Deeks kicked the bedroom door open, unsurprised when he found Tracey bent over the dresser, rifling through the drawers. She spun around, eyes widening as her hand strayed to the top of her dress.

"Jack, what are you doing?" she asked, voice missed with fear and outrage. He didn't buy it. Especially when he saw her eyes flit around the room, as if looking for a weapon or escape route.

"LAPD, down on your knees. You're under arrest," he ordered.

"LAPD?"

"I said get on the ground," Deeks repeated, raising his voice and gesturing to the ground with his chin. She started to protest again, then seemed to think better of it, raising her hands in the air and lowering to her knees with surprising grace despite her short dress and heels.

"Turn around."

Exhaling heavily, she shuffled around so her back faced him. Deeks approached her carefully, figuring she was fully capable of attacking him from this position. He clamped one of the cuffs over her wrist, feeling a small spark of regret that his instinct had been spot-on.

"If you're really LAPD, then you're making a huge mistake," she spoke up. He heard a spark of anger, and something that almost sounded like superiority in her voice now.

"Oh yeah, why's that? You gonna tell me some sob story about how you got lost in a two yard hallway? Or maybe you needed some money to find your stripper habit," he drawled.

"No.

"Because I'm a federal agent."

Deeks paused, with one handcuff still loose, considering the possibility. It would certainly explain her suspicious behavior; it could also be another lie.

"Oh yeah, what agency?" he asked. She twisted her neck just enough to look back at him.

"NCIS," she answered carefully.

"The Navy police?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

He almost smirked at the irritation in her voice.

"How do I know you're actually an agent?" he asked, not ready to let his guard down just because she knew the name of a more obscure federal agency.

"I could say the same about you."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he suggested.

"Fine. Can I turn around?"

"Ok, but no sudden moves."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said sweetly, shifting around on her knees and slowly reaching down to the hem of her dress. She lifted it to mid-thigh, flashing him a smirk when his gaze followed the movement. Apparently she had some kind of hidden pocket sewn into her dress, because a moment later she had an ID in her hand, and handed it over.

"Special Agent Kensi Blye. That's fancy."

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out his wallet, flipping to his LAPD ID.

"LAPD Detective Marty Deeks. Undercover unit," he introduced himself.

"Unbelievable," Kensi muttered. Deeks lowered his gun and she stood, holding out her cuffed wrist. "Would you mind?"

"Right. Sorry about that, but I thought you were getting ready to stab me with my own knife," he explains, quickly unlocking it. "Speaking of, why did you crash my case tonight?"

"My team is investigating a murder." Kensi lightly rubbed her wrist, then tugged her dress into place.

"Whose?"

"Mark Jackson. He was in frequent contact with you."

"Damn. Well, that makes things more complicated," he sighed. "Mark was an inside contact. And not a bad guy."

"That's all you have to say?" Kensi asked incredulously.

"Hey, I've been under for weeks. You're the new guy here. I'll have to explain what's going on to my boss before this goes any further."

"I guess I can't argue with that," she admitted. "I just have one question. How often do you go undercover at strip clubs? Cause it seemed to come pretty naturally to you," Kensi Blye said, chin tipped up in a clear challenge. Deeks chuckled, mildly impressed.

"I'm glad you appreciate the effort. It takes a lot of body oil and Velcro," he replied easily, grinning down at her. "My question is, how much time do you spend propositioning random dancers?"

She gaped at him for a second, making a shocked noise. "That was for the—I'm undercover too, you know."

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," he assured her. "It was pretty obvious you were freaking out when I suggested the lap dance. Though the whole Titanic bit was a nice touch."

Her cheeks flushed unexpectedly, and he titled his head, instinctively leaning closer.

"Wait, that was the truth?" This time he couldn't hold back an ecstatic grin as she fidgeted briefly, then threw her shoulders back.

"Maybe it was. For the record, you look nothing like Leonardo DiCaprio."

"Uh-huh, is that why you, uh, kissed me like that on the couch?" Her eyes dropped to his lips. "A couple more seconds and you would have hit home plate," he pointed out, dropping his voice a little as he dipped his head towards her.

"I thought you were a criminal, and I was just doing my job," she insisted. "You know what, I need to call my team." She held up her cell phone, easing past him.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Agent Blye."