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 can play this game. I make a little noise like I’m oh so impressed tell me more about that (sad how often this works), and edge closer. “That sounds major league.”

  Marcus shrugs one shoulder, pretending he’s not all that important. Even he isn’t buying his modest act.

  An ego this size always needs more to eat, so I feed it. “Do you know the ambassador?” I ask, like I’ve heard he’s the Wonderful Wizard of US.

  “I do, actually.” The smug grin returns. Does he think that works? “Would you like to meet him?”

  I kick up the flirting another notch. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Just the really cute ones.”

  “Oh yeah?” I’ve reeled him in. Elliott should have his evidence translated by now. Time to drop the hammer, maybe startle him into an admission. “Like Leyla al-Fulan?”

  Marcus’s smirk falls faster than a tech stock in a bust, and he turns pale. “Who?”

  I move up his driveway two more steps. “You know, the Emirati Deputy Ambassador’s wife. Did you introduce her to Ambassador Rhodes?”

  “Who are you?” The horror dawns in his voice.

  “Alaine Marchant.” My tone reminds him he has no reason to freak out. “The pianist from the reception? Where you both were?”

  “But — how —” Marcus raises his hands in defense, not surrender. I halt, but it’s not enough for him. He backpedals into his car door. “You don’t — you can’t —”

  “Oh?” I pull out my phone and tap through the menus until I pull up a recording Elliott took of him and his Emirati girlfriend talking a couple hours ago. (Lucky he sent me this.)

  “You need to be more careful,” Leyla says softly.

  “And me getting caught carrying your phone around is careful?” His New England accent rings through his sarcasm.

  Marcus stands there, every muscle tightening with tension.

  I put away my phone. Elliott still hasn’t come through on the evidence and Marcus clearly isn’t confessing. Marcus isn’t the only one tensing up. I need to work him harder. “I know how these things go. Maybe it was an accident.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It starts off so innocent. Smiles at those functions. Small talk by the bar. You didn’t mean to cross any lines.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marcus insists. “You need to go.”

  I’ve got to get him talking. “Crossing one line made it easier to cross another, huh? And you had to help Leyla, help her people.”

  He moves toward me, but I stand my ground and he stops. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Why shouldn’t the Emiratis be allowed the same rights as other countries? And of course, it only makes sense for you to help a friend.”

  Finally, Elliott comes through: “T,” he says over my earpiece. “Hook him.”

  Trying to. Marcus advances toward me again. “I couldn’t care less about landing rights.”

  A flash of fear bursts in my brain, and this time I do fall back. “Then what do you care about? Why are you selling out your ambassador?”

  “My ambassador? He’s my boss. He’s a career diplomat. The Emiratis needed my help. They needed me.”

  I shake my head pityingly. “Your country needed you.”

  “Okay, we got him,” Elliott says. “Now get out of there.”

  Perfect timing. I turn and stroll away from Marcus.

  “When you’re clear,” Elliott tells me, “get out of sight.” I pass the hedges and he signals that’s good enough. I can go back to the van, and I do, taking out my earpiece.

  I’m in the middle of the street when it registers: that’s not a normal engine noise. I jerk around to the sound — Marcus’s little red car, coming straight for me.

  My heart barely has time to stop before the impact. But it’s not two tons of metal colliding with me: it’s Elliott.

  Everything happens at once. We’re flying through the air and hitting the ground and rolling and the headlights pass all at the same time. Then time catches up to us, lying on the cement, clinging to one another — and the Earth pauses with Elliott an inch from my face.

  I’m still not over the fear from the car, but am I about to get another reason to be afraid?

  Elliott doesn’t make a move.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He lets me go and helps me up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Definitely. I recover my breath after that double scare. Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about with dancing.

  Maybe.

  There’s one welcome distraction at church the next day. I drift to a stop in the foyer after our meetings, casually observing the giggling gaggle of girls surrounding Danny, his smile hiding an edge of discomfort.

  I’m used to being a woman on a mission, driven toward my objective at all costs — just not at church. Especially not when that mission’s talking to a cute guy (who isn’t a client or target).

  However, I’m also not desperate enough to tackle him between meetings. Reason #2 why Danny’s the most eligible bachelor in the congregation over twenty-five: he’s new. Everyone’s still getting to know him, even the girls in the younger age bracket. Short of throwing elbows, I don’t have a chance, even after church, unless I want to loiter in the foyer for a suspicious amount of time.

  “Scoping out the goods?” Arjay ambles up to where I stand by the doors, apparently not being all that discreet.

  “Gotta get home,” I murmur. “I need to eat.”

  He offers a sympathetic frown, because nearly everyone here has skipped the last two meals (monthly fast). But I don’t just mean, “I’m hungry.” Between catching up on work and helping Elliott, I skipped two meals before that, too, so I’m on the shaky-knees, massive-headache, when-did-the-sun-get-this-bright end of the spectrum.

  “There’s a break-the-fast.” Arjay eye-points past Danny and the flirting girls to the gym where a diligent few are setting up round tables and folding chairs for the monthly potluck — all that unprotected, unmonitored, ripe-for-tampering food.

  I glance at Danny, who seems almost as uncomfortable as I feel. I should rescue him. I probably could, if my blood sugar weren’t somewhere south of the basement. (Then again, some of those girls are vultures, so I dunno.) “You go ahead,” I tell Arjay. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Ask him out. Get it over with.”

  I shoot Arjay a spearing look. “I think you’re more into this than we are.”

  “Come on. You’re both old and still single. You obviously need the help.”

  I groan. What I need most is food. I back up for the doors. Before I reach them, my phone buzzes in my purse. I check who’s calling: my mother.

  Our last conversation was almost okay, but I don’t have the strength to deal with her now. I tap the icon to ignore her.

  “Talia?” comes a voice next to me.

  I freeze on instinct, though I have nothing to be afraid of here. I turn to the guy speaking to me. Average height, average brownish-blondish hair, higher than average energy, even while fasting: Campbell. He and Joel, the blond dude standing two feet to his right, are my “home teachers,” assigned to visit with me every month and make sure I’m doing okay. (Everyone at church has these assignments. In fact, AB Beth is also assigned to me.)

  “Got a minute?” he asks.

  My stomach tightens, reminding me how hungry I am. (Not to mention that it’s still home to more than my share of hummingbirds at the prospect of seeing Danny, and extra anxiety at having to talk to my mom. It’s a wonder my stomach feels empty.) I want to get out of here and eat, but Joel and Campbell will be after me to meet all month if we don’t get it over with.

  “Sure,” I force myself to say. At least I’ve convinced them they should never try to visit me at my apartment. Nobody at church has my address. Yet another thing I have to hide. I follow Joel and Campbell through the chapel to the quieter foyer on the other side of the building. I juggle th
e small talk and awkwardly-wedged-in-the-conversation spiritual thought, ignoring the persistent buzzing from my bag. My mother, working herself into a fit because I won’t answer. Not because she’s worried something might’ve happened to me — I’m legally allowed to tell her what I do for a living, but I’d have to be seven shades of stupid to trust her with that information.

  Nope, if Mom’s upset, it’s more likely because I’m not acting as her adoring, on-demand audience. I’m desperately, deeply torn: draw out the conversation with Joel and Campbell to leave my mother hanging that much longer or shut them down to tend to her before they get suspicious?

  Option B, keeping the family secret, always, always wins. I invite Joel to pray to end our little meeting. They head to the gym to descend upon the potluck buffet like locusts with passable table manners. Once they’re through the doors, I turn on my heel for the parking lot. I’ve got my phone out before I even reach my car, but I wait until I plop into the seat, my window open, to read the messages.

  i ned to talk 2 u, says the first text. But what she means is she needs me to pay attention to her. Ignoring the fact she has the typing skills of a two-year-old, I scroll through the rest of her messages to assess the damage.

  i miss u. Possible, but I’ll believe that when I see it.

  why arent u answering? Yes, heaven forbid I do anything but wait for her next message.

  The time stamp shows three minutes before her next text. why cant u just talk 2 me? ur being realy ungrateful. (Which isn’t true. I’m grateful she didn’t type “gr8ful,” for example.)

  i no we used to have problems, but i dont no why we dont talk. dont u love me any more?

  Does she really want to talk? Including listening? I doubt it, but I can’t stop the lift of hope in my heart. Before I gather my dwindling strength to dial her, another message comes in: troy came to visit but ur allways 2 busy.

  Ooh, comparing me to my brothers already. Maybe it’s not such a great time to call. We’re barely skirting the edges of her brand of crazy, and I can already tell I’m better off in my usual role of invisible kid.

  Then my phone rings. No need to check who’s calling, but I answer because it’s obviously the only way to end this. “Hi, Mom.” I smooth any trace of annoyance out of my voice.

  “Hi?” replies someone who’s obviously a guy.

  Oh, man, what did I do? I check my phone display — Arjay. “Sorry, what’s up?”

  “Thought you’d like to know someone here is scanning the crowd. And there’s lots of food that you won’t have to make yourself.”

  I glance in the rearview at the building behind me. I know almost nothing about Danny except he seems like a really good guy (a really attractive, really good guy). For all I know, walking in there would be pointless.

  “I’ll get you desserts,” Arjay offers. Like he knows exactly how to sweeten the deal (literally). Plus what he doesn’t know: the other reason I didn’t eat dinner last night is because I don’t have any food at home, and I didn’t have enough energy in the post-op-and-brush-with-death adrenaline crash to get something.

  Before I can answer, a car door slams behind me. I whirl around and lean out my window. Two rows away, Sassy Beth hoists her glass pan of brownies higher, and her roommate, BC Beth, pulls out a tray of Nanaimo bars. (I resist the urge to tackle her and steal them.)

  “Is my lipstick okay?” Sassy asks BC.

  “Yep.” BC Beth winks. “Danny won’t be able to resist.”

  “He’d better not.”

  I can’t see her expression, but there’s man-killing in her tone. They don’t notice me as they walk back in the building.

  “Talia?” Arjay pipes up in my ear.

  “Okay, I’m coming.”

  I can practically hear his triumphant smile. “I knew it. You owe me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll make it up to you. How about a nice mug?”

  “That says ‘World’s Greatest Wingman’?”

  “Greatest, most obvious, something along those lines.”

  He snorts. “Just get in here before the Beths get to him.”

  Believe me, I’ll try.

  Am I not so subtly scanning the break-the-fast crowd for Talia? Yep. I wanted to get to her after church, but by the time I spotted her, hugging herself like somebody’s out to get her, Joel and Campbell had marched Talia off. She looked like she was facing a firing squad instead of her home teachers.

  At this point, my observation efforts are getting ridiculous, but I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours working up the courage to ask her out. Like her best friend told me to.

  Unless this is a really, really stupid idea.

  Twenty minutes into the meal, Joel and Campbell walk in. They’re done meeting with Talia. So where is she?

  The taco salad’s mostly demolished, though the dessert table is still doing swift business, freshly restocked by the Beths. Do girls think that’s the only way to get a date?

  I don’t care if Talia can’t boil water. I’m going to figure her out.

  As if thinking about her is a telepathic beacon, Arjay carries his second plate to the seat next to me. “Asked her out yet?”

  I cast an eye at the four other people at the table, including Sassy Beth, though I’m not sure I care if she hears. On cue, Beth hops up to toss her barely touched plate of less taco, more salad. Footnote: I really don’t get girls.

  I finally answer Arjay. “She’s in stealth mode.”

  “She’s quiet.”

  That isn’t it. Even Arjay hasn’t figured her out: this level of avoidance goes deeper than being quiet, and it doesn’t explain the heat shields and protective postures.

  Arjay finishes his tortilla chips and heads out. Campbell and Joel take the other two seats at the table, and we pass the time talking. I manage to not ask them if Talia mentioned me, where she went, what she likes to do on weekends, or any of the other questions circling my thoughts.

  Arjay re-joins the table after a minute, carrying a plate loaded with eight of BC Beth’s Nanaimo bars and three of AB Beth’s butter tarts.

  He’s got good taste. Apparently coupled with a strong desire to develop type 2 diabetes.

  Or maybe not that strong of a desire. He doesn’t touch his food, and not because we’re too busy talking. Not stopping Joel and Campbell on their second helping of taco salad.

  I turn back to check on Arjay and find Talia sitting next to me in his place.

  And I jump. Because I’m cool like that.

  She frowns. “Sorry to scare you.”

  “No, you didn’t — I just — you’re good at sneaking up on people.”

  Her frown becomes a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Lawyer trick. Only way we can make friends.”

  “Not everyone —”

  Before I can reassure her I don’t hate all lawyers, someone throws an arm around my shoulders — and hers. Arjay leans between us. “‘Friends’? You should add him on Facebook.”

  “I’m not on Facebook,” I say at the same time Talia says, “I don’t do Facebook.” We both catch what the other’s saying and trade a look like we’re second-graders sharing a secret.

  “You’re not on Facebook?” Campbell interrupts. “How is that possible?”

  “Believe it or not, there’s an entire world out there, outside of the Internet,” I joke, sweeping a hand in front of me. “I call it ‘The World.’”

  “We could show you,” Talia offers. “But you’d have to step away from the computer.”

  Campbell snorts good-naturedly. “In that case, no thanks.”

  Talia turns to me. “For the best. He probably can’t process anything without sharing it online first.”

  “That’s the hardest part of quitting. Now I don’t know what to do with every inane thought that crosses my mind.” I sigh like this weight is too much to bear. “Will you please look at my food?” I ask Talia, gesturing at my paper plate.

  “Like.” She gives it a thumbs up, though it’s empty.
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  “The other day, I saw this picture of a kitten that was so! Cute! I almost died because I couldn’t share it.” I’m making fun of Campbell, but somehow I end up telling that entire joke to Talia, who fights back a laugh.

  “Kittens, huh?”

  “What can I say? I’m powerless against the cute.”

  “I have an idea,” Arjay interrupts, leaning between us again. “Send each other your cute kittens.”

  “And spare the rest of us,” Campbell mutters.

  “Good idea.” Talia’s not so much agreeing as shutting down the subject. Her gaze falls to the table, then her eyes widen at the sight of the plate at her place. “Wow.”

  Let’s see. Arjay came to talk about asking Talia out, disappeared for a minute, then stocked a plate which he gave to her when she showed up.

  Yep, Arjay’s definitely coming in handy.

  Talia stares at her plate, biting her lip.

  “What?” Arjay asks. “Better offer waiting at home?”

  Yesterday she said she hadn’t gotten to the store yet. I’d share my pantry — but that’s weird. She’s gone shopping in the meantime, right?

  Finally, her shoulders drop like she’s giving into something, and she picks up the first Nanaimo bar. Silence falls over the table as Talia proceeds to eat every single thing Arjay got for her. Half a pan of Nanaimo bars and three mini butter tarts, gone in less than three minutes.

  I said I like a girl who’ll eat, right?

  Talia polishes off the last bite and settles back in her chair with an expression of satisfaction.

  “Don’t go into insulin shock,” I say.

  Lame.

  She shakes her head. “If I were diabetic, I’d probably be dead. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”

  No wonder. Now I feel bad for taking her food at the park.

  Talia smiles at me. And I realize we’re the last people at the table.

  Time to ask her out.

  Unless — unless that would be the worst idea ever.

  “Hey, Danny?” Sassy Beth calls. She almost seems sorry for interrupting my moves on another girl. “Can we get your help with chairs?”

  “Sure,” I say. Not sure whether I just dodged a blow or took one, but I start folding the metal chairs at our table. Talia hops up to toss her plate and help with cleanup, too, folding chairs at the next table. On my second glance back at her, our gazes cross paths and she casts me an expression of look what we got roped into. Heat shields down.