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When they broke apart, she grinned. “Being undercover is fun. When can I do it again?”
ChapterSixteen
“Ihate when people are late.” Quaide’s statement came with a growl.
Clay shifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s the soldier in you talking. I’ve gotten used to the habits of humans over the years.”
Quaide paced to the front window and stared out at the driveway. “Are the Abel brothers always late?”
“Not the ones I’ve worked with. I’m less familiar with the work ethic of Julius and Jennings.” He didn’t get up from his position at the kitchen table.
Next to him, Lark exchanged a look with Clay. “Is he always this way?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“I can hear you.” Quaide paced back to the table, did an about-face and returned to the window.
“Why can’t we just go through the photos I took now? Why do the Abels need to be present?”
This time Quaide shifted his stare to Clay. Their gazes locked in an unspoken battle of wills. When Lark wasn’t paying attention, Clay had cornered his friend and told him that he wanted to delay things until he could convince Lark to step away from the shit they were dealing with.
Of course, Quaide had other views on the matter. One argument being that she took the photos and had the information stored in her head—they needed to hear the information from her.
Okay, that was true. But Clay thought that having the other guys here would be a great excuse for a task force-only meeting, and that would keep Lark from volunteering for some another dangerous job.
“We’re waiting for the Abels,” he told her firmly.
With a sigh, she sat back in her chair, arms folded. He couldn’t help but notice how she kept her phone gripped tight in her hand, as if she knew that he would happily snatch it from her if he got the chance.
Quaide continued to pace. The Abels were officially fifteen minutes late. And Lark was shooting Clay looks that had his jeans feeling more than a little snug.
He trailed his gaze over her hair. After the meeting, she grabbed a shower. The strands lay in damp curls, the ends drying in wisps. Her skin glowed.
When she came out dressed in a black men’s suit vest as a top and the shorts she’d worn before, he’d almost choked.
Quaide seemed to be studying her too. “Lark, where did you find that vest anyway?”
She glanced down at her chest. The buttons barely trapped her full breasts inside the garment. “In a closet upstairs. I hope it was okay to put it on. Getting dressed with almost no clothes to choose from, most of which don’t fit me anyway, hasn’t been easy.”
“I can see why—you’re not the average size. And it’s fine that you’re wearing that vest. I’m just surprised it still exists.”
She tilted her head. “Why is that?”
“It was mine. I wore it to my mom and stepdad’s wedding when I was twelve.”
Her spine stiffened. “Well, I’m glad it was hanging in the closet, even if I don’t relish the idea of being the size of a pre-pubescent boy.”
Clay stifled a snort. He needed her cooperative so he could ease her out of the situation they were in.
He also wanted her soft and pliant for his own reasons. The minute they were alone, he planned to worship every inch of her sumptuous body with his lips and tongue.
Quaide paced to the window and back three more times.
Clay nudged the empty kitchen chair with his boot. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
Heaving a sigh, Quaide crossed the space to lean against the counter.
“This house has good bones. A few weekend warrior projects, you’d have a nice place to live.”
