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 drop my gaze to my knees again. “But he’s my partner.”

  “That does not make him right,” Galina says. “It was his fault you hit Vasily.”

  I shrug a shoulder, still staring at the wood grain of the bleachers showing between my neon green skirt and Vasily’s black pants. “Doesn’t matter to him.”

  “You need a partner who respects you,” Galina insists.

  “No, I can’t stop now. Gord’s taught me so much; I’ll lose everything if he drops me.”

  “You should drop him,” Vasily says. “Not the other way around.”

  I finally meet Vasily’s eyes. “Then what would I do? Who would I practice with? I’d have to give up everything I worked for. He’s made me everything I am.”

  “Have you not worked hard?”

  “Of course I have.”

  Vasily pats my knee — my “injured” knee. If he’s testing me, I’ll pass. I suck in a breath through my teeth, and he draws back. “Sorry.”

  “You’ve worked hard to get here,” Galina repeats. “Don’t waste it all on an idiot.”

  The realization solidifies in my chest: I’ve got them. This is my chance. Just one more little nudge in the right direction. “I can’t. How would I ever find another partner?”

  “Don’t you live near Ottawa?” Vasily asks.

  “I have to.” I toss out one little bit of bait, showing Vasily I could be a valuable asset. “I work in Parliament.”

  “Then you must come to our studio. We’ll help you find someone.”

  Almost there. “Auditioning new partners while I forget everything I know? I’ll stick with Gord.”

  “I’ll help you.” Vasily holds out a business card for an Ottawa dance studio.

  I take it, allowing a smile to infiltrate my features like I just infiltrated Vasily’s good graces. “Thank you.”

  Vasily pats my knee again, again initiating the flinch-gasp cycle before he pulls away.

  Mission accomplished — or, really, the first step of the mission. Now to convince him I know something he wants to pass on to the Russians (and my knee’s all better).

  Easy, right?

  The victory finally sinks in on the drive home that evening. A big move in the right direction for our case.

  “Well,” Elliott says, “that wasn’t so hard. If only you could hook Danny that easily.”

  I shoot him a look of do we really have to go there? But of course we do, because he knows it bugs me.

  “Thought about what kind of ring you want?” Elliott fishes in the backseat and tosses papers my way — a jewelry catalog. (Why does he even have this?) “I have ways of dropping hints, you know.”

  “Number one, no, you don’t; you’re a guy. Number two, if you give this to him, I will hurt you. Seriously.”

  He gives me a wicked grin. “Think he’d buy into a cryptic message scrawled on the front: ‘You just met the girl of your dreams; what are you going to do next?’ Mailbox or doorstep?”

  I groan. “That would freak any normal person out.”

  “How about if it’s in your handwriting?”

  I whip around to face him again. Danny wouldn’t recognize it, but — “You can forge my handwriting?”

  He grins again, and I’m not sure he’s joking. A chill trickles across my skin. What if he really did that? What would Danny think? I’m sure he’s not into obeying cryptic anonymous messages, but some guys are desperate to get married, especially Mormon guys once they get to our age.

  Is Danny desperate to get married?

  “Have you read his file?” Elliott asks.

  That manila folder’s still sitting in my desk drawer, screaming at me every time I come in the office. Doubt Danny has anything to hide — but then, it’s always the ones you least expect, isn’t it?

  I dodge the question, turning the tables on Elliott instead. “Would you have read a file like that on Shanna?”

  I don’t know the timeline, but they were already either living together or engaged when Elliott joined the CIA, so he knew her before the Agency did (officially).

  “Dunno,” he admits. “Would’ve been nice to have her credit report before I proposed.”

  “Like you’re ever getting married.”

  “December nineteenth.”

  For a long minute, I wait for him to crack a smile, but Elliott’s totally calm. And totally serious. After years of being engaged, the guy who kissed me not three weeks ago — as a cover, but while he and his fiancée were “on a break” — set a date?

  “That’s four months away,” I point out.

  “Shanna’s been planning for years. Only hard part is getting the place she wants.”

  The place she wants. Red flags are flying all over the place in my brain, but I watch Elliott for his reaction. (No, I’m not going to ask a guy how he feels.) No tension in his forehead, no worries in his eyes, no frown sneaking onto his lips. I’m gripping my seatbelt way too tight, practically panicking by proxy, but he’s not freaking out or resigned. He’s at peace.

  He’s crazy.

  “Congratulations.” Wish I sounded like I mean it.

  “Thanks. It’ll be good.”

  For an incurable flirt to marry a woman who thrives on drama? Clearly we have different definitions of “good.”

  “You should try it. You and Danny could still beat us to the altar.”

  I ignore him and lean down to get my case full of even. More. Legal research.

  “Come on,” Elliott continues, “I know how you Mormons operate. You’ll be married with a kid before the year’s out.”

  No, no, nonono. I draw in air against my closing ribs and try to play it cool. “Hello? It’s August. That’s physically impossible.”

  Also, just plain impossible. Me? Married? I’d die first. Really. I push aside the fear, grab a green highlighter from my case’s pocket and pull out the first book to get started. Yes, my law firm’s trapped in the last century, but I still remember how to use one of these book . . . things.

  “Seriously.” Elliott’s not dropping it. “I had a Mormon friend in college — proposed to a girl on their second date.”

  Sadly, this isn’t the first or the craziest story I’ve heard like this. Though they knew each other slightly from serving as missionaries in Finland at the same time, my own parents officially dated for three weeks before they got engaged. Two months later, they were married.

  Look how well that worked out. (That’s sarcasm, if you can’t tell.)

  I realize my breathing has grown shallow again, and I force myself to take slow, deep breaths.

  After a minute of silence, Elliott tries once more. “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”

  Maybe. Before I ask where it is, Elliott follows up, “You need to catch the bouquet. You’re next.”

  Ugh. I clamp down on my panic, whack him with his jewelry catalog, and flip to the index of my book.

  He’s wrong. He has to be.

  Thirty-seven. Over the last week and a half, Talia’s sent thirty-seven kittens — thirty-eight if you count the picture of a kitten pushing an impossibly small, identical kitten in a tiny shopping cart as two separate animals. Animated, sleeping, frightened; black, gray, tabby; wearing hats, wearing sweaters, wearing socks. Kinda curious how long she’ll keep this up.

  I might find out. I look over the guest bedroom one more time. The borrowed air mattress is sad — I might end up sleeping here instead of Mom — but at least my stuff’s out of the way. Ready as I’ll ever be.

  My mom arrives in a few minutes, and Talia and I still haven’t set a date for this date. As I’m heading out the door, my phone buzzes with a text. From Talia. No kittens. It’s the 30th, isn’t it?

  That’s today, I reassure her.

  Sorry! Wanted to cash that rain check last night, but wildfires were spreading. Like . . . wildfire.

  Okay, she does want to go out, and she’s funny. Two pluses. Let me know if you need a bucket brigade, I reply.

  She does
n’t text back until I’m halfway to the airport to pick up Mom. Once I’m safe in the park-and-wait lot, I read it. Digging a firebreak today. That rain check would really come in handy. Esp the rain part.

  Thirty-eight times this week I’m trying to hide a goofy grin after her texts. I’m definitely giving her extra humor credit because I like her, but if she wants to go out tonight . . . I can’t immediately ditch my mom, and them meeting would send them both the wrong message.

  If not tonight, when? Mom’s supposed to be in town for two weekends. If by some miracle Talia avoids her at church, it’d still be a long time to put off our date. With the way I hesitated when she asked, even kittens may not be enough to convince her I’m interested — especially when I have to tell her I’m not looking to get married soon. I need something to let her know I’m into this.

  If that’s the price, how bad could it be? When?

  Tonight?

  I hesitate, twiddling my thumbs over my phone. Can Talia endure — or maybe avoid — my mom?

  My phone rings: Mom. She’s bursting with excitement, so maybe I shouldn’t go running off quite yet. She directs me where to meet her, and I roll up to the right pickup spot. She’s waiting under the shade on the sidewalk, tall and tanned, like a retired beach volleyball star. I get out to greet her. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Danny!” She grabs me in a big hug, then leaves me to lug her over-the-weight-limit suitcase to my trunk. What are sons for? I load her bag and hop back in the driver’s seat. “How’ve you been?” she asks once we’re on the road.

  “Good.” I keep my tone light, like I wasn’t just having a major philosophical debate about whether or not to go out with a girl I’m really interested in.

  “Seeing anyone? Or ‘hanging out’?” She says it with derision, like she didn’t hang out back in the day.

  I don’t buy it, and I don’t buy into her ploy. “Yes, I’ve been hanging out.”

  “Oh?” Mom lifts her eyebrows, but she looks a lot less curious and a lot more disapproving. “Is it serious? What’s she like?”

  “Well,” I say, borrowing a line from an old commercial Mom loved, “she’s a guy, so . . .”

  Mom imitates a rimshot. “I’m not trying to harp on this, but you won’t not be happy by yourself forever.”

  Ouch. Time to change the subject. “You said you had a surprise?”

  Her eyes light up. “Yes. Are you sitting down?”

  I glance at the steering wheel, the car seat, and her, letting that stand for my answer.

  She purses her lips, but continues. “It’s a gift — a graduation gift. Belated.”

  I graduated three years ago. Guessing that’s code for you’re still not married, and we’re tired of sitting on this, so here.

  Mom drops the bomb. “Your father and I are giving you fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Wait, what?” The shockwave echoes through me. I mean, yeah, my parents are well off, and they like to make big gestures — LASIK after high school graduation, a car and an undisclosed “nest egg” for each of my siblings’ weddings — but this is by far the biggest.

  Then the shock turns cold. Those big gestures come with big “ifs” attached. LASIK if I was preparing for a mission — like I wasn’t planning on it anyway. A car if I stayed in-state for grad school — which worked out, since U–Mich was my first choice.

  But can those strings work out so conveniently yet again?

  “To buy a house,” Mom concludes.

  Oh. That’s doable. More than doable. It’s a big deal. My parents are admitting I’m an adult, capable and independent, even if I’m still so sadly, desperately single.

  But she isn’t finished. She flips down the visor and combs her hair into place, dropping the last two words of the condition like an afterthought. “In Michigan.”

  Those strings cinch around my throat. The light in front of me turns red, and I hit the brakes a little too hard. “You want me to move back to Michigan?”

  No way. No. Absolutely not. Never.

  “I wouldn’t want to buy you a house to keep you away from us, would I?”

  I shake my head, shaking off her attempt at logic. “I have a job here.”

  “Don’t make this into an argument.”

  “I’m not arguing.”

  “You’re not agreeing, either.”

  I look at her like I can shoot lasers from my eyes — not how LASIK works. “Mom. You expect me to walk away from a really good job —”

  “You had a job in Michigan, too.”

  “I telecommuted part time from your basement. I have a career here.”

  “What else? The friends you’ve made in the last four months? Come on, sweetie. You have a good job, but waiting for you back home is a real life.”

  I flinch, then puff out a breath. For a second, I thought she said “a real wife.” As if I didn’t already get the subtext. Because Kendra’s in Michigan.

  The biggest reason I’m not there.

  Mom waits until I look at her to throw in her guilt-trip kicker. “We just want you close by. There’s more to life than work.”

  I bury a sigh. The thing about mothers: in the end, they’re trying to do what’s best for you. Usually, she’s right. About my mission, about grad school — but not about this.

  But she’s my mom, and I do love her. And I know she loves me. Just wish she’d find another way to show it. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

  I don’t need to buy a house. Hadn’t even crossed my mind until she brought it up. I’m liking the idea, but I won’t die if I don’t.

  Moving back to Michigan? Not so sure about that survival rate.

  The light finally turns green, and Mom moves on to telling me about her last visit with Gracie. My niece is cute enough to get out of any trouble, and that free pass extends to my mom for now.

  When we get back to my apartment, I put Mom’s suitcase in the spare bedroom, while Mom stops in the bathroom.

  As if Talia were watching me to see when I could respond again, my phone buzzes the minute I’m alone.

  So . . . not tonight?

  Disappointment curls up in my stomach like a sad little kitten. Again, if I don’t go out with her soon, she’ll think I don’t want to go out, or I’m playing mind games.

  And if she gives up, I lose one little reason to stay here, bringing me one short step closer to taking that bribe to move back home.

  I check the time. Almost five. I could take Mom to an early dinner and make it back in decent time for a date, appeasing Mom and still getting to see Talia.

  I’m already doing something for dinner, but I’m free after. Does 8 work for you? I text Talia.

  Hm. “Doing something.” That doesn’t sound purposefully vague.

  Pick you up at 8, she replies. The kittens will be sleepy though.

  Perfect. Now I have a completely different reason to hope my meal with Mom goes fast.

  My stomach’s doing a jitterbug even bouncier than the dance I sat out last week. Didn’t know I could get more nervous than I was at the competition, but as I walk in Danny’s apartment building, the nerves of last week are a pale memory.

  The mixed signals I’m getting from Danny aren’t helping.

  I’m in the lobby when suddenly I remember there’s something else I need to be worried about here — and she’s headed my direction. Galina.

  So far, she hasn’t seen me. We haven’t been able to figure out whether she’s part of the spy ring or not, since most of our efforts have been centered on Vasily, and her apartment bug hasn’t turned up anything. Right now, Galina’s walking like a woman on a mission, and she’s carrying a black leather tote.

  My interest is instantly piqued. Who knows what kind of intelligence she could have in there? The Illegals spy ring in the States (you know, Anna Chapman, “look what she did with the hydrangeas”) operated through WiFi transmissions and exchanging identical bags. I check the clock on my phone. A little early for my date.

  Time to follow her.
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  I pretend to be absorbed in my phone as she passes me — all-purpose cover that works almost anywhere. Galina marches past, like I blend in with the furniture. I wait to make sure she doesn’t glance back, then I turn on my heel and pursue.

  She starts toward the dance studio, but I doubt they’re rehearsing, not with Galina dressed for business. I hurry to keep up with her before she can slip out of my sight completely.

  She crosses the street and turns the corner toward their studio. Maybe she’s rehearsing after all?

  I make sure not to fall too far behind. By the time I catch up enough to see her, she’s already past their studio, maintaining the same purposeful clip. Exactly how I’d walk on my way to make an exchange.

  Careful not to get too close, I keep my focus on Galina. She doesn’t ever check her back — poor tradecraft. (Unless you know you’re surrounded by spies. But she has no reason to think anyone suspects her.)

  And she keeps going. One block, two, three. (In those heels?!) I’ll be late for Danny. Sheer length of a surveillance detection route can sometimes compensate for not trying to detect anyone. Is that her game? I scan the oncoming crowd for matching black bags. An undetectable brush pass with something that size isn’t easy, but possible.

  Then I see it: the oncoming black tote. My heart rate hops higher. I dodge the man who stops abruptly ahead of me — accomplice? — my gaze jumping between those two totes.

  Galina and the guy with the matching bag approach each other. A cordoned off pothole in the sidewalk drives them closer together — closer than strangers-walking-down-the-street distance. Far enough back that they won’t notice, I halt to concentrate on watching them.

  Until the man who’d stopped ten feet ago passes in front of me again, blocking my view as Galina and the guy pass each other. I gasp and try to move forward for a better vantage point, but it’s too late. I get a good look at the guy with the tote. From the shape of his face to the life-sucks-and-then-you-die-and-that-sucks-more set to his jowls, he’s so stereotypically Russian the whole exchange is suspect. I snap a quick photo and send it off for an ID.

  Galina turns and marches into one of the brick Victorian bungalows on our side of the street. A multicolored striped flag hangs out front — an embassy. (I should know the flag. Somewhere in Africa, for sure.) Doubt these guys are helping with a spy ring. Must be an emergency translation on a Saturday night.