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

  Please, let us be good.

  “Do you want to see some cha cha?” Lance shouts to cheers. “Samba?” He increases the volume and so do the onlookers. He drops to a trying-to-be-sexy rumble. “Rrrrumba?” The crowd oohs.

  Nausea crawls through my stomach. Yeah, if we don’t get through this introduction fast, I’m going to give them a different reason to ooh. Or, more likely, ew.

  “Tonight we’ll see all three and more! Here with their amazing Latin medley, Joanne Hodges and Gord Hopkins!”

  Relief floods in so fast, all that’s left is the adrenaline. I gulp down air. Performing’s easy compared to the stress of waiting for our intro. I hit my poses, keep good lines and remember to smile — especially during the split second I glimpse Vasily in his trademark red shirt.

  If nothing else, we’re seriously selling our cover. My rumba could still use work, but I’m hardly worried about that. After our final spin into a not-competition-approved dip, my smile turns real.

  Elliott turns me loose and the crowd begins to edge in, our performance space becoming the full dance floor. Lance gets the party started and picks the first song. If anything, casual practice could undermine the discipline I’ve worked so hard to regain. But I wait, observing the crowd, keeping tabs on Vasily. I can’t imagine he’d meet with an agent or his handler here.

  After only two songs, it’s suddenly a lot easier to track my quarry. Because he’s heading for me. We make eye contact — yep, definitely headed for me. Too suspicious to run away now. “Haven’t we met?” he asks as soon as he’s close enough.

  “DanceSport competition a couple weeks ago.”

  “Of course. You saved my phone.”

  Did he notice we did something to it? He doesn’t seem to suspect anything, but he is holding out a hand. I look at it and back to him. “Would you like to dance?” he asks.

  I place my hand in his, and he leads me onto the floor. I manage to keep up — he’s taking it easy on me. Salsa isn’t technically one of our competition dances, but he mixes in steps from other dances anyway.

  “You and Gord did well with your exhibition.” Vasily’s looking over my shoulder, though. Might be making sure we don’t bump into anyone — or he might be lying. About the compliment?

  “We could’ve been better. I didn’t get much advance notice.”

  “That explains it.”

  I fight back a frown. I thought we did okay, actually. But I change the subject. “Do you come here a lot?”

  “When I can. You?”

  “Not really.” My cover wasn’t originally designed to hold up to close scrutiny, so we’re still scrambling to fill out the details. I need to be very careful what I say.

  Before I can say anything else, Vasily flinches. I know that’s not my fault. He’s still looking over my shoulder. The song ends, and he releases me too quickly. “Thank you.” He bows slightly and turns away, weaving through the crowd as the next song begins.

  Yeah, that’s not obvious. I move to the edge of the floor, subtly scanning the area Vasily was watching when he weirded out. A bulky guy towers over the dancers, fixated on something — or someone — in the direction Vasily went.

  Big Guy edges along the outskirts of the dancing crowd. Pursuing Vasily. I search for Elliott, but he’s off dancing. I’m on my own.

  I track Big Guy from a distance, trying to ignore the tug-of-war between my dropping stomach and my rising pulse. Vasily ducks out of the rear doors of the gym. Big Guy sees and gives chase. I hurry to reach them in the hallway, in time to see Big Guy leaving the building. I catch the fire door before it latches behind him.

  Is this guy competition (in a non-ballroom sense)? Not very well trained. But random street crime doesn’t follow you into a dance. He’s after Vasily.

  I prop the door open with my foot. I can just get an angle to see Big Guy through the narrow opening. He quickens his pace to catch up to Vasily, a good fifteen feet away. Vasily jerks around like someone called his name. He spots Big Guy and shoots off at a run.

  I take it they know one another.

  Big Guy pursues, and so do I. Vasily ducks around a corner of the church, but now he’s in the shadows of the streetlights. Big Guy outpaces Vasily easily, grabbing him by the collar of his red dress shirt. I’m getting too close for comfort, so I hide behind the church.

  “The money!” Big Guy concludes, punctuating his with a thump against the brick. (Made by Vasily?)

  “Soon,” Vasily pleads. “I almost have it.”

  I can’t make out any words in Big Guy’s growled response, but I peek around the corner to see him give Vasily one more shove. I duck back before Big Guy walks by without noticing me. When he passes under a streetlight, I snap a quick photo.

  I peek around the corner once more — man, I wish I had my mirrors. Vasily slinks toward me. I hurry back the way we came to slip into the dance before he notices.

  He owes someone money. Someone with enough connections or clout to command an enforcer.

  That could be exactly why he’s engineered this spy ring. He needs the Russians’ money to pay off whoever this guy is. Money, after all, is a great motivator — a great manipulator. (Right, mother?)

  We may have Vasily’s motivation. But we’ve got a ways to go before we stop him.

  Vasily doesn’t see me as he passes, headed for the parking lot. I slide back into the gym. Of course nobody noticed I left. I want to get Elliott and update him, but he’s still nowhere in sight.

  I finally spot him twirling another woman. I’m not jealous — that should probably be Shanna’s job anyway — but I still feel . . . jilted? I glance at the people having fun, dancing. I’m not the only person without a partner, but now, I’m the most alone.

  Guess I’ll tell him Monday. I text Elliott that I’ll take the bus back and slip out, the music fading behind me as soon as the door shuts.

  After yet another Saturday of catch-up at Terfort & Sutter (great face time with more torts), I need to go to church. Yeah, it’s healthier for me to occasionally be around non-CIA, non-lawyer people, though I don’t want to talk to most of them (not sure whether Danny falls into that category). But more than that, I need to feel . . . connected. One of the things that I love about church — those moments where you just feel part of truth and light and knowledge and a higher power and everything.

  The times I know, no matter how I feel most days, I’m not completely invisible.

  I make it to church on time for once, and as soon as I take a seat in the chapel, Arjay’s at my side. “Well?” he asks, as if I’ve been withholding information and food for the last two weeks. “When are you and Danny getting married?”

  A pop of panic flashes in my brain at the M-word. I check the pews immediately around us — empty. But I’m not scared someone heard Arjay. Even the idea — just no.

  Yeah, Elliott teases me about it, but deep down, I know he’s trying to bug me. Arjay’s not teasing, and that’s the scarier.

  Let’s put this to rest. “I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

  My voice sounds rusty — because I haven’t spoken to anyone since I thanked the bus driver Friday night.

  This is getting just sad.

  “He didn’t ask you out?” Arjay asked.

  “He did; we went out last Saturday.”

  Arjay’s eyes widen to satellite dishes. “Well?”

  “Like I said, I haven’t heard from him in a week.”

  Arjay’s gaze shifts behind us, and I start to follow, but he grabs my shoulder. “Don’t look. He walked in.”

  My breathing picks up, but I have to play it cool. “Seriously, you’re more invested this than we are.”

  He smirks. “I won’t be dating for two years. I’m trying to live through you.”

  I’d forgotten he was leaving on a mission in a few weeks, that he’s so much younger than me. “Don’t you have more important things to do? Like that whole mission prep thing?”

  “This takes five minutes of my week.
” Arjay watches Danny. (Watching Arjay’s so much more subtle than me turning around, especially since Danny’s pegged him as my wingman.) Arjay tracks with him down the aisle, and I draw in a breath, steeling myself to see Danny pass my pew, for him to not turn my way, for that one little link to be gone.

  And that’s a good thing, right? Not like he’d be my “happily ever after.” Those don’t exist, especially not if your last name is Reynolds.

  (Hint: my last name is Reynolds.)

  I wait, monitoring the aisle in front of me, but Danny doesn’t pass me. Arjay pivots, as if he’s watching Danny take a seat in a pew behind me. Now I really can’t breathe. Is he directly behind me? Do I acknowledge him? Wait for him to say something?

  Here I was, thinking that admitting we were flirting would help cut out all this stupid overanalysis. Nope, apparently I’m still a girl.

  “Two rows back,” Arjay says. Before I settle on a course of action, the bishop steps to the pulpit and begins the meeting.

  I don’t know if I could tell you a single word said in the meeting. (Okay, other than “Jesus” and “Amen.”) This is why dating someone at church is stupid. What if we’d let it go longer? Once we flamed out or drifted apart, what would we do? Change congregations?

  When Sacrament meeting ends, everyone stands to move to the classroom for Sunday School. Everyone except me — and Arjay. He waits until most people have left. Including, I assume, Danny.

  “Okay, what went wrong?”

  I offer a palms-up shrug. “No idea.” I give Arjay the ten-thousand foot view — or maybe the postmortem — of my brief relationship with Danny.

  He frowns at the unsatisfying conclusion. “You can’t give up yet. Unless that’s why you’re still single.”

  One of Danny’s spot-on assessments of me: I don’t give up. I can’t. And I won’t, because as much as I like to be left alone, it’s dawning on me how very alone I am. Especially after that one brilliant hour of connection on our date last week.

  That doesn’t mean I can march up to Danny and plant one on him. (Although that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I’m completely okay with kissing on a second date. Actually, I wouldn’t have complained if Danny kissed me last week. Stupid Elliott. Stupid work.)

  I get ready to stand, but Arjay shifts on the pew, pensive. “I don’t want to be weird about this.” Not a good beginning.

  “Okay . . . ?”

  “Look, I know you don’t hang out with anyone else at church. I don’t want leave you with nobody. You and Danny would be good together.”

  Guess that’s why Arjay’s so eager about this. Danny’s such a good guy I can only take that as a (somewhat deluded) compliment. “Thanks. I’ll be okay, either way.”

  “Just want to be sure.” He finally stands, and we leave the chapel.

  By the time Arjay and I make it to Sunday school, the only available seats are on the front row. Rather than parade through the class, we stay standing by the back door. If I want to talk to Danny, I can’t gamble on getting to him after church. I’ve got to act.

  I halfway pay attention to the lesson from the book of Acts. (I should feel guilty, but then again, Joel seems to delight in dwelling on the verses about circumcision, so I don’t feel bad for ignoring him.) The other half of my brain’s in spy mode: zero in on the target. Map out his routes out of the classroom. Run through possible interaction scenarios. Outcomes: he’s not that into me, and I let him go; he’s just been busy, and I ask him out.

  My palms turn clammy at the thought, but I’m going for this. Because I don’t give up.

  With ten minutes left in Sunday school, Danny stands up. Doubt he’s offended by Saul/Paul’s preaching against Jupiter worship, and I didn’t see him dozing off. I glance at Arjay; he shrugs.

  Danny grabs a sheaf of papers from under his chair and heads for the door — where I’m standing. My chance is coming sooner than I’d planned. I swallow, but my dry mouth doesn’t cooperate.

  “Need a drink,” I whisper. Arjay grips my arm and doesn’t let go, like I’m trying to get out of talking to Danny.

  I pull free a half-second before Danny spots me. I don’t think he actually stops, so maybe it’s time or the Earth that pauses as I wait for his face to reveal . . . anything.

  “This is the man who had scales fall from his eyes,” Joel’s voice carries right on cue. I don’t know if Danny’s paying attention to the lesson anymore, but it is like his thoughtful, distracted expression falls away — and he smiles.

  Reason #1 why Danny is the most eligible bachelor in this room full of single guys. That smile, like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like he doesn’t care who sees exactly how happy he is, like he’s smiling with his soul — it does more than crinkle his eyes. It lights up his face, the room, my heart, and its sheer genuineness melts any resistance I might’ve had.

  Go time.

  I back up, opening the door for him. Totally unsubtle, I follow him out (but not fast enough to miss Arjay’s encouraging fist pump before the door closes). “How was your week?” I ask Danny, like our last conversation didn’t end abruptly.

  “Pretty good. Project at work is going well, working with SinclAir.”

  “Awesome.”

  Danny pauses in the hall, looking both ways. “Where’s the library again?”

  “I’ll show you.” I pretend I’m not freaking out and start down the hall, hiding the mental happy-dance at the excuse to walk with him. “Teaching next hour?”

  “Yeah, substituting.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Not too worried.” But he’s not looking at me.

  You’d think after spending well over an hour talking last Saturday, we could fall into a conversation more easily. Instead, something about this is all surface-level.

  When in doubt, kittens. I feign concern. “How have you managed this week?”

  Now he turns to me. “Okay . . . ?”

  “Without kittens?”

  “Oh.” He shakes his head, teasing. “Been hard. Sometimes I didn’t think I’d make it.”

  I choose not to read too much into that, though we did kind of say kittens = flirting. Before I continue in that vein, though, we reach the library. Danny gets a Ziploc bag with two stubs of chalk and a battered eraser.

  Now my excuse to walk with him is gone. Nobody else in the hall. Time to go for it (and no, not the kissing option). “So, you doing anything this weekend?”

  “Um.” Danny pauses. Can’t tell if he’s thinking or just hesitating. “Nope.”

  “Then would you like to do something?”

  He pauses again, subtly regarding me. My lungs flinch in a silent gasp. Yeah, that seems like hesitation. I immediately backpedal, literally and figuratively. “Oh, you know, if not, that’s fine. No big deal. I just had a good time last week, and —”

  “No, I — yeah, I did too.” He nods, more like he’s trying to convince himself instead of me. “Let’s do something.”

  “You sure?”

  “Definitely. But it’s your turn to plan.”

  I flash a smile. Well, I mean to flash a smile, but I can tell the smile’s lingering way longer than a “flash.” “Frolicking with kittens it is.”

  Danny laughs. “Perfect.”

  “Good luck teaching,” I bid him again.

  “Thanks.” He backs up the first few feet until he finally has to turn away.

  I manage to rein in the celebratory dance. Not that I have a chance before someone slaps me on the back. My heart leaps out of my chest, and I jump to a defensive posture — but it’s Arjay.

  “Atta girl,” he says, not bothering to keep his volume down. “You’re totally marrying him.”

  Now my heart’s racing faster than when he scared me. No, we’re not — so, so not — and I really hope Danny didn’t hear.

  So much for celebrating.

  And when my phone chimes with a text message, I have twice the reason to not celebrate. Mom again. I never called her back.

&
nbsp; talia (again, texting skills of a two-year-old) i dont know what i did rong.

  A silent groan sinks in my lungs. I know she’s not asking for a list of her crimes, but instantly one springs to mind. I shove down the memories of her neglecting me, screaming at my brother Troy, smacking Tyler for an A−, mocking Trevor.

  but watever it is im sorry & ill always b ur mother. i just want ur love. can we put the past in the past?

  I wish, I wish, I wish I could cut her off, that I could trust all my memories of her. But sometimes I’m not sure what to trust about my memory, since Mom always tells a very different version of events — and she’s right about one thing for sure. She’s my mom. She must love me, right?

  Danny gave me a second chance. I can do that for my mom, right? I walk to my car, roll down my window, then hit the icon to call her and take a bracing breath.

  “Talia,” she gushes. “You called!”

  Emotion slaps me in the face at her voice. I shouldn’t believe her, but she sounds so . . . sincere. Like she really has been dying to talk to me. Like she cares. “Of course.”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine,” I say automatically. For half a second, I debate telling her more. Where do I start? My internship, my coworkers, Danny?

  “Well,” Mom says, breathless, “we just had the worst tragedy here.”

  Oh. It’s about her again. Mom lacks a true sense of proportion, so “worst tragedy” might mean an unexpected bill. I’m guessing this time she’s using other people’s drama to get attention. For now, she has it. “What happened?” I ask.

  “Remember my neighbor’s daughter, Ashley? She’s about nine.”

  Last time I went to my mom’s house, she lived somewhere else. “Sorry, no.”

  “Well, she had this dog — kind of annoying — but it ran out in traffic and was killed! Right in front of my house! Can you believe that? I still have to pass the blood every day, Talia. Every single day.”

  “Oh. Do you?” Let’s see. A child loses a beloved pet in a tragic accident, but the real problem is that nobody’s hosed off the street yet. “How’s Ashley holding up?”

  “I don’t know. What difference does that make?”