I stop, mid-chew, unable to hide the shock from my face. “Dude. Girlfriend?” In the time that I’ve known Warner, he has never once mentioned a girlfriend. Then again, he hasn’t talked about his personal life at all. If he didn’t have such a heavy accent, I wouldn’t even know where he was from. “How long has that been going on for?”

He scratches the back of his head and seems uncomfortable. “A year now, I think? I don’t know.”

“A year? Is she on the job?”

“Nope.”

“Wow. A year.” As much as all the cops I know say they hate dating other cops, dating non-cops—people who will never truly understand why we do what we do—rarely works out. I wonder if it’s different for FBI agents. Doubt it. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He simply shrugs and then turns on my pricey Canon digital camera that sits on the counter and begins flipping through the pictures. “These aren’t bad.”

I guess that’s all I’m getting out of Warner about his personal life. “You sound surprised.”

“What’s with all the trees?”

“That’s my homework assignment for the week.” When we were working on the cover details, I warned them that I couldn’t just sit in this condo all day every day. Not only would that look suspicious for a young, wealthy woman; I’d literally go insane. I couldn’t get a steady cover job because it would restrict my schedule, so we all agreed that I should tie up some of my time with hobbies that I can easily walk away from. I’ve always wanted to take a photography class, so two evenings per week, I head down to a camera store to congregate with my “class”—a small group of eight beginners plus an instructor—and learn all about lighting and filters and angles.

“Your homework assignment is trees?”

“Not just trees. ‘Trees in different light,’ ” I mimic my teacher, an eccentric little Asian man with a Mohawk who reminds me of Richard Simmons, minus the spandex jumpers.

“Sounds thrilling.” His dry tone tells me he doesn’t think so. He sets the camera down on the counter. “Keep out of trouble tonight. You hear?”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think 12’s the kind of guy to put a bullet in a girl’s head on their first date.”

“Not what I’m worried about,” Warner mutters. “Just be ready to tell him anything you have to, to make him back off.”

“What, like that he has to wait for my gonorrhea to clear up?” That only works on pimps wanting to sample the goods before they put a girl to work for them. Any other guy will turn and run.

“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.