“Anything over one-forty-five and bad things start happening to the body. Complex motor skills break down.” Badass Guy took another step toward me, looking down at me from behind his glasses. “Yo, cell phone girl.”
I gulped. My heart rate spiked back into the danger zone.
“You get your call off to nine-one-one okay?” he asked.
The combination of his nearness, the excitement, and the heat, rendered me speechless. I resorted to a meek headshake.
“Thought not. Never yet have had to call off the emergency services.” He took a deep breath and lowered his sunglasses on his nose. “Anything over one seventy-five and cognitive thinking completely breaks down. We become no better than dogs.” Why was he looking at me like that?
Okay, I’d done the scared-dog equivalent of dodging out in front of a moving car and freezing with fear, but hadn’t everybody? I blushed under his unnerving stare and felt my ankles go wobbly.
He gave me a quick, intimate wink, which could not mean what I thought it meant. Hot guys just did not look at me like that. Ohmygosh, I thought I was going to melt. Mercifully, he turned to scan the group before I lost complete composure and the ability to remain standing on my tiny, spiky sandals.
“Blood withdraws to the core muscles, hardening the body like armor and preventing rapid blood loss in the event of injury. At that heart rate, some people literally piss in their pants or void their bowels. If anyone needs a shower, you’ll be dismissed to your barracks in a few.” He cut his gaze back to me.
Hey, I was fine. Strong bladder and fear of public embarrassment.
“You!” he barked at me and I jumped. “You’re dead within seconds, had this been real. You don’t call for help until you’ve secured adequate cover. Got it?”
Touched by his concern, I nodded mutely as he pushed his glasses back up and walked around the group, pointing out dead people. With him out of personal-space range, I regained a low enough pulse rate to bounce out of dog thinking back into the human zone and looked around for Emma. Badass spy trainer found her flat on her stomach on the ground behind a tire on the far side of the bus as the rest of us trailed after him looking for her.
Badass Guy started clapping. “Congratulations, trainees. Exactly one of you lived through that little welcome exercise.”
He gave Emma a hand up and a pat on the back. “Good job, CT. The proper technique to survive in the line of gunfire, which we simulated with firecrackers: Get down and stay down. If you’re outside, get behind a car and lie behind a tire on the opposite side of the volley. A bus is even better. Stay down until the gunfire ceases.” He shook his head as he surveyed the rest of us. “If there are no vehicles present, lie in a gutter. Do anything to make yourself the smallest target possible.” His gaze ran the length of me, lingering just a second longer than necessary on my newly acquired curves. The look in his eyes said he definitely wasn’t thinking they were small targets.
Emma came to stand next to me.
“Impressive,” I whispered to her.
She was looking at the spy trainer. “Him or me?”
“You.” But I was thinking him, definitely him.
“Sheer survival instinct. I have a strong one.” She turned to look at me, shaking her head. “I thought you were the cautious one. Ducking for cover only makes sense, doesn’t it? You’ve got to toughen up, Domino. This here’s a dangerous world.”
True. But who expects a car-bomb-firecracker-gunfire welcome to camp? It wasn’t something I’d trained for.
Badass Guy stood front and center of the group in a military at-ease stance. “My name’s Torquil Toricelli. You can call me Torq.” He grinned. “I’ll be one of your trainers. Grab your bags and follow me.”
Being the big, spy-loving dork that I am, I wanted a picture of that scorched car for my scrapbook. I mean, it was right out of a Bond movie! Ever counted how many cars bite the dust in a single show? I have—gazillions!
Just wait until I told Logan about it. She’d be thrilled! Not to mention a tiny bit jealous. I pulled my camera from my bag, and using my zoom lens, took a few discreet snaps of the car before Emma gave me a nudge to get going.
Just as we’d begun to move as a mob, Torq stopped short suddenly. “One more thing. This is hot country. Heatstroke’s a killer here. Carry a water bottle with you at all times. You’ll be issued a camp bottle and carrying strap inside. Move out.”
“And you thought camp was going to be boring,” Emma whispered to me as she eyed Torq’s red-hot steel buns.
Chapter Three
“Torq here’s our James Bond, no doubt about it. Bond can be our pet name for him,” Emma said, voice filled with awe and lust, gaze glued to Torq’s hind end as we followed him into the air-conditioned training facility, pulling our wheeled suitcases behind us. “What do you think?”
“Bond?” Okay, color me confused. “Rambo maybe. What makes you think Bond?”
“You don’t see the resemblance?” She looked at me like I was the crazy one.
Because I am basically a pleaser, I squinted, trying to see what she saw. “A younger, darker, Italian James Bond from the wrong side of the tracks. Bond on mega-steroids, maybe.” I couldn’t hide the skepticism in my voice. I was really stretching the point. He was sexy and handsome and presumably a spy. Those were the only similarities.
“Look at that butt! That’s a Bond butt. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed? You have to have a great butt to be Bond.” She looked incredulous. “And you call yourself a Bond aficionado!”
“James has sensitive eyes,” I said. “Think Pierce Brosnan. That’s what gets the ladies.” And me.
Emma rolled her eyes.
“Okay, okay. I concede. He has the butt to be Bond. We can call him Bond Butt if you like.” I grinned and changed the subject, sort of. “Look at him. He’s not sweating,” I said. “Not a drop. That’s a sign of dehydration, right? I think he needs hydrating. He probably needs a big bottle of that water he was talking about.”
“Worried? Isn’t that sweet!” Emma chuckled. “He’s former Special Forces. Special Forces guys are superhuman. They’ve learned how to live without water and food for days on end. They can control not only their pulses, but their body functions, to the point where they don’t sweat if they don’t want to. The control thing, that’s what makes them great lovers.” She winked.
My turn to roll my eyes. “Where do you think he was hiding until the bomb went off? He just appeared out of nowhere like a spook.”
“He’s also ex-CIA. CIA guys are spooks. And Special Forces guys are expert hiders. Combine the two and you’ve got a super spook.”
“What’d you do, memorize the camp brochure?” I muttered to myself.
Inside the lobby, Torq removed his sunglasses, revealing a very fine pair of deep-chocolate Italian eyes more on the steely side along with his buns than in any way sensitive. Still, I might have drooled if I’d had any spit left in me. Where was that water he’d promised?
Torq introduced us to Agent Rockford, the senior member of the instruction staff whom Emma and I immediately dubbed Chief, an aging hulk of a man with cropped gun-metal-gray hair, impressive, imposing, ramrod posture, and the bark of a drill sergeant. Rockford handed us each an arrival packet that contained our barracks room assignment and key, a water bottle emblazoned with the FSC logo, and a bag to drop all our valuables—wallets, purses, and ID—into for storage in the camp safe. Compliance mandatory. “Because we’ll be playing spy games, folks” is how Rockford explained it as he collected our storage bags.
“Dinner’s at eighteen hundred hours, followed by orientation in the training center at nineteen hundred hours. Lights out at twenty hundred hours. Days begin at oh six hundred. There are refreshments set up at the end of the lobby. Help yourself. See you back here in"—he glanced at his watch—"seventy-two minutes.”
I looked around for Torq, curious to see if he’d allowed himself to sweat yet, but he’d disappeared as stealthily as he’d come.
/>
I pulled my BlackBerry from my purse to check for messages from Daniel. He was on business in London and didn’t know about my surprise trip. I’d left him a message on his voice mail, telling him about my fantasy vacation. But he hadn’t responded yet. Probably he’d sent me an e-mail. We had a date scheduled for the upcoming Friday night and I wanted to make sure he knew we’d have to reschedule.
I tried imagining his reaction to me at spy camp but came up empty. Amused, surprised, or perturbed, he’d probably keep his opinion to himself. Daniel and I kept our relationship fresh by leading separate lives and rarely interfering in each other’s pursuits. Logan calls our relationship apathetic. I call it broad-minded.
“Don’t waste your time with that thing.” Agent Rockford’s voice boomed from behind me. “We don’t have cell or wireless coverage out here.”
I glanced at the screen, confirming he was right, dropped the BlackBerry back into my purse like a chastened child, and turned to face him, putting on my professional nice voice. “I’m expecting an important call. Do you have a message service?”
Agent Rockford gave me a stony face. “We have a business phone in the office.”
“I don’t suppose you could check to see if anyone’s left a message for me?” I gave him a helpless good-girl smile.
“No.” Rockford shot me a look warning me not to be trouble and walked off.
Emma, who’d watched the interaction, came up beside me, shaking her head disgustedly in an imitation of Rockford. “A good spy knows when and how to use her sex appeal to get favors and information. Ever hear of Mata Hari?”
Emma nodded toward my chest. “You’ve got a good package. Use it. Work those girls to your advantage. Stand up straight and thrust them out. Lean into the target.” She demonstrated. “Put a little sultry into your voice. And crikey, woman, learn to make bedroom eyes.”
Emma grabbed her wheeled suitcase and headed for the refreshments. “This phone message business is all about some mate, isn’t it?” The disgust in her voice spoke for itself. “Don’t waste your time on a mate who doesn’t call.”
I wheeled my suitcase, trailing behind Emma. “I’m not wasting anything.” I was sure I sounded defensive, so I changed the subject. “Look.” I pointed to an iced pitcher on the table. “Tea.”
“What is that?” Emma came to an abrupt stop in front of me so suddenly I almost ran into her.
“Iced tea,” I said, slamming on the brakes. “Don’t tell me Aussies don’t ice their tea?”
“No, I meant her.”
I followed Emma’s line of sight. “Oh.”
A curvaceous brunette decked out in a flowing white knee-length dress strolled in through the lobby doors on a pair of six-inch gold heels like she was born to walk on them. She wore a diamond of at least ten carats on a gold chain around her neck. I was betting it was cubic zirconia. Who’d be dumb enough to bring the real bling to camp?
The newcomer exuded confidence. As every male in the room turned to gawk at her, she smiled like she’d been expecting the attention and wasn’t disappointed.
“Hello, boys,” she said, completely ignoring Emma and me. Her voice was sultry and low. “Have I missed anything?”
“Oh, God,” Emma said, rolling her eyes.
“Exactly.” I echoed Emma’s disdain. The newcomer was exactly the kind of woman who made me feel small and insecure and ugly—feelings I tried hard to avoid, especially on vacation. At least at the bank, I could hide behind the authority of my position for confidence.
Emma nudged me. “What do you say we skip the refreshments and head right to our rooms?”
“I’m with you. You lead,” I said, following her out.
The brochure said that some guests may have to share a connecting bathroom. Wouldn’t you know that they gave that honor to Emma and me, two of the only three women at camp.
“These spy trainer boys are sick puppies,” I said to Emma when we discovered this dilemma. “Like the men need private bathrooms to brush their teeth and run a comb through their hair.”
“It could be worse,” Emma said, dumping half the cosmetics section of Walgreens on the bathroom counter. “We could be sharing with her. Who do you think she is?”
“White dress. Gold shoes. Diamonds galore. Octopussy. Without doubt.” I tried not to sound as unhappy as I felt about the new arrival.
“I’m not even going to wager on that one. I think you’re right.” Emma shook her head in disgust.
“Which probably means she’ll be sleeping with our Bond before long.” I shrugged, attempting to sound light and casual as I pushed aside my feelings of jealousy and disdain, wishing for once that I had the confidence of an Octopussy. That someone like her didn’t make me feel so insecure merely by showing up.
“Give him more credit for brains than that.” Emma gave my arm a little squeeze. “Our Octopussy is an inferior spy. Couldn’t find her contact and missed the camp bus so she had to hire a cab to take her here. She’s more like Agent 3.14 from Spy Hard. A comic farce.” Emma shot me her winning grin, which I was certain was meant to boost my confidence.
“Either that or she’s cunning and planned that grand entrance. Remember, she is Octopussy.” I paused, as a more innocuous thought occurred to me. “Or maybe her flight was simply delayed.”
“Killjoy,” Emma said to me as she wandered off to her room to unpack. “I like my explanation better.”
I closed the door to our connecting bathroom, set my suitcase on the stand provided for it, and surveyed my room.
No phone in sight. A twin bed, small dresser, lamp, clock radio, and desk. A clock hung on the wall next to the ubiquitous and obligatory dream-catcher in muted Southwest pastels. I fiddled with the clock radio and found a station I liked, hoping a little music would cheer me up and bolster my confidence. Restless, I went to the window.
My view consisted of a couple of orange trees, the White Tank Mountains in the distant south, and the blown-up car being strapped to a tow truck. Oh, and Torq squatting and inspecting the left rear quarter panel of the car.
He did have a fantastic butt, a bottom line a girl could really appreciate. He ran his fingers over the side of the car, frowned, and inspected a bit more. I was intrigued … by more than just his butt. Why was he inspecting the car? It was obviously totaled. Time to turn it over to the junkman and be done. Yet something was bothering him.
Just then he stood, catching sight of me standing at the window, admiring him. Just as quickly I blushed to my hair-extended roots and snapped my curtains shut. An automatic and childish response that only underscored the fact I’d been spying on him. Not to mention drooling a bit in the process.
You’d think I’d leave the window. Just walk away from the fire. But I didn’t. Fueled by curiosity, I pulled back a tiny corner of the curtains and peeked through. Torq had returned to examining the car and frowning.
“Emma! Emma, come here and look at this!” When she didn’t answer, I went to find her. “I have something I want you to see.”
She came with me to the window, but when I pulled back the curtain, Torq was gone and the tow truck was idling, the driver nowhere in sight.
“A tow truck, so what?” she said.
I explained about Torq. “So why would he be checking out the car?”
Emma shrugged, unconcerned and uncurious. “He probably just wanted to see how well his bomb had worked.”
“He looked worried about something … and puzzled.”
Emma shrugged again. “You’re imagining things. Come on. Better finish unpacking. We don’t want to be late and have the Chief bark at us.”
After Emma left, I checked out the vacation pictures I’d taken since leaving home this morning. The burned-up car pictures were definitely my faves. I studied them carefully, zooming in and blowing them up, wondering how they’d look poster-sized on my office wall. Blistering paint. Holes. Charred seats. All of it totally in focus. Sweet stuff! Simply awesome photos.
Emma banged on
my door, startling me out of my reverie. “Ready to go?”
I glanced at the clock. Shoot! I’d lost all track of time. I was going to be late.
“Hold on. Give me a minute!”
I slid the camera into an empty dresser drawer and filled in around it with my brand-new Domino wardrobe of tanks, blouses, shorts, pants, and skirts, and sexy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. I wasn’t sure why I was hiding the camera. It just seemed the spy thing to do.
I slammed the drawer shut, reached for my brush and one of those big clippie things that look like an overgrown mouth of teeth, and opened the door to our joint bathroom to fix up.
Emma was waiting for me with an accusing look on her face. “What in the world have you been up to? You haven’t even fixed your face or done your hair yet?”
“Thinking and unpacking.”
Emma shook her head. “You have to be the slowest unpacker I’ve ever known.” She had the good grace not to call me a slow thinker, too.
I shrugged. “I’m meticulous, what can I say?” Yeah, right. I just hoped she didn’t check out the jumble in my drawer.
I hadn’t owned so much as a barrette for about twenty-five years. As Emma watched, I studied the pictorial diagrams on the cardboard the clippie came on, trying to follow all the arrows and doing half a dozen contortions with my arms as I tried to emulate the picture. I pulled my hair extensions back, winding them into a rope, and trying to claw them shut before too many strands fell out without much success.
“Oh, give me that before I die of frustration watching you. You act like you’ve never done it before.” She pulled the clippie from my hand and, shaking her head, expertly clipped my hair up and arranged several strands around my face to soften the look. “There.”
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