He didn’t until they were inside, with the sliding glass door closed. Then he walked into the kitchen and began opening and closing cupboards.
    “What are you looking for?” Kyra asked.
    “Booze.”
    “Do you have a drinking problem?”
    “At the moment, yes. I want a drink and there is no booze. In fact, there’s nothing at all in these cupboards.”
    Kyra