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well. Fragments of dreams hung vivid in his mind, most of them centered around Parker. Early on they’d been sensual—a safe outlet for the strong attraction he’d experienced for the younger man—but they’d morphed into something darker and more painful. The last thing he remembered was Parker in Dmitri’s place, blood bubbling from his lips and welling up between Ivan’s hands as he tried to save him from the gunshot.
    Ivan scrubbed a hand over his face. He wanted nothing more than to run into Parker’s room to see if he was okay, but that was stupid. This was a job, and Parker was a criminal. When Ivan got some evidence, Parker was going to jail, and Ivan could go back to his normal life. The sooner the better, if his dreams were any indication.
    He checked his phone, but there were no missed calls and no messages from Martelli. Gaining Parker’s trust was the first step. Until he learned Parker’s schedule and knew he could start snooping without getting caught, he couldn’t even start his investigation. But there were a few other things he could do in the meantime, including grab a few boxes of clothes and books from his place so it at least looked like he was moving in for real. He hadn’t even brought pajamas. Normally he slept naked, but it was different living with someone you weren’t fucking. He readjusted his briefs and swung out of bed.
    What he really needed was a shower, but he hadn’t even had the foresight to pack a towel. Who moved into a new place without even bringing a towel? God. If Ivan got killed on this op, it was going to be his own damned fault.
    Surely Parker had a towel he could borrow for a couple of days until he got himself sorted out. Ivan opened the door to the linen closet. The closet was just like something his mother would have—neat, tidy, everything folded. His own linen closet wasn’t nearly as neat. Nothing about this place was what he expected for either a drug dealer or a university student. Parker wasn’t what he expected, and he had to assimilate this information soon. Soft, fluffy white towel in hand, he shut the door, another original wooden door painted over in white. What he wouldn’t give to strip and refinish the wood in this place. Repaint the walls to a color more in keeping with the wooden trim. Then it would look even less like student housing.
     
     
    A FTER a cab, subway, streetcar, bus, and two and a half hours, Ivan arrived at his apartment with no tail. Having no car sucked, big time. How was he going to follow someone if needed? He had a sweet vehicular indulgence in the parking structure, but the new car was too distinctive, too memorable, and, most importantly, too registered to Ivan Bekker, not Ivan Baker.
    He unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside. Making the mental shift from Baker to Bekker was a bitch. Especially because this was no normal undercover operation. He was playing two different roles—not even his real life was the truth right now. Keeping track of the lies on both sides was going to be a challenge. A challenge he didn’t feel up to, unfortunately.
    After dialing headquarters, he got Simon’s cell phone number. If anyone could give him the scoop on Kurt’s condition, it would be Kurt’s partner on the force.
    Phone pressed to his ear, he sank down on the showroom sofa Colin had chosen and inexplicably hadn’t wanted when he’d moved out.
    Simon picked up after a couple of rings. “Trent speaking.”
    “Hey, Simon. It’s Ivan.” He paused for a moment. “Bekker. From the Drug Squad.”
    Simon chuckled, and his tone warmed up considerably. “I know which Ivan you are. Kurt came out of surgery just fine, and he’s awake. Well, he was awake. He’s sleeping right now.”
    Relief swamped him. “That’s great.”
    “I’m glad you called. I know Kurt enjoys hanging out with you.”
    Huh. Ivan hadn’t spoken much to Simon, but Kurt’s previous partner, Ben, had been on the Drug Squad before he’d