When he called me to go out tonight, I immediately suggested the movies, knowing it was a way to be with him without deceiving my cover team or worrying about what might be said. I figured it’d be a good way to slow things down a bit, too, while still gaining his trust, keeping his attention. We could hold hands, steal a kiss or two without Warner or Bill hearing anything over the blasts of the speakers.

Of course I picked a gory movie, something to steer my mind and body away from the fact that I don’t want to just hold hands and kiss. That the devil on my shoulder convinced me to wear a short skirt, and that I was wet the second my ass hit the leather seat of his car.

I can’t believe I just allowed that to happen.

While wearing a wire!

With my cover team listening!

I’m sure that’s not the first time this back row has served a tawdry purpose. It happens often enough. Two years ago, I got called to the local AMC to bust two sixteen-year-olds for indecent exposure after they got a little carried away. There have been plenty of “incidents” of guys going in alone and coming out in handcuffs because they felt compelled to jerk off. So where the hell do I fit in, exactly? The horny teenager or the pervert?

Desperate for Luke. That’s what I am.

I was keeping an eye on the entrance from the second we sat down, watching for someone from my cover team. I didn’t notice any lanky male forms slipping into the shadows. Even if someone did, he wouldn’t be able to see what was happening.

Still!

What if I’m wrong and the Feds now have the sounds of me getting off recorded, for all to hear?

Needing some reassurance, I pull out my phone. “Oh my god,” I groan, clutching my stomach, as I see the four missed calls from Warner. My phone was on vibrate, but I can normally feel it through my purse. If I hadn’t been . . . distracted, I would have noticed it going off.

It starts vibrating again.

I manage a weak and croaky, “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“Restroom. Why?” I close my eyes. Here it is. It’s coming. I’m so screwed.

“12’s car just got jacked.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. “What!”

“Yup. Right out of the parking lot.” Warner starts laughing. “Serves him fucking right.”

“Who the hell—” I dive down to check the stalls for feet. It’s empty, fortunately, but I lower my voice anyway. “Who would take his car?”

“Whoever it is, I’m about to give them a medal.” I roll my eyes as Warner continues. “One guy, definitely a professional. Punched in the driver’s-side window and reprogrammed the keyless entry. Forty-five seconds, in and out. I timed it! Got it all on video, too.”

“You sure sound impressed,” I mutter, groaning.

“Oh, come on! You’ve gotta admit this is pretty damn funny.”

I purse my lips together. “Yeah. The jackass does deserve it.” But, oh, man, is Luke ever going to freak out. He loves that car. I look at my watch. There’s still about thirty minutes left in the movie. “Did you put a tail on it?”

“I called Franky. He caught up pretty easily and is following him right now.”

“ ’kay. What do you want to do, boss?”

“We can’t give the locals a heads-up until 12 reports it stolen. I’m hoping he’s got a high-end tracking system on it that this guy doesn’t get to first.”

I stuff my panties into my purse. As short as my skirt is, there’s no way I’m putting them back on after they’ve been on that floor. “Got it. I’ll get him out of here.”

I duck back into the theater in a completely different frame of mind than when I left five minutes earlier. Luke’s leaning back in his seat, legs spread casually, a smug smirk on his face.

“Hey, you wanted to leave, right?”

He reaches up to take my hand and pull me down. “No, we can stay. I know you really wanted to watch this.”

I shrug. “I’ve kind of lost track of things. I can always rent it another time. I figured we could head back to your place . . .” I let my words drift off as my hand wanders over his lap again. Yup, still rock hard.

Too bad that’s going to shrivel in about four minutes.

“It was right here, right? I’m not crazy, am I?” Wild eyes scan the parking lot as he hits the alarm button on his key fob for the tenth time. As if the car is magically going to appear.

“No, you’re not crazy, Luke. I’m sorry.” I stroke his arm soothingly. “You really should call the police now, before they get too far away. Maybe they can still find it.”

His hands push through his mane of hair, sending it into disarray as he comes to terms with the fact that his car was stolen. He pulls his phone out from his pocket, frantically dialing, his jaw set. “Yes, my car was stolen and you have a tracking system on it . . . Yup.”

“I hope whoever did this hasn’t found it yet,” I mutter, holding out no hope. Proficient thieves—and, by the sounds of it, this guy is—will find and disable one of those within minutes of pulling away from the steal site.

“They’d have to find all three,” Luke answers, a hint of his calm, confident demeanor returning.

Of course Luke would have not one, but three tracking devices on his car. I can guess who suggested that.

I wait quietly as Luke calls all three agencies. Sure enough, one has already been deactivated. But two are still intact, and the police are dispatched quickly. With those calls done, he dials someone else. “Hey, Rust? . . . You won’t fucking believe what just happened.” And then Luke just starts laughing.