Becoming Rain: A Novel (The Burying Water Series), by K.A. Tucker
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Becoming Rain: A Novel (The Burying Water Series), by K.A. Tucker
Best Ebook PDF Online Becoming Rain: A Novel (The Burying Water Series), by K.A. Tucker
A suspense-driven New Adult romance novel from the USA TODAY bestselling author of Ten Tiny Breaths and Burying Water.Luke Boone doesn't know exactly what his uncle Rust is involved in but he wants in on it—the cars, the money, the women. And it looks like he's finally getting his wish. When Rust hands him the managerial keys to the garage, they come with a second set—one that opens up the door to tons of cash and opportunity. Though it's not exactly legal, Luke's never been one to worry about that sort of thing. Especially when it puts him behind the wheel of a Porsche 911 and onto the radar of gorgeous socialite named Rain. Clara Bertelli is at the top of her game—at only twenty-six years old, she's one of the most successful undercover officers in the Washington, DC, major crime unit, and she's just been handed a case that could catapult her career and expose one of the West coast's most notorious car theft rings. But, in order to do it, she'll need to go deep undercover as Rain Martines. Her target? The twenty-four-year-old nephew of a key player who appears ready to follow in his uncle's footsteps. As Clara drifts deeper into the luxurious lifestyle of Rain, and further into the arms of her very attractive and charming target, the lines between right and wrong start to blur, making her wonder if she'll be able to leave it all behind. Or if she'll even want to.
Becoming Rain: A Novel (The Burying Water Series), by K.A. Tucker- Amazon Sales Rank: #390959 in Books
- Published on: 2015-03-03
- Released on: 2015-03-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.00" w x 5.31" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 384 pages
Review "A smart and sexy thrill ride...Tucker's best writing yet." (Karina Halle USA Today bestselling author of Love, in English)“Tucker deftly steers the damsel-in-(serious, nearly fatal, possibly mob-related)-distress-rescued-by-a-knight-in-shining armor storyline, making these star-crossed lovers compelling. A sexy romantic, gangster-tinged page-turner.” (Kirkus Reviews on Burying Water)"Unique, engrossing, and heartbreaking. Burying Water is a mesmerizing read that will keep you captivated until the very last page." (Rachel Van Dyken #1 New York Times bestselling author)"Dark, ominous, and sexy...compelling from beginning to end." (Laura Kaye New York Times bestselling author on Burying Water)
About the Author K.A. Tucker is the author of the Ten Tiny Breaths and the Burying Water series. She currently resides outside of Toronto with her husband, two beautiful girls, and an exhausting brood of four-legged creatures.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Becoming Rain ONE LUKE I drop my glass onto the table with a heavy thud. “Miller can go. I’m ready to run the shop on my own.” Uncle Rust’s eyes wander over an attractive woman passing by, on her way to the restrooms of The Cellar, her hips swaying in rhythm with the throbbing bass. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready.” The mouthful of vodka barely quells the bitterness ready to leap from my tongue. “Seriously? What else do I need to do? Haven’t I proven myself yet?” I stare hard at him as he rolls his drink around inside his cheeks. Rust has always shown patience with me, but that’s a sign that his tolerance with my drunken persistence is running thin. “All good things come to those who wait.” “I have waited. Hell, I’ve done more than wait. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do! Do you think I enjoyed changing tires and going home every night stinking of motor oil?” He drops a hand down on my shoulder, slightly too hard. “All part of the plan, Luke.” The plan. Rust starting singing “the plan” song to me when I was thirteen. He pulled into our driveway one day, in his latest ride—a silver Cadillac—and dressed in a sharp-looking suit, and I told him I wanted to be just like him. I still remember his words. “Listen to me, kid, and I’ll set you up for life.” Eleven years later, I’m beginning to wonder if he really meant it. “Yeah, well, maybe you can enlighten me on this master plan of yours so I have a better handle on it. Like, why I’m looking at Miller’s ugly face across a desk and taking his bullshit. You said the garage would be mine by now.” Facing off against the current manager of Rust’s Garage—an overweight, under-groomed jerk who barks orders at me like I’m his personal bitch—every day for the past two months since Rust moved me from the mechanics bays to the office as “associate manager” is wearing on my nerves. Miller’s no idiot. He expects that at some point his fat ass will be evicted from that squeaky office chair to make room for me, and he’s been making me suffer for it since the day my feet hit that dirty concrete floor. “I need Miller there.” “Until when?” “Until I say so.” “And then what?” Rust keeps telling me I’m smart, I’m going to go far. I assume “going far” means more than the glory of filing paperwork, ordering parts, and being called “Nurse Boone” by a bunch of greasy mechanics for the rest of my life. The revenue from the garage isn’t bankrolling Rust’s high-end lifestyle; that much I know. Neither does RTM International, the online vehicles sales company he co-owns, though that company puts him on the map as a legitimate global businessman. I have a pretty good idea where his money comes from by now. But he has yet to admit anything to me and, until he does, I’m nothing more than an errand boy. He can be such a secretive son of a bitch, even when it comes to family. “I just . . .” I try to bite my tongue, but the dam breaks anyway. “Stop dangling this big plan in front of me like a diamond-encrusted carrot.” I get a sour smirk in response. “How about you stop whining like a pissy brat and spend all this energy establishing yourself as a leader. Run the garage as well as Miller does. Better than Miller. Learn how to deal with people. You’ll meet all kinds when you’re in charge and you’ve got to be personable and keep them all happy, kid. I didn’t build up that place so you can drive it into the ground with your smart mouth.” Same old spiel. “It’s hard to believe that’s really so important, considering you’ve got King Kong Grouch dealing with the customers right now.” Rust knows he doesn’t have to worry about my personality. I’m Prince Charming, for fuck’s sake. Just, maybe not after this much vodka . . . “The customers come back. Plus, he has the guys’ respect.” “That’s not respect. That’s working for a paycheck under constant threat. The dickhead told me he’d cut an hour from my pay today for being late. To my own fucking shop!” “It’s still my fucking shop,” Rust throws back, his tone warning. I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine. But I need to start making real money, Rust. My own money.” “You aren’t exactly suffering. I’ve taken good care of you.” His manicured fingertip taps the face of my gold Rolex—a hand-me-down from him when he upgraded last year. It’s part of the long list of gifts and cash that he’s easily doled out and I’ve gratefully accepted, just as easily as a son would accept something from his father. Because that’s the role Rust has played since I was six years old, ever since my dad skipped out on my mom, little sister, and me. I lean back against my bench, trying to decide if this argument is worth it. I know I can’t win. Rust’s an unmovable bastard when he wants to be. “I’m just tired of Miller’s crap,” is all I say. I’m tired of punching in and out every day, of working Saturdays. It’s a sucker’s life and it’s not one I have any interest in living. It’s the one Rust promised me I wouldn’t have to live. A harsh chuckle escapes Rust. “You’re only twenty-four years old. You’ve got too many years to go to be tired of people’s crap already. Go on . . .” He waves a lazy hand back toward the common area of the club—we’re sitting in the VIP section, as usual. It’s packed with bodies and thrumming with deep-bass trance music. “It’s a busy night here. Why don’t you cheer yourself up with a bliad.” I roll my eyes. Go find a whore and get laid. Classic Rust advice when he’s trying to blow me off. Sometimes I listen. It’s never hard to find one. Not in this place, not looking the way I do. Like money. That’s what these kinds of girls like. And I’ve never minded playing the part of a guy who has it if the night ends with one of them naked and on her back in front of me. I down the rest of my drink and flick the empty glass across the table. “I’m going home.” “Probably a good idea. You’re obnoxious tonight. Doubt you’d impress anyone in your state.” I have no interest in impressing anyone tonight. Not even Priscilla—a bartender and a sure thing, if she hasn’t already dug her claws into a true high roller for the night. “When you hear that I’ve beaten Miller to death with that fucking stapler of his, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I slide out of our booth to the sound of Rust’s booming laughter. Pushing my way through the crowd, I keep my head down to avoid all conversation. A sudden splash of cold liquid hits my chest, doing nothing to cool my simmering rage.|Becoming Rain TWO CLARA “I’m so sorry!” I peer up through the dim club lighting to take in his face. It’s angular and masculine. He’s far prettier than the pictures do justice. And, by the deep furrow and the clenched teeth, he’s also oh so pissed. He’s too busy glaring at the tumbler’s worth of Coke that I just dumped all over his steel-blue shirt to even bother a glance up at me. “Fucking perfect,” I hear him mumble. “Let me get that dry cleaned for you. Please,” I offer, my voice a seductive purr, hoping the view down the front of this slutty overpriced dress will finally grab his attention. I place my hand flat against his stomach as I step into his personal space. Physical contact usually works. Instead, he shoulders past me, pushing through the crowded bar and toward the exit. Shit. I didn’t nurse a drink on this bar stool for the past two hours with the better part of my breasts on display so this asshole could ignore me. Again. Tossing a twenty on the counter, which will more than cover my bill, I weave through the other patrons, trying not to be too obvious as I chase after him. He’s at least two hundred pounds of muscle and he’s carrying himself well, but I watched him chug six glasses of vodka. He’s got to be drunk. By the time I get up the narrow stairs of the underground club to the side street, Luke Boone is in the back of a cab and speeding off, leaving me staring at the taillights as they disappear around a corner, my ever-growing frustration weighing down on my shoulders. “Strike five for Rain Martines,” I mutter, picking my way along the sidewalk in my painful stilettos to where my white Audi sits. “ ‘It’ll be easy,’ they said . . .” I slam the door shut behind me. “ ‘He’ll be all over you.’ ” I start the engine and lean back against the headrest. And sigh. “This isn’t going to work.” My phone rings in response. “Who told you this would be easy?” Warner’s heavy Boston accent fills the car’s speakers as it kicks into Bluetooth mode. “Don’t give up just yet, Clara. What happened tonight?” I fumble with the gold dragonfly pendant around my neck until I feel the minuscule switch on the back. I flick it, deactivating the listening device. “You heard what happened.” “Walk me through it. Step by step.” I pull out of the parking lot and make the five-minute drive home, filling my handler in on the night’s events: how I watched my target stride to the booth—the same booth in the VIP section that he always sits at—as if he were on a mission, pour glass after glass of vodka from the bottle and toss it back, get into what looked like a heated conversation with his uncle, and then suddenly stand up and storm through the crowd. How I did the first thing I could think of to stop him. “He didn’t even look at me,” I admit and, after a long pause, add, “I’m not his type, Warner.” Despite the posh outfit and the top-to-bottom grooming I’ve undergone to transform into the prototype of what Luke Boone typically brings home, I have yet to earn so much as a sideways glance from him. “Yeah, you are. He just hasn’t laid eyes on you yet.” “And probably never will, at this rate.” “Impossible.” I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “How many nights can I hang around that club, dressed like an escort, before you guys realize that you’ve got the wrong undercover on this?” It pains me to admit that. “Fifteen minutes. Your place.” The phone line cuts out, leaving me to brood over my impending failure alone. Weeks of case preparation, down the drain. I don’t know what I was thinking. When my boss called me in to his corner office and introduced me to the man in the suit filling the spare chair, my life changed. Assistant Director Josh Sinclair wanted me. Or, more appropriately, the FBI wanted me—twenty-six-year-old Officer Clara Bertelli from the Washington, D.C., Major Crime Unit. They had a big case, one that stretched internationally, one they’ve been working for eighteen months. After two failed attempts to infiltrate the group, they were trying a new strategy and it required a very specific profile. One that they failed to find in their database of FBI agents, so they were reaching beyond their organization, as they sometimes do. They had been searching for a suitable undercover for weeks, and then my file hit their radar and winning bells went off. My youthful look, my cool demeanor, my impeccable arrest record, my compelling court testimonials, even my diligent case notes . . . Sinclair said I was exactly what they were looking for. Then he asked me if I was interested in being a part of what could be one of the biggest car theft ring busts in U.S. history. My own set of winning bells went off. I didn’t give it a moment’s thought before I answered with an exuberant “Hell, yeah.” But maybe I should have considered it a bit more. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed it’d be as easy as a hooker sweep or busting some idiot john. All I thought about was what this could mean to my career if I succeeded—ideally a job in the Bureau, exactly where I want to be. A bit of my own digging uncovered that Assistant Director Sinclair is the kind of guy that can make that happen. Maybe I should have considered what it would mean if I failed, where I could land if I don’t pull this off. A very likely possibility, if the past few weeks have been any indication. I park my Audi in my private garage, appreciating the luxury car’s handling ease. Part of my undercover persona and definitely one of the perks, as is everything else that now surrounds me. Back home, my real life consists of a drafty one-bedroom apartment with cracked tiles and a squeaky fridge, a ’95 Jeep Wrangler with more miles on it than a retired cargo plane, and chain store clothing bought at 50 percent off. Sixty grand a year with student loan debt hardly buys me more. I’m not complaining—I’ve always loved my job and my life. But then I take a smooth ride in this mirrored elevator that will lead me to the top floor with the slip of a key and step into “my” loft-style designer condo—with the computerized control panel for the lighting and sound system to my left, floor-to-ceiling windows to my right, and everything from Miele kitchen appliances to Brazilian walnut floors and travertine tile in between—and I get to experience how the other side lives. A lifestyle I will never afford to have on a regular cop salary. I have to admit, it’ll be hard to leave some of this behind. Kicking off my shoes, I head over to the wall of windows and take a peek out around the shades that are always drawn. A few condos in the twin boutique loft building next to mine are still lit, but most sit in darkness. There’s only one I really care about, though. The one with my target in it. Maybe the Feds thought this would be a cute, kismet story for Rust Markov’s nephew and me to giggle over when I finally succeeded in winning his attention—the fact that we have a perfect view into each other’s lavish homes. I certainly do, anyway. Luke doesn’t seem to believe in drawing window covers, regardless of time or state of dress. I haven’t yet figured out whether it’s due to ignorance or arrogance. Flashes of light from the TV on the wall fill his living room, each burst highlighting his body, now clad in nothing but boxer briefs and a T-shirt. As with every other night for the past few weeks, I watch him drop down to the white shag rug and begin the nightly regime of crunches and push-ups that give him those hardened muscles. Without fail, drunk or not, he will go through this routine, his bulldog stretched out next to his head, tongue lolling. I’ve caught my own tongue lolling once or twice, when I had a brief lapse in memory and forgot what Luke Boone really is. For all else that he may be, he has a body and face for magazine covers. Too bad he’s a budding criminal. At least, that’s the assumption. That’s why I’m here. I wonder if the women he brings home know. Or care. I’m guessing not. They’re not the type to care about much except what he can buy them. From what I’ve seen in the reports, the joke’s on them because this guy doesn’t wine and dine anyone. He’s after only one thing and he gets it. Thankfully, on the few nights I’ve witnessed a “guest” trail him through the door, the women had enough modesty to draw the blinds in his bedroom. With a heavy sigh of frustration, I head to the pretty watercolor painting that hides my safe. I pull the case files for 12—our code name for Luke Boone—out, dropping them on the coffee table, one hand on my zipper as I head to the bedroom to peel off this uncomfortable dress and change into sweats. I come back to find a six-foot shadow at my window, stealing the same glance across the way at our target that I had not five minutes ago. “Would you stop using your key? I could have been naked.” “I was hoping,” Warner throws back over his shoulder. I offer up a bottle of Chianti. He waves it away, instead helping himself to a can of Harpoon—a Boston I.P.A. beer that he insists on stocking in my fridge—before dropping his big body into my white leather sectional. I flop into the couch next to him. “I just don’t know . . .” “What don’t you know, Bertelli?” Warner stretches long legs out over my coffee table, fanning the thick folder of surveillance notes that I just set down over the glass. “That you’re a smart cop? That you were handpicked by the F.B.I. for a reason?” I smile, giving his knee a friendly pat. “I can always count on you for a motivational pep talk.” “We all knew this wouldn’t be a cakewalk.” “No, I know. I just . . .” I yawn, the adrenaline that kept me wired through the night finally seeping from my body, leaving me weary. “We’ve been pinning all our plans on the expectation that 12’s going to fall to his knees at the sight of me. Dog me around and tell me whatever I want to know. That’s clearly not the case.” I won’t lie; privately, it’s a hit to my ego. I’ve never had a hard time attracting a target’s attention. With my long, wavy chestnut hair, olive skin, and light blue eyes, we all assumed I was Luke Boone’s type. On paper, I am. But either something else is at play or I just don’t quite fit into the lineup of gold-digging beauties. Warner sucks back a mouthful of beer, his face pensive. “You said he was fighting with 24 tonight?” The Feds are so clever with their code names. “Looked that way.” Warner shrugs. “Drunk . . . arguing with the uncle . . . last thing he’s in the mood for is putting any work into a woman.” “I guess . . . But what about last time?” He hadn’t noticed me last week either, and I had made sure my steps were as slow and purposeful as a peacock’s as I strutted past his table on my way to the restroom, my provocative dress clinging to my ass. “He took the bartender home.” Warner stares at me like that answer says it all. Finally, my blank look compels him to elaborate. “Guaranteed lay with no effort and no hassle. He obviously wanted something easy that night.” I roll my eyes. “He definitely had that.” And I got an eyeful, making it home just in time to see her do a Full Monty sashay to the bedroom blinds to draw them. Months’ worth of surveillance—pictures, written reports, videos—mark Priscilla Grishin as Boone’s “go-to girl.” Nothing more, nothing less. They’re certainly not exclusive. “I’m just not sure this is going to work. I mean . . . these women . . .” I let my words drift off. These women, they’re not common prostitutes working to pay their rent, like the ones I normally deal with. Like the ones I’ve learned to emulate. These ones stalk through life with their stunning faces and perfect figures—either naturally granted or acquired with the help of a plastic surgeon—with the single goal of climbing the boyfriend ladder until they reach the top and become the wife of a rich husband who will cater to their every high-maintenance need. They’re vapid. Insecure. Unkind. I can’t stand their type. And I can’t stand the kind of guys who are attracted to them. “These women ain’t got nothin’ on you, kid.” His eyes dip down to survey my body, which, while well cut from a strict gym regime, can’t possibly look appealing right now. I smack his stomach, a smile creeping out from behind my frustrations. At thirty, FBI Special Agent Warner Briggs is what a lot of women look for in their ideal man. Tall, athletic build, dark hair, square jaw. As charming as a southern boy, though he grew up in South Boston. Extremely successful. The first day he was introduced to me as my handler and lead cover on this case, I’ll admit I took a second glance. He certainly did the same of me. But I won’t let my career or my goals get derailed by flings with coworkers and I have no interest in dating another cop. That just has disaster written all over it. Female officers already have it hard enough, without adding on opportunities to be accused of sleeping our way to the top. Besides, Warner has quickly become a friend and sounding board. Something I need far more desperately than a good lay. “Come on, Warner. Honestly, between you and me . . . what did they think was going to happen if I actually managed to grab 12’s attention? Look at his file!” I gesture at it. Three months of gathering intel on Luke Boone. Five one-night stands. Three overnight visits with his bartender. “The guy’s not looking for a wife. He’s not looking for romance, or even great conversation. He’s bringing them home for the one thing I won’t give him! They would have been better off with an informant for this. At least they’re not bound by the same rules.” Warner barks out a laugh. “Come on, Clara! Sinclair’s not gonna use an informant for a role like this. They’re too unreliable. Winning this case will move him up in rank, and Sinclair’s all about rank.” He stretches an arm over the back of the couch in a playful way. “Don’t worry, you’ve got this. All you have to do is string twelve along. Let him think that he’s got a shot at you. That you’re special.” “I am special,” I mutter, earning his snort. “But this isn’t a guy you can string along. He’s not into virginal girls and he’s not looking to make money off me.” In hindsight, how the Feds thought putting an undercover on this target with the hopes of luring him with mere words and seductive gestures is beyond me. Desperation—that’s the only explanation I can come up with. They have plenty of evidence at the low level but nothing connecting it all, nothing concrete enough to pull the entire organization down. Not to mention two failed efforts by undercover agents to gain a foothold into the top level, attempting to earn their trust and friendship. Apparently, neither Rust Markov nor Luke Boone is interested in making new male friends. Female “friends,” however . . . Warner shrugs. “You say whatever you need to say to hook him.” I sigh, knowing that Warner’s not going to give me the satisfaction of agreeing. He’s 100 percent committed to the job. “Well, I can’t sit in that bar week after week. People are going to start noticing.” “I’ll get the guys to rotate. Make it look like they’re hiring you for the night.” I shake my head. “Too risky. None of the girls 12 takes home are escorts. That may turn him off.” “Okay then . . .” He leans forward to scoop up the case files, tossing them onto my lap. “What’s gonna work? You’re the one with your neck on the line. You’re looking to go Fed. This is a big deal for you. So you tell me . . .” He stabs the stack of paper with his index finger. “What’s our next move, boss?” That’s one of the things I like most about Warner. He could be an arrogant, condescending dick. The big-show FBI agent versus a mere metro cop pawn. But he’s been nothing but a team player from day one. In fact, he reminds me a lot of the guys I work with back home. A tight group who take every opportunity to joke around and let loose, knowing how much we all need the release from what we see in our day-to-day. Sipping on my wine, I start flipping through the pages of candid shots. Luke Boone is a decidedly handsome target by anyone’s standards, with wavy caramel-brown hair that he styles in a sexy mop and clothing that’s tailored to a well-honed body, courtesy of daily jogs with his dog and workouts in his building’s gym. Son of Oksana Boone, single mother to him and his younger sister, Ana Boone. Biological father’s whereabouts unknown. Nephew of Rust Markov, who has raised him like a son, footing his tuition for a bachelor’s degree in business, followed by two years in a mechanics program. The nephew of a man pegged as the leader behind one of the West Coast’s biggest car theft rings by a confidential informant avoiding heroin-dealing charges. The nephew who seems glued to his uncle’s side, who is now stepping into a managerial role at one of Rust’s legitimate businesses—a car repair garage—and who lives in a million-dollar condo that his uncle gifted to him, either out of the goodness of his heart or to protect his assets. The nephew who the Feds believe is being groomed to step into a leadership role in the car theft operation. “Be thankful. He could have been your target.” Warner taps a shot of Rust Markov leaving his office one afternoon. A man I can’t wait to see stripped of his Versace suits and sleeping in a bunk bed behind bars for a very long time. “Wouldn’t be the worst I’ve had.” At forty-five years old, Rust’s fit and by no means bad looking. Likes younger women, from what I know. “May have been easier.” “No, it wouldn’t. 24’s smart. You need the dumb nephew. Kid’s too new. Get him comfortable, get him drunk . . . He’ll slip and, when he does, we’ve got him.” “I just don’t know what the best way in is with this guy. I don’t think it’s the bar scene.” Heaving himself off my couch, Warner strolls over to the kitchen to drop his empty on the counter. “We have a few more weeks before the warrant’s up. Sleep on it. We’ll regroup in the morning.” “ ’kay. Night,” I call out as the condo door shuts. As tired as I am, I know that the stress of looming failure—of being sent back to D.C. to bust pimps and drug addicts—is going to keep me up. I’m half-tempted to drink wine until I pass out, but I’ll only feel worse tomorrow. Not that I have anywhere that I need to be. So I start flipping through the case files, beginning to end, like I’ve done over a hundred times. Luke Boone’s schedule is pretty basic: he’s either at the garage, at a club with his uncle, working out, or “entertaining” one female or another. There have been no reports of him disappearing into warehouses or storefronts at erratic hours of the night. The team’s never lost track of him in the few hours per day that they’re on him. Unlike his Uncle Rust, who continuously slides through their surveillance detail like a bar of wet soap. Frankly, there’s no solid evidence that Luke Boone has any involvement with this ring. Only speculation. Enough to get a sixty-day warrant from the judge. I need to spend time with him to get a better read. Surveillance tapes and reports give me only background. They help me to speculate about what he might respond best to. So far, all of our speculations have been wrong. Closing the file, I pack everything back up into the hidden safe and pull out my personal phone, checking it for any messages. My parents are aware that I’ll be away for an indefinite amount of time on a case. That’s all they know, though, and that’s all I can tell them. As far as my mother is concerned, I’m only ever sitting at a desk, working behind-the-scenes detail. If she knew what I was actually doing—the kind of danger I put myself in on a daily basis—she’d beg me to quit with tears in her eyes and Sicilian prayers rolling off her tongue. If they could see me now . . . This loft is a far cry from the small, semi-detached house they’ve owned for the past thirty-one years, complete with the original stiff-backed floral couches and the large vegetable garden they tend to in the backyard. It’s nothing special, and yet it’s their dream come true after immigrating to America from a small town outside Palermo, Sicily, with nothing but one suitcase of clothes and my grandmother’s white linen tablecloth. It took almost ten years and at least four honest jobs between the two of them at all times—my mother in bakeries, my father as a janitor—to scrounge up enough money for the down payment. My brother Dino, older than me by eleven years, remembers those years being tough. Socks with darned toes and jeans with patches in the knees, used toys for Christmas, summer vacations at local parks. Cold winters, to save on electric bills. By the time I came along—an accident when my parents were in their mid-thirties—they were living in luxury by comparison. Still, it’s nothing like what I’m living right now. No calls from the family tonight, which doesn’t bother me. I talk to them enough. A few texts from my girlfriend Aubrey, telling me about the upcoming girls’ weekend that I won’t be going to because I’m 2,300 miles away. It bothers me a little bit but I’m used to it. I miss a lot of birthdays and holidays and getaways because of my job. What I still haven’t gotten used to is not seeing a message from David, my latest ex-boyfriend. Nine months of messages all day—every day—until I came home with a black eye and busted lip from a takedown and he decided that he can’t handle being with a cop. I really liked this one, too. I thought he might be different. Stronger. I thought I’d prove my police college instructor and that author with her PhD label wrong. That keeping a relationship in this field isn’t as hard as they made it out to be. I still have that stupid paperback that they handed us in class, about loving a cop. It’s at home, collecting dust. At first I thought it was a joke, until I started flipping through the pages and digesting everything I should expect in the years to come. How the long shifts and overtime coupled with the daily hazards earn this field high divorce rates. How the things I see every day make it hard for me to carry on a normal dinner conversation. How I’ll have a difficult time meeting men to begin with because of all the trust issues I’ll develop, dealing with liars all day long. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I pushed it off as a stereotype that wouldn’t fit me. I hoped that being aware of the challenges would prepare me enough to avoid them. The dozen or so failed relationships since then have proven that little pocket book not so stupid after all. My mentor—a staff sergeant in her early forties, who’s been divorced twice now—only validated it by warning me to expect a whole lot of heartbreak before I find the right relationship. If I ever do. Dating a female cop may be a fantasy involving handcuffs and wild sex, but marrying one isn’t a reality most guys can stomach. The day she told me that, three days after David ended things, I went home and cried into a bottle of red wine. With one last gun check—a habit more than anything else—I lock everything back up into the safe and head for bed. My mind is still spinning, in search of the way into Luke Boone’s life. I have only a few shots at this before accidental run-ins become too much of a coincidence. Another glimpse past my bedroom blinds finds him now stretched out on his back, a flurry of cars racing across his television screen. His arm is wrapped around his dog’s body, and he’s stroking its belly with slow, affectionate movements. When I look at him, all I see is just another twenty-four-year-old guy. A guy I might meet at a party or at the club. A guy my friends and I would definitely notice, would probably drool over. Who I’d gladly give my number to. A guy I’d go home with if I had one too many drinks and needed a release. A guy I wouldn’t believe could be involved in something that left two children without a father. But that’s the thing with so many of the worst kinds of criminals. They don’t wear signs, they don’t don a uniform. They’re hiding in plain sight. It’s my job to reveal Luke for what he truly is, which will reveal the man we’re really after—his uncle. But how? Women. Dogs. Cars. Three things that seem to grab Luke’s attention. I’m an attractive, smart, confident woman—you have to be both smart and confident in a job like mine or you could end up dead—so I have that going for me. You also have to be a little crazy, but I hide that well. Maybe the issue isn’t me; maybe it’s the surroundings. I need to find a better place to meet. A place he can’t possibly miss me. Yes. I hit “one” on my phone’s speed dial. Warner picks up almost immediately. “Hey, I think I have an idea.” I smile. “But it involves messing around with that beautiful car of mine.”|Becoming Rain PROLOGUE CLARA It’s a modest Seattle suburban home, with two stories, steep gables, and cream-colored siding. A row of artless bushes lines the walkway, courtesy of the builder’s unimaginative landscaping. It looks exactly like the house to its left and too similar to the house to its right. And yet the number above the garage marks this house as altogether unique. I hunch down in the passenger seat of the cruiser, just enough to spy the glow from the second floor through the cold drizzle. A bay window frames the blond woman swaying, the little boy curled within her arms, his cheek resting against her shoulder in a way that suggests he’s asleep. “Where are they going to go?” I ask, eyeing the large “For Sale” sign staked into the front lawn. Just another thing for the neighborhood to look at as they throw sympathetic glances on their way by. “She can’t make the mortgage,” Officer Burk confirms through a casual sip of coffee, its pungent aroma filling the car’s interior. “Her parents have a farm outside the city. Sounds like that’s where they’re heading.” “He had no life insurance? Nothing?” “She had to take a loan out on the house just to pay for the funeral.” A dull pang throbs in my chest as I watch Betty-Jo Billings drift over to the window, listless eyes resting on the driveway below, where puddles of water pool in the indents formed by the tires that used to sit there. The exact place where her husband waved to her for the last time before climbing into the passenger side of his cherry-red Ford F-250. The truck he had advertised for sale on Craigslist. The truck he was allowing a prospective buyer to test drive. Seattle police found Wayne Billings’s body fourteen days later in a city dump. The truck hasn’t turned up and it probably never will. No witnesses to interrogate, except for Wayne’s wife, and all they could get from her was that the driver wore a baseball hat and he was dropped off by someone in a dark sedan. She hadn’t been paying any real attention and I understand why. With a two-year-old hanging off her leg and a three-week-old baby in her arms, the poor woman was asleep on her feet, exhausted. When Wayne left, all she was probably thinking about was the family-friendly minivan they would buy with the cash from the truck. The wipers swish back and forth in a monotonous song and heat blasts out from the dashboard to counter the chill in the damp spring air. I arrived on the West Coast one week ago and, though locals swear it’s not usually this bad, it hasn’t stopped raining. I don’t mind it at all. I find it soothing, actually. “It’s a real shame. Everyone says he was a decent guy. His kids will never get to find out,” Burk murmurs in that wearied voice that tells me that this is just another case to him. He has succumbed to the job. It’s not his fault; it’s how many cops learn to deal with the kinds of things we see every day. Detachment. The case sits open, but the local police force has pretty much written it off. I knew that the second I made the request for the files. Under a generic guise of a Washington, D.C., cop researching similar cases on the East Coast, of course. None of these guys knows why I’m really here. I peer up at the little boy’s angelic face again. And make a silent promise that Rust Markov—and anyone tied to him—will pay.
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7 of 7 people found the following review helpful. Well crafted, intriguing, and suspenseful By Misha Review originally posted at The Book Enthusiast: http://thebookenthusiast.net/becoming....It is difficult for me to believe that it was only a few short months that I discovered K.A. Tucker. Burying Water was one of my favorite books of 2014, so naturally I was looking forward to picking up the next book in the series, Becoming Rain. Tucker certainly did not disappoint with a solid story filled with the perfect balance of suspense and romance. It had a different feel than Burying Water for me, yet it still had that unique and captivating quality that I love so much about Tucker’s writing. It was clear that she put a great deal of time and effort into her research for this book, and it definitely showed in the fascinating level of detail in the story.Luke Boone is in line to be the owner of his Uncle Rust’s car garage. He knows that his uncle is involved in some shady business practices, but the pull of the lifestyle is difficult to resist. With hot cars, a wealth of attractive women, and a plenty of money at his disposal, Luke is living the high life. Clara Bertelli is a successful undercover police officer charged with bringing down a notorious car theft ring. As rich socialite Rain Martines, Clara has to set her sights on Luke in order to crack the case. Unfortunately for Clara, she discovers that not everything is black and white when it comes to her feelings for her target.Clara was a strong and likeable heroine. While she was at the top of her game career-wise, she struggled with not knowing if she would be able to find a man who would understand and support her job. Rain’s life was completely different from Clara’s real one, and she soon began to understand how people could be attracted to the world Luke and Rust inhabited. It was clear that she truly cared about Luke, and eventually her affection for him caused her to start blurring the lines between right and wrong. I definitely felt for her being in a situation where she had to find a way to do her job and also protect the man she loved.I have to say that Luke was different than I had expected after reading Burying Water. On the surface he seemed selfish, but as I was able to get to know him better it became apparent that he was lost and needed some direction in his life. I completely understood that Luke felt a deep loyalty to Rust for everything he had done for him and his family. However, as the story progressed I saw glimpses of a kind and compassionate Luke who had the potential to do something more with his life. I ached for him knowing that the Rain he knew was not real, and that he was on the road to heartbreak.Clara and Luke’s story was well crafted and perfectly paced. It had the romance I love intertwined with an intriguing and suspenseful plot that made me eager to see what would happen next. I appreciated that neither character was perfect. They both made mistakes, but I was still able to relate to and root for them. I loved the symbolism of Rain’s name and what it meant to Clara and Luke’s journey in this book. Tucker did a fantastic job of creating an engrossing story that kept me on my toes and also evoked genuine emotion within me. Becoming Rain was exactly what I have come to love and expect from this talented author.*An advance copy of this book was received in exchange for an honest review.*
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. 3 out of 5 stars By Anaïs Neumann 3 out of 5 StarsClara Bertelli is the new agent placed on a huge car-theft ring case. She is going undercover as Rain, and her target is the 24-year-old nephew of one of the key-players, who appears to be following in his uncle's footsteps. However, as she dives into the case and gets closer to handsome Luke Boone, her guts tell her that he could still be saved.How will she be able to do her job and still keep Luke's trust?What I loved about this book:The original conceptWhat I felt needed improvement:The main charactersThe pace of the storyThe rushed endingWhile I loved Burying Water - the first book in the series, I'm afraid Becoming Rain didn't quite do it for me.I felt like both main characters were just mediocre. Luke was a just a mediocre male main character because he love 'em and leaves 'em (that's before he meets Rain, of course) and he has absolutely no idea what his uncle is actually involved in (or rather he has an idea, but he chooses to ignore). And once he receives what he wants, which is more ownership of his uncles "business", he literally pees his pants but still doesn't make the decision to not get further involved. He's neither boyfriend material nor a good gangster.Now don't get me started on Rain aka Clara. I liked her personality - she wanted to bring down Luke's uncle Rust's organization, but as she got closer to Luke and found out that he's not a bad guy, she completely falls for him and risks a lot for his benefit - and for proving that he is not involved. Honestly, I loved the idea, but it was not plausible at all. She was such a "bad" cop that she would have never made it in this job in real life. Especially since it feels like this is her first mission: she falls for Luke's pretty face, and she blurts out personal facts in almost every sentence despite the fact that she's supposed to seduce a potential criminal involved in murder cases. "What would you say if I told you that I've done some illegal stuff?" I'd say don't tell me, dammit! Don't admit it. Don't crush the tiny, stupid hope burning bright in my chest that everything is just one big misunderstanding.I loved the writing. K.A. Tucker writes great stories - complete mindforks - as evidenced by Burying Water . Becoming Rain is no exception here (as far as the writing goes, which is beautiful), even though I would have loved more detailed steamy scenes. If you were expecting some sexy time, you'll be fairly disappointed. Just like you might be disappointed at some aspects of the plot, which I felt was lacking. It is not so twisted and dark as the in the previous book, and some things were quite predictable. Some things also really dragged on although in the end of the story, everything was just way too rushed.Especially where the relationship between Luke and Rain is concerned. Do you sincerely believe that an undercover agent can get back to his/her target after the reveal and still engage into a sincere, trusting relationship? Apparently, according to K.A. Tucker, it is possible and fairly easy. But I don't think that way and would have loved to become familiar with the logistic. Especially if undercover agents continues working with the feds and i dating her ex-target. There it is again: the completely not-plausible aspect of this story. A relationship that somehow works without too many obstacles. And believe me, there should have been plenty of obstacles here but the author chose not to go there. Unfortunately. "All I want to do is lean forward and kiss him. Steal him away from the bad stuff, convince him to start over because I believe he isn't beyond saving yet."Yep, so all in all, not a first-class read for me. It was one of those books I dragged on and on. It took me almost 4 days to read it when my average is 2. I will not give up on K.A. Tucker though, and will be looking forward to the next release, hoping the MCs will be great, strong characters, such as Jesse and Alex from Burying Water .
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful. 3.5 Stars By Sandra Renee Farmer I’m a big KA Tucker fan. Ten Tiny Breaths blew me away. It’s one of the few books that I’ve actually made time to re-read in the last year. The other books in her Ten Tiny Breaths series were good, but not AS good to me. Then KA Tucker comes out with a new series, right? I thought Burying Water was just going to be released as a standalone initially, but I was immediately drawn to Luke from that book, and so I was excited to hear that he was getting his own book. Burying Water was actually a bit of a letdown for me. My issue wasn’t that Burying Water was so different from the Ten Tiny Breaths series but that one of the major plot points came up against something I just have a hard time getting behind. I didn’t feel like I could root for the characters like I wanted to. And that’s one thing I was worried about when I read the description of Becoming Rain as well.Even though I was drawn to Luke from Burying Water, it was easy to see that Luke was way too comfortable with the world that he was getting pulled into. Despite it not being specifically stated that his uncle’s other businesses were illegal, Luke’s not an idiot. He knew that Rust was dealing with some bad people. Luke was involved with everything that went down with Alex and Jesse in Burying Water. He knows that although the garage and Rust’s other legit businesses are doing really well they don’t make Porche-911-kinds of money.And here’s where I struggled with Becoming Rain, how can an undercover agent respect someone who is eyes open walking into this world? And that’s where I get frustrated with this book. Sure, Luke has a soft spot for animals, family, and the elderly/homeless. But does that equal enough reason for a police officer to fall in love with a criminal? And “fall in love” is the key there. Sure they spend time together, but more than anything, I just felt like Clara was attracted to Luke physically and she closed her eyes to everything else. I hoped Luke wouldn’t get drawn into Rust’s side businesses, but then that wouldn’t have made for much of a story would it?When I try to look past my small issue of whether or not this relationship could actually work given the circumstances and whether or not these two could overcome the lies their relationship is built upon (IRL I think the answer to that would be a big fat “no”) then I found myself enjoying this book. I read it in one sitting. I pretty much made up my mind that I was going to read until I was done, and I did. The writing style was easy to read and flowed from one event to the next nicely. I highlighted a good bit, but most of that included notes like “idiot” and “I’m only going to back this relationship if she can respect him,” etc.All in all (without spoiling as much as I can), Becoming Rain was also a letdown for me. Again, I felt like even though I liked the characters individually, I just couldn’t back their decisions. I couldn’t see why they were in love. And I don’t think a relationship built like this and lacking such a necessary component as respect could really stand the test of time. I enjoyed the story, but it didn’t feel realistic in these areas. I feel like there’s more to say, but that’s the gist of it. Becoming Rain gets 3.5 Stars from me. Here’s hoping that Chasing River will be about some characters I can fully get behind. Have you read Becoming Rain? What did you think? Let me know!
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