INFORMANT (6 page)

Day Nine

Late Afternoon

Beckett is waiting for me outside the Karma Café when I finish my shift. Just leaning against a streetlight, his arms folded across his chest, looking as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be there.

I wish I could say the sight of him standing there didn’t cause my heart to slam against my chest and start drumming at double its normal tempo. But that’s what happens, and I can’t control it. It sucks. I want to be as indifferent to him as he seems to be to me. Unfortunately that’s not possible. All I can do is try to arrange my expression into something that I hope resembles cool nonchalance.

I stroll over. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He tilts his chin toward the café. “How was work?”

“Not bad.” The place was mobbed. Huge lunchtime crowd, and the other waitress called in sick. That left me covering the floor—taking orders, running plates, pouring drinks, cashing out, and bussing tables—all by myself. Insane, but highly profitable. My pocket is bulging with a fat wad of tips.

“Feel like taking a walk?” he asks.

I cast a dubious glance at the sky. They predicted rain this afternoon, but so far it’s holding off. “Sure,” I say. Why not? I’m still running on adrenaline. We head west on Haight Street toward Golden Gate Park. 

We don’t talk until we’re actually in the park. It’s an enormous space, actually larger than New York City’s Central Park. My favorite part is the bison paddock. The bison don’t do much—they’re just these huge, shaggy, smelly beasts—but I love the fact that they’re here. It’s just so improbable that it always makes me smile. So San Francisco. Even when you think you know what to expect, you don’t. Cable cars, the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island… and a herd of bison lumbering through the middle of the city.

But they’re on the western edge of the park, and Beckett and I are on the eastern edge, so I know I won’t see them today. Not unless we want to hoof it across the park, and Beckett seems to have a different purpose in mind than sightseeing. The crowds are light. Just a few bicyclists and joggers trying to get in a little exercise before the rain lets loose.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

He’s referring to my evening with Ricco, of course. He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t slow his pace. Just focuses on the path ahead as we walk.

“Fine,” I reply.

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Great. That’s helpful.” He shoots me a glance. “Kylie, I’ve got a report to write. A supervisor I have to convince you’re worth paying 5k a month to. I need you to do better than that.”

He’s right. I agreed to do this, but it still feels wrong. I’m annoyed, frustrated, guilty. I’m not a back-stabbing kind of person. If I have something to say, I’ll say it to your face. This—playing up to Ricco and reporting the details later—feels unnatural. I
like
Ricco. I remind myself that I’m not betraying him. He’s not the target of the DEA’s investigation. His father is. Still, I have to force myself to continue.

“We met for pizza.”

Beckett nods. “All right. How’d it go?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. It was one of those dates where—”

“Date? You told him it was a date?” 

He’s looking at me with an intensity that doesn’t make sense. “I… No. I didn’t
tell
him it was a date. But I think he thought it was.”

He lets out a breath. Turns away and drags a hand through his hair in a gesture I’ve come to recognize as one of frustration. “Right. Go on.”

“Anyway, it was one of those
nights
where nothing seemed to go right, but in the end it worked out okay.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he doesn’t like buffalo chicken pizza… and I sort of asked him if there are any gangsters in Cuba.”

Beckett gives a choked laugh. “Holy fuck. You did
what?
”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I got carried away.”

“How did that even come up in conversation?”

“We were just kind of talking. He mentioned Al Capone and I sort of pounced on it. It seemed like a perfect opportunity.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head and laughs again. “That’s so bad, it’s good. He’ll never suspect you. No way would somebody who actually worked for the DEA be that stupid.”

He’s right, so I don’t take offense. I can’t help but smile back at him. “It’s your fault. Next time screen your CI’s more carefully.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that.”

Our gazes meet, and the laughter in his eyes changes to something else. Warmth becomes heat. Heat becomes fire. Fire becomes flame. We are standing in the middle of Golden Gate Park, burning.

“You’re not
dating
Ricco.”

The comment seems to come out of nowhere, just like the wind that whips around us and rain that begins to fall. In my mind, they are both connected somehow. Pending storms I chose to ignore.

He takes my hand—the same way Ricco took my hand last night—but Beckett doesn’t let it go. He pulls me along beside him as we scramble toward the closest shelter, which happens to be the Conservatory. It’s a towering Victorian structure, all curved white wood and clear glass, sort of like a mini Taj Mahal plunked down in the middle of the park.

We rush inside. Beckett and I are both wet from the rain—we must look like we’re just there to loiter, because a security guard approaches to shoo us away. They’re closing in thirty minutes. Beckett doesn’t argue or take offense. He pays our admission fee and we head off, following a meandering stone path deeper into the Conservatory.

Basically, it’s a huge indoor garden. Room after room of exotic plants, towering trees, waterfalls, pocket lagoons, birds and butterflies. All light and airy and lush. The sort of place brides book months in advance for their oh-so-perfect weddings. The last time I was here I was on a third grade field trip.

Thunder rumbles and rain begins to pour down in earnest. It’s falling in sheets now. We can hear it drumming on the glass roof above our heads. One of those rare, almost frenzied storms that instantly drives everyone indoors. I move to the edge of the room and watch the heavy droplets strike the glass panes, softening and blurring the outside world.

Beckett comes to stand beside me. “My place isn’t far from here,” he says. He points to a distant blur. “Over on California Street. If it weren’t raining, you could just make out my building.” His arm brushes my shoulder as he moves.

I realize this is the first piece of personal information Beckett has ever revealed about himself (so he is a city guy, after all), but I don’t know how to process it. I can’t think properly with him standing so close to me. I try to focus on the storm, but even that proves impossible. Every fiber of my being is attuned to Beckett. His scent, his height, the broadness of his shoulders, the deep timbre of his voice.

The room we’re standing in is enormous. But we’re alone, and somehow that creates this strange vacuum of intimacy. We are marooned together in this place of ridiculous romantic fantasy, this manufactured Garden of Eden. It’s a mistake, pure happenstance, but here we are. And we’re standing so close.

“Do you have a roommate?” I blurt inanely, just to have something to say to break the tension that hangs between us.

“No.”

“No roommate?”

“No roommate.”

“So you’re all alone?”

“Yup. All alone.”

“Not even a dog?”

His lips quirk. “What would I do with a dog?”

“I don’t know… Walk it. Play fetch with it. Then there would be something waiting for you when you came home at night.”

He cocks his head to one side, as though considering my suggestion. “I get home pretty late.”

“Out chasing the bad guys, huh?”

“Yeah. You know how it is. All that superhero stuff keeps me pretty busy.”

It’s a ridiculous conservation and we both know it. He’s teasing me, but I’m determined to resist him. Resist his smile. Resist the playful twinkle in his intoxicating blue eyes. Resist the urge to lift my hand and push back the chestnut curl that falls so appealingly over his forehead. But it’s hard. So hard. I feel my resolve weakening with every second that passes.

I look at Beckett and a shiver runs through me.

“Something wrong?” His voice is a low murmur in my ear.

I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself.

He’s wearing a denim jacket. He takes it off without a word and tucks it around my shoulders. It’s huge on me, damp and heavy. My hair is caught inside so he gathers it in his hands and gently pulls it free from the confines of his jacket. My hair is probably my best feature. It’s a rich golden brown, thick and straight, completely resistant to frizz, even in a place as sticky humid as the Conservatory.

Beckett watches, mesmerized, as the heavy strands slowly slip through his fingers.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I thought you might be cold.”

“I’m not cold.” I pause, holding his gaze. “And you’re a bad liar.”

He releases a hoarse bark of laughter. “Jesus, Kylie.”

But he doesn’t deny it. That tells me everything I need to know. Beckett wants me as badly as I want him. He scans my face. My body. I’ve got on my short black Karma skirt, but I left my tie-dyed t-shirt at work. Instead I’m wearing a pale pink blouse with a row of tiny pearl buttons trailing down the front. My clothing is wet, sticking in places where it shouldn’t. He takes in my thighs, my waist, my chest. When his gaze rests on my lips I feel them part in unmistakable invitation.

Kiss me.

What happens next is a blur. Maybe I moved toward him. Maybe it’s Beckett who erases the distance between us. All I know is that our bodies come together. Hard. As though some external force slams us together.

The release is exquisite. Like a coiled spring that’s suddenly snapped free, the tension is gone. Beckett is bigger than I’d imagined him to be. Or maybe I’m just smaller in his arms. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The fit is perfect.

His lips brush mine. The pressure on my mouth is light and gentle, allowing me the opportunity to change my mind, to slip away if I want to. The gesture surprises me. Touching and unexpected as it is, it’s wasted. There is no lingering question. No doubt at all. I want this. Him. The two of us together.

I move closer.

Beckett gives a low moan and wraps one strong arm around my waist, drawing me even more tightly into his embrace. He caresses my lower back, silently encouraging me to surrender. To completely let go. I do. There is no reserve, no holding back. His kiss deepens, becoming hard and unyielding. He coaxes my lips apart.

The touch of his tongue against mine is so incredible my knees go weak.

A thousand sensations flood me at once. I absorb the feel of his kiss, the sweet, spicy taste of his mouth, the possessive way he cups my ass. Pleasure curls my toes and spirals up my spine. I melt into him, lost in a dizzying vortex of heat and desire.

His hips press against mine as he draws me closer. My breasts flatten against his broad chest. In some dim corner of my mind I register how amazing his body feels against mine. He’s strong, hard, solidly male. Powerful thighs, muscular biceps, flat belly, broad chest. Every inch of him deliciously sculpted and toned. He awakes something primal within me. I can’t stop wanting him. Needing him.

I wrap my arms around his neck and return his kiss with reckless abandon, losing myself in the lusty rhythm of our embrace. He hooks his arm under my knee and lifts my leg, pressing my thigh against his hip. His hand traces my bare skin. We rock together in a rhythm of blind, throbbing need. Then, just as I’m certain I can’t take anymore, Beckett tears his lips from mine.

His breathing is ragged, harsh. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he says.

“I know.”

“It’s crazy.”

“I know.”

He nibbles my ear and licks the sensitive column of my throat. Shivers run down my spine. He reached for the topmost button of my blouse and unfastens it.

Shock courses through me. My hands fly up to cover his. “What are you doing?”

“Do you want me to stop?”

A beat. “No,” I confess.

Beckett lets out a sigh that can only be interpreted as intense relief. A slow, sinful smile curves his lips as he works another button free. “Thank God. Because I don’t think I could stand another day wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“Wondering if every inch of you is as goddamned gorgeous as I think it is.” He fumbles with the last button and my blouse falls open. Beckett’s eyes are fixed on my breasts, visible through my lacy beige bra. He clenches his jaw, then exhales slowly. “Yup,” he says. “I was right. Your body’s perfect.”

I give a shaky laugh. “No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is.” His eyes lock on mine, deadly serious. “Because it’s yours.”

I draw in a sharp breath. I could list a thousand things I don’t like about my body. But in that moment, I believe him. Beckett’s telling me I’m beautiful and I believe him. It’s an odd, thrilling sensation.