Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  “I’m in law school and I work full time for the CIA. In case you haven’t noticed, that can kind of take over your life. I don’t have time for anything else. Anything,” I repeat.

  He frowns. “That’s too bad. You know what they say about all work and no play, right?”

  I toss off a gesture at the van’s control panels, equipment, disguises. “If your work uses this many toys, I’m pretty sure that rule doesn’t apply.”

  Elliott laughs again. Something in his eyes changes, as if my sarcasm is making him reexamine me.

  Ugh. It’s bad enough he examined me once.

  “So what’s the next move?” Elliott asks.

  “For . . . ?”

  “Us?” he finishes my question, like I’m being super dense.

  Not dense — just not. Interested. In talking about any form of “us.”

  “And SARD?” Elliott finally finishes.

  Oh. Right. That. “His officer set up a signal to try to finish their meeting tonight.”

  He gives a low whistle. “A lot of stuff to talk about. Intel? Defection? Think they need options papers”

  I roll my eyes. “We’re only here for support.”

  “And we’ll be here tonight, too?”

  “Guess so.” Good thing I finished up that paper for Legal Ethics and Professional Responsibility already.

  Elliott beams at me. “It’s a date.”

  Ugh.

  That “date” comes too soon, with me and Elliott stuck in the back of a surveillance van again once the sun sets. That little flag sticker’s in place and the smiley face added graffiti to the Canadian variety of vandalism, so we’re on support duty again.

  We’ve changed up assignments tonight, keeping our covers intact: Travis is on Farrokh Esfandiari in the Rideau Centre and George on Varshasp Shamshiri in a record store on Cooper Street.

  But something’s weighing on my mind more heavily than Elliott’s flirting (or the last minute arguments I’m supposed to write up by midnight), one threat unaccounted for: Duncan Bridger. Short of calling his room, we don’t have a whole lot of options to track him down. We’re sticking with the safer bet, standing guard on the street in front of the Marriott — SARD’s hotel. We haven’t seen Bridger coming or going here, but we’re trying to be patient.

  Patience is a more than a virtue for a spy. It’s a saving grace. As in something that actually saves you.

  Will’s in the Marriott lounge, chilling on one of those yellow leather chairs. Elliott and I stand — sit — at the ready to spring into action, too. As soon as one of us sees Bridger.

  Elliott kicks back in his chair again, watching the live feed on the laptop. “So, Canada.”

  I don’t move. “You just figure out what country you’re in?”

  “I was going to ask you for the lay of the land. Baselining, you know.”

  Now I move — to scrutinize him. “You wanted my take?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  For a long second of silence, I consider that. He might really think I have something worth contributing?

  “Or you could stare at me,” he says. “I’m told it’s a great view.”

  Ugh. “How stupid of me, believing you were capable of thinking about work for sixty consecutive seconds.”

  “Thinking about work? I was just playing hard to get.” Elliott grins, bowing closer to me. “You know you love me.”

  I glare. “Shut. Up. Elliott.”

  He reconfigures his smile, growing more mysterious. Like he thinks I’m flirting back — or no, not quite that. But whatever he believes this is, he likes it.

  “Eyes on,” Will murmurs. Elliott and I both snap to attention, gluing our gazes to the feed. There’s Bridger, walking across the lobby’s white marble. Heading for . . . what?

  “‘Spin,’” Elliott and I breathe in unison. We both turn to check the van’s exterior video feed. The restaurant is packed — an event. Judging by the formalwear, this isn’t a dinner party.

  On cue, a woman in white emerges from the crowd, and the pieces fall into place. Weird choice for a wedding reception.

  “Speaking of fate.” Elliott grins again. This time I know that look, though I’ve barely met the guy. It means he’s got something up his sleeve.

  Am I going to love or hate this?

  I glance at Elliott. Seems to be the question of the week.

  Elliott pulls out a bin of disguises and digs through, tossing out a black bowtie and a white shirt before he comes up with his quarry: slinky evening dress. Slit to the knee. Glittery. Gold.

  “No,” I say quickly. “No way. Not on me.”

  Elliott raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think it’d look as good on me, but okay . . .”

  I snatch the dress away. The knit fabric may hide any creases in the cloth, but between the low neckline and the clingy cut, it’ll show off a lot more than I’m paid to reveal.

  Do I have a choice? I join Elliott at the bin and dig out a wide black wrap.

  Yes, we are using the grownup version of a dress-up box. I snag the accessories bag.

  “Try not to get drunk,” Elliott counsels.

  “Always a battle.” (Yeah, I don’t drink, so I’m not too worried about it.)

  I stuff my disguise and comms equipment into a messenger bag, but Elliott’s already stripped out of his flannel shirt and tugs off his T underneath.

  I am not sticking around for that show. “’Kay, bye.” I jam on a tuque to cover my hair and practically leap from the van, leaving Elliott to wait for Will.

  And yes, since I know you’re wondering, Elliott’s toned, but if I have to think about that for another second, I’ll throw up before I reach the Marriott’s ground floor bathroom.

  I don’t, fortunately. I slip into the bathroom to slip into something that isn’t at all comfortable, especially not with the temperature outside well below freezing. At least I won’t have to go out in the arctic to get to the restaurant.

  I drape the wrap around my shoulders, letting the bottom edge fall to my waist, and pin it in position with a camera disguised as a gold lapel pin. With my earpiece in place, I stuff my street clothes into my messenger bag and make for the mirrors. A comb, a ponytail fastener and a couple bobby pins don’t leave me a ton of hair options. (Okay, if I’m the one doing my hair, I don’t have a ton of options anyway.) A quick French braid converts into a semi-formal style. After thirty seconds’ worth of eye makeup, I earn Will’s approval over comms, but I still add matching heels and jewelry to make the disguise convincing.

  The navy messenger bag clashes with my dressy attire. Much as I like the sweater I had on, I’ll risk the loss. I stick my bag on the shelf in the ladies’ room and head out for the party in the restaurant.

  For the amount of time I’ve spent monitoring the interior of this restaurant, somehow the sunshine yellow, fall orange and blood red color scheme is still glaring. But I slide from the white marble tile of the lobby onto the dark wood floor of “Spin,” slide past the hostess with a nod, slide through the boisterous wedding crowd, smiling at a couple people like I know them. I take a seat at the striped banquette, a strategic spot to survey the restaurant.

  There he is — I passed him on my way in. Barely in my line of sight, Bridger sits at the bar with a bottle of beer, scanning the lobby every ten seconds. Nope, not suspicious at all.

  After a few minutes, Elliott comes waltzing in, totally tuxedoed out. (Yep, full Bond effect. No comment on who that makes me.)

  Within five minutes, Elliott — who, I might remind you, arrived in Ottawa for the first time yesterday — has ingratiated himself into a group of groomsdudes. Judging from their riotous laughter, the party has been going a while.

  I give him a little longer. By the time I make my way to the bar, two yellow leather seats down from Bridger, Elliott’s undone his tie and his top two buttons — and he’s leading a toast. (Sure hope he’s learned the couple’s names first.)

  I give Bridger a weary smile and order a specialty mixer
that sounds fruity. I’m not drinking, so it hardly makes a difference what it is. I watch Elliott nod at the bride and groom, before I check on Bridger again. He appraises me and then Elliott. “Friend of yours?”

  “He wishes.”

  An uproar from the wedding party surges over Bridger’s next words. Elliott’s finished his toast, knocking back a tumbler of whatever.

  My pinkish drink arrives, reeking of fake raspberry flavoring, and I contemplate the martini glass.

  “I said,” Bridger repeats himself, “I’ve seen him around, and you should steer clear of him. Friendly advice.”

  I grimace and ponder my drink. “Wish you’d been there to warn me a year ago.”

  “Nice,” comes Will’s voice in my earpiece. “Apprising GEM of your legend.”

  In this context, I think it’s okay to stare at Elliott for a minute. He’s seated again, still laughing with the other dudes, but after a second, he turns to find me at the bar. This time, his smirk works perfectly with the cover.

  “Ugh.” I cross my legs, letting that glittery skirt slide over my calves, the slit giving Bridger a decent view (of everything I’d show off in capris). “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “What, and let him win?”

  I swivel back to Bridger, like I’m pondering the deep wisdom he’s shared. “You’re right. I’m better than that.” I catch Elliott winking at a passing waitress. “Wish he knew that.”

  “I bet he does. I bet most guys you’ve been with know that.”

  Now that’s a legit charmer, and even I can’t fake the blush I feel tingeing my cheeks. I angle my shoulders to put my back to Elliott and fully face Bridger. “So, who are you? Just here to hang out?”

  “Something like that. Unwinding on a business trip.”

  “I’m Nora.”

  He slips out of his seat and into the one between us. “Duncan.”

  So much for figuring out who he really is right now. But Will’s got bigger plans for us tonight. “Get him out of there,” he says over comms. “One less guy to watch.”

  I rotate my glass a quarter turn, my copy signal. “Maybe I’ve had too much to drink, but I really want to get out of here.”

  “I can call you a cab,” he offers.

  “That’s . . . not what I meant.” I shoot him a sidelong grin, the best I’ve got for a come-hither look. “You wouldn’t happen to have a room nearby, would you?”

  Bridger straight up freaks. “Uh — uh —”

  “Oh — I — oh. I’m sorry, that’s so stupid of me. What have I been drinking?” I pick up my glass and squint at it, like it’s got an ingredients label etched on the side.

  “Yeah, let’s call you a cab,” Bridger says. Right. Could he actually be a decent guy? Somebody who wouldn’t take advantage of a woman who’s had too much to drink, even if she’s propositioning him?

  (Convenient, because I’m not 100% sure how I would’ve gotten out of that situation if he’d taken me up on it.)

  But I can’t let him off the hook that easily. “I don’t want to go home.” I cover my eyes and add in a murmur, “Not alone. With the memories.”

  I let my shoulders shake in silence — once, twice. I can’t cry on command, but I sure can fake it well.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Bridger pats my back. “Don’t cry.”

  I take a deep breath and wipe away the imaginary tears. “I know. I know. I hate that — I hate him, you know? But I don’t. Ugh.” I throw an arm on the cold granite bar and lay my head on it. “I hate the drama. That’s all. I don’t really care about him. I just want it all to be over.” I make one more swipe at those crocodile tears.

  He squints at me, but that isn’t suspicion. He almost looks like he’s remembering something. “I can’t let you cry alone. Listen, I’ve got a room —”

  I narrow an eye back at him, skeptical even for a drunk girl. “I thought you didn’t want to —”

  “No, no. All I mean is you can go there, and not have to see him or go home alone.”

  “Yeah, right, and in a year I’ll be here bawling over you.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s the last thing you need. I wouldn’t touch you.” Bridger holds up his hands, swearing on his own integrity.

  And I actually believe him. I shouldn’t be impressed by the moral code of a bad guy (though do note that I still do not sympathize with somebody who’s colluding with our enemies and pursuing our double agent). But I manage to sit up and smile. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”

  Bridger pays for my drink and his, and pulls out room keys. And then the smile falls from my face. This is a problem.

  That little keycard envelope is supposed to say Residence Inn. This ploy is supposed to get him out of “Spin,” out of this Marriott, out of the way.

  The envelope says Marriott.

  “Oh, are you staying here?” I ask. I laugh at myself. “Wow, dumb question.” I examine my drink again, like the untouched liquid is making me more impaired by the second.

  “I have a room here, yes,” Bridger says, the paragon of patience.

  Where is this room? Close enough to watch — and listen to — SARD’s meeting? I have to reverse this. I have to take it back, say I don’t want to leave after all. “You know, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I mean, we just met, and you do seem very nice and everything, but —” I sneak a glimpse of Elliott, seated in a yellow leather armchair by the wedding party.

  He’s busy, and I’m not sneaky enough. “Listen, Nora,” Bridger breaks in, “you don’t really want to be alone right now, do you?”

  “No — but I couldn’t ask that of a stranger. Let’s just — um — why don’t we just talk?” I cut my gaze in Elliott’s direction again.

  “Sure, but don’t you think it’d be a good idea to do that away from your ex?” He gestures at my drink. “Be honest: are you going to be able to tell him to get lost if he comes over here?”

  I’m too focused on trying to get out of this situation that I don’t answer in time. Bridger stands and offers his elbow. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.”

  “Sorry, but your promises don’t count for a whole lot. Never know if you can trust strangers.”

  “It’ll be fine. We’ll find some chick flick on TV and you can cry your eyes out and sober up and go home to make better choices.”

  I wipe away all trace of the silly, drunken girl I was five minutes ago and shift out of my seat. “No, you know —”

  “Find out where his room is,” Will orders me. “Is it near SARD’s?”

  My stomach turns as if I downed my whole glass (I assume). But I shift back into damsel-in-distress mode (one of my lesser-used modes). “I don’t know. What floor did you say your room was on?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s on the seventh floor.”

  “SARD’s,” Will informs me, like I didn’t know. “Go.”

  I sigh, partially for my cover and partially out of protest to Will. “Are you sure? I mean, that won’t be, like, extremely awkward for you, will it?”

  “No.” Bridger smiles. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first woman I’ve rescued from that guy.”

  Oh — yeah. He remembers catching us in the hall. All too well. On the plus side, thanks to my disguise, he doesn’t realize that it was also me he was saving last night.

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “But if you try anything, I’ll . . . I’ll —”

  “I won’t.” He offers his arm again and I take it with one last little check in Elliott’s direction. This time he is looking back and for once I don’t mind what I see there, not at all: flint like someone’s taking his rightful possession. (I’d argue against the rightful possession part, but I’ll take the protection. I’m a modern woman, a contradiction in terms. Also, I don’t want to be alone with this guy.)

  He walks me into the lobby, up the stairs, to the elevators. The worries start to weigh on my shoulders, my feet, my gut. No Elliott in sight. No Will. No nobody.

  Even if Bridger will be true to his word,
this is not where I want to go. SARD and his officer need this time. They don’t need a counterintel contractor setting up shop next door for any reason.

  How am I going to stop him?

  After approximately forever, the elevator arrives and we step on, the only two headed up. When we were going to a hotel a few minutes away, this scheme seemed like a lot better idea. I’d have a lot more time to “come to my senses,” to change my mind — to convince Will this is a bad idea. But now, the elevator doors are sliding shut, and I’m still waiting for the abort code from my boss.

  It’s not coming. The elevator accelerates, but that’s not why my stomach plummets.

  I don’t have time for panic. Options flit through my brain faster than the floors slide past. Take him out now. Stiletto to the temple. (Too extreme.) Pretend to pass out. (He could still try to take me back to the room instead of going for help.) Do I have anything in my handbag to induce vomiting? (Crap, no handbag.) Break the elevator. Start a fire.

  The elevator stops at the third floor. Too low. My chance to escape?

  The doors slide open, and never in my life have I been gladder to see someone I just met yesterday. “Nora,” Elliott says. “What are you doing?” His glance and his eyebrows add, With this guy?

  “Luke,” Will provides at exactly the right time.

  “Luke,” I say, simultaneously surprised and satisfied, like I was hoping he’d come around all along. But I recover the righteous anger I’m supposed to be carrying. “You lost the right to have a say in my life a long time ago. You forfeited it.”

  Bridger speaks with his hands — he pushes the Door Close button.

  Before they close, Elliott slips between them. Bridger maneuvers between us. “Listen, buddy, you’ve had your chance.”

  “Hear me out,” Elliott pleads with me. He starts my way, and I fall back a step, giving him the chance to position himself with his back to the other guy. “Okay, fine, Nora. But you’re making a big mistake here. Do you even know this guy?”

  “About as well as I knew you, apparently.” (Come to think of it, that’s true.)

  Elliott folds his arms, and then I see something glinting in his fingers. Somebody came in here with a pretty dang good escape plan.