Love Another Day

by Gina Robinson

  If she was genuine, she was still taking a horrendous chance with her life. RIOT’s assassin squad, SMASH, would track her down and kill her no matter how long it took. She could live to be one hundred and they wouldn’t give up. Was a life spent in constant fear of discovery worth living?

  On the other hand, constant fear pretty much described a life in RIOT’s service. Maybe it was a wash.

  However, if she was part of a plot by RIOT, what could they be up to? If they wanted him dead, it was easy enough to send a SMASH assassin to take him out. They didn’t need to lure him out with a girl. He knew intelligence secrets, true, but nothing he could think of that could be seduced out of him by a woman. They’d have to torture them out of him, and again, sending SMASH to kidnap him seemed like a more efficient plan. Neither he, nor Emmett, nor any of the heads of departments could think of a reason to send a girl to get to him.

  Tate could have refused the assignment. Emmett gave him every opportunity to turn it down, had even tried to talk him out of it. But the opportunity to bring in such a valuable informant, one who could open up RIOT’s entire encrypting algorithm, was too tempting to pass up.

  “Tate!”

  Hearing his name being called startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Mal wheeling a suitcase the size of a small travel trailer behind her. Seeing her, he felt his heart stop. When it banged back into action, it beat infuriatingly fast.

  She was dressed casually in a tight-fitting dark denim miniskirt, thick, opaque tights, ankle-high brown leather boots with a low heel, a cream blouse, a long, loopy gold necklace, and a reddish-orange military-style jacket with gold buttons and leather trim. Her blond hair fell in loose waves around her face. Her makeup was light, fresh, and natural looking. Except for her lips, which were deep red-brown, moist and glossy, the very look and color he found so hot. The way they’d looked when they first met. Mal had the most kissable, perfect mouth—full and lush, with a delicate bow in the middle. She looked as if she was still in college herself. One of the hot college girls all the guys chased. Why hadn’t Emmett commanded her to deemphasize her looks, to shoot for dowdy?

  Now he was going to have to tell her to tone it down and give her the satisfaction of thinking he wasn’t over her. And maybe that was the truth. Maybe he wasn’t. Hell, he didn’t know. He’d been trying to get over her since she’d thrown him out after discovering his infidelity. Lately, he’d grown tired of playing around. Even his affair with Nicole had been an attempt at finding someone to settle down with again. But when she’d left him for the French director, he’d been more relieved than upset.

  Damn his body for reacting to Mal. He wasn’t prepared for the impact a college-age Mal made on him. She looked so much like she had when they first met. More updated college style, but still as young and tempting.

  He tried not to scowl. Mal was the queen of putting together disguises and cover-life personas. She could have downplayed her looks and gone for major nerd, too. But she’d let her pride get the best of her.

  “Traveling light, I see.” He stood as she approached.

  She arched a brow, which transformed her into a cynical thirty-three-year-old. Thank goodness. His attraction evaporated. It was easier to keep his distance this way. If he was already reacting to her, what would he do when they reached Cheltenham, the site of their first romantic vacation together?

  “Nice to see you, too, Dr. Stevens.” Mal leaned in and whispered to him, “Stop daydreaming and pay attention. We’re supposed to be undercover already.

  “I called out to Dr. Stevens three times and only got your attention when I used your first name.”

  “What can I say? I’m an absentminded prof. And I just decided—we’re casual at the university. First-name basis only.” He cut her off. He didn’t want her arguing.

  “Works for me, Tate. Especially since we’re supposed to be lovers going on vacation together. Just thought we were keeping it on the down low around home. Isn’t that part of the cover dossier? Have you even read it?” She took him in with the look of a tailor eyeing her work. Finally she shrugged and smiled, obviously pleased with herself. “You look good in nerd glasses and three-day growth.”

  He appreciated not having to shave regularly. But he had perfect vision. He didn’t need the damn heavy black plastic-rimmed glasses. The frames interfered with his field of vision. He wouldn’t have worn them at all, but the tech department had outfitted them with a concealed camera and rearview capability that made them halfway acceptable.

  “Where’s your bag?” she asked. “Have you checked in already?” She smiled sweetly.

  She’d picked out his suitcase, bought everything in it, packed it, and had it delivered to his place minutes before he had to leave for the airport. Worse yet—she’d locked and booby-trapped it so he wouldn’t tamper with it. There was no trust in the Agency. He pulled his luggage receipt from his pocket and waved it for her to see.

  “Good. Now you can help me with my suitcase. It’s too heavy for me to lift onto the scale. I have our … research materials inside.” She wheeled it toward the check-in stand.

  Tate followed her. He could hardly imagine all the torturous things she had in there. He was certain she was going to try to exact some kind of revenge on him for any number of perceived slights over the years.

  They walked up to the check-in counter. “Tate? Would you?” She nodded toward the backbreaker she called a suitcase.

  He sighed and hefted the behemoth onto the scale. The bag weighed more than it should have, even given its size. He hoped R & D hadn’t given her anything too dangerous.

  The casual leather laptop bag he had slung over his shoulder housed a host of goodies. Two magazines of bullets were sewn into a clever hidden and shielded compartment. He also had a stash of gold coins and currency of various kinds in the false bottom. The handle contained two lethal ceramic fighting knives. And, of course, he had his laptop, iPad, and iPod, along with an assortment of bugs and listening devices.

  The baggage handler weighed Mal’s bag and charged her for the overage. Within a few minutes she was finished checking in and they were on their way to the security checkpoint. Tate had a special air marshal waiver to get him through security. Mal was on her own.

  They were supposed to be undercover, but as they walked side by side toward security, he had to ask about Kayla, innocuously, of course. “How’s the kid?”

  “Great. She’s with my mom for the duration.”

  Tate frowned. “Yeah, I heard.”

  He leaned in and whispered in her ear at an angle none of the security cameras could catch to read his lips. “My mom wasn’t happy. She’d like her turn. Kay’s her only grandchild, probably stay that way. The least you could do is let her see Kayla once in a while. Take her off your hands for a few days. She and your mom could share.”

  Tate was an expert at reading microexpressions, tiny involuntary muscle movements that gave away emotions. Though Mal looked calm enough to the casual observer, she was pissed.

  “You divorced me, not Mom,” he said.

  Mal looked at him and rolled her eyes. “I wish. When I divorced you, I was hoping to be done with that witch.”

  “Hey.” Tate grabbed her arm and stopped, pulling her around to face him. He was sure there were no cameras that could catch what they were saying. “Show a little respect. Kay and I are all the family Mom has. All she wants is a little time with her.”

  Mal’s eyes narrowed. She glared at him. “And to turn her against me.

  “I’m always the bad guy. The girl who stole her little boy from her. The evil villain who keeps her from her granddaughter.”

  “If she showed me some respect, I’d show her some. As it is, she’s threatening to petition the court for visitation rights. I suppose you put her up to that?”

  He ran his hands through his hair. His mother could be a handful. She always had been. She and Mal had never gotten along, which put him in a horrible bind in the middle. “I tried
to talk her out of that.”

  Mal shot him a look that said she didn’t believe him.

  He had tried. “I did.”

  “Dr. Stevens, you say the most amusing things.” A look of hurt swept across her face. Then she pinched his cheek and kept walking.

  Damn, he didn’t want to fight with her. He’d never wanted to fight with her. But she never understood that he’d promised his dad he’d take care of his mother, no matter what. And he’d never understood the rivalry between his mom and Mal. His mom was one of their irreconcilable differences.

  He couldn’t fight with Mal now even if he had wanted to. In their cover story, Dr. Tate Stevens and Mallie Green got along famously, were a real team, and were engaging in a sizzling secret affair. He had to hustle to get back in step with her.

  “Yeah, I’m a real card.”

  They reached the security line.

  “This is where we part company.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  He wondered whether there was any way he could rig the security screening so she failed.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said as if she’d read his mind. “I have Emmett on speed dial and permission to use his red phone number.”

  Shit.

  “See you on the other side.” She winked at him and joined the line.

  That woman was enjoying this way too much. He wondered what delights she’d filled his suitcase with. He knew that gleam in her eyes and it meant trouble—for him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tate nestled into his business-class seat with its luxurious twenty-two inches of space and cocooning privacy walls, which mercifully shielded him from his ex-wife in the next seat over. He was used to first class, but business class would have to do. Fortunately, the Agency had a policy of sending agents business class on overseas flights. Given that they were living the right cover life, of course.

  The famous spy Dusko Popov, the model for James Bond, had it right when he’d said that a spy lives the life of his cover. If your cover is a dishwasher, you wash dishes. In this case, if your cover was a dishwasher, you flew economy. As a respected professor, he flew business. As himself, international playboy, he would have traveled first class. Yes, he and Dusko had been lucky. They had the best covers imaginable—playboys and big spenders. Except when their ex-wives were tagging along with them on a mission.

  Tate settled back against the memory-foam headrest. Despite what Mal might have thought, he wasn’t sure, when it came right down to it, that he could prostitute himself this mission, even for his country. It was one thing to seduce beautiful women when you were attracted to them and out for some fun. It was another thing entirely to be commanded to do it. Had he slept with women for the sake of the job? Yes. But Mal hadn’t been tagging along, looking over his shoulder. Despite what she believed, he’d never wanted to hurt her. He still didn’t.

  He adjusted his personal reading light and privacy screen. The flight attendant came by and poured him a nightcap—a nice glass of brandy.

  “Would you like a bedtime snack, sir?”

  He’d signed up for sleeper service, planning to get a good night’s sleep and arrive refreshed for this mission. It might be the last decent night of sleep he got for several weeks.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” He held up his glass of brandy and grinned, only slightly flirtatiously.

  The attractive flight attendant returned his smile. “Very good, sir. I’ll return with your blankets when you’re finished with your drink. Ring if you need anything.”

  He nodded and watched her walk off to attend the next passenger before returning to his ruminations. The truth was, Mal was the only woman among the many he’d known that he’d ever loved. Really loved and wanted to make a life with. And three years after their divorce, he was still trying to find a new love to replace Mal. Still kicking himself for losing her. For putting the job first. For not coming clean to Mal before they married about what the job might require of him.

  He’d been so damn afraid of losing her. And young and naïve enough to think he could hide it from her. The day she threw him out, she’d screamed at him that the lies had hurt the most. That he should have trusted her with the truth.

  If only that damn Italian socialite, he couldn’t even remember her name at the moment, hadn’t gotten jealous and sent Mal evidence of his one-night stand with her. He would have been a dead man if he hadn’t had sex with her. So would have several other agents he’d been protecting, and a major covert military operation thwarted. But losing his marriage was a hell of a price to pay.

  Tate knew about, and even privately laughed at, the idea that he fell in love easily. Yes, sure, he fell into flirtations easily. But love? He’d thought about proposing to Nicole. Had even been happy to let the rumors float about that he was going to. But he hadn’t been heartbroken when she’d left him for that director. His pride had been wounded, some. And he was lonely again. But mostly he was relieved and his heart was remarkably intact. Only Mal had ever been able to smash it and there were times when he believed she’d done irreparable damage. He seemed patently unable to ever truly love again.

  He had himself to blame. The breakup of their marriage had been his fault. He’d always been ambitious. Mal, with her obvious ties to the Agency, cramped his spying style.

  Emmett had recruited him at eighteen, at his father’s urging, just after he graduated from high school. Dear old dad wanted him to follow in his spying footsteps and Tate had been game for the experience. He knew the rules—you don’t fall in love and get married. And at eighteen, when marriage seemed almost a repulsive idea, something an old man did, he was happy to accept them.

  His dad complained bitterly of the problems of maintaining a happy wife and child and keeping them safe while living the life of intrigue. Of keeping a marriage on solid ground when traveling so much and keeping secrets from his wife. Of being limited in the kinds of covers he could use. Like Tate, he’d used his real-life job as his cover, until he’d been elected to the Senate, when he’d had to take a hiatus. Tate’s mother had never known that either he, or Dad, were spies. She still didn’t.

  But all the fatherly warnings and knowing the rules hadn’t stopped Tate’s twenty-year-old heart from giving itself to Mal, from naïvely thinking that if she worked for the Agency, too, there would be no objections to their marriage, no secrets between them, no problems. It had been a brilliant, if doomed, plan. And sometimes, he was still amazed at his powers of persuasion to talk Mal into it. At other times, he felt guilty for diverting her from her dreams and the fame and fortune she could, and should, have had.

  So, yes, he’d chosen career over Mal and Kayla. But only because he’d thought he could have it all. If given the choice again?

  * * *

  Mal sighed as she relaxed into her seat and sipped her preflight champagne. What was she doing on a mission with Tate? Why was she tormenting herself? To protect Kayla, sure, but …

  She hadn’t expected him to look so good. She’d even given him glasses. Not just because it would annoy him, or because glasses were all the rage among the nerd crowd. Many guys with perfect vision wore them with empty frames or plain glass lenses as a fashion statement. She’d given him glasses hoping they would make him less attractive, not just to her, but to this reckless girl, Sophia.

  But Malene was too good for her own good. She’d picked out the glasses without even looking at a photo of Tate. She knew his face, every inch of his perfect bone structure, from memory—the strong curve of his jaw, the plane of his cheekbones, the depth, shape, and exact shade of brown of his eyes, the swarthy tone of his skin, the perfect oval of his face, and that dark stubble that used to scrub her face when he kissed her—

  Stop that, she scolded herself. She was trying to think of Tate as unattractive, not remember the sexy times they’d had and what an excellent kisser he was.

  She blew out another breath, reached for her cocktail napkin, and dabbed her lips. She looked at the lip print on it and f
rowned—Carnelian Kiss—that was the shade of lipstick she wore, covered with a shiny coat of clear gloss. Carnelian Kiss was the color she wore when she’d first met Tate. These days she had to order it online and pay a premium price. But it was worth it. It made her feel young and powerful, luscious, and …

  It may have been a mistake to wear it. She may have given Tate the wrong impression. What was she thinking?

  And now, here she was, going back to London with him, the very city where they’d met, to help him seduce another woman, a traitorous girl barely out of college.

  Remembering how she’d met Tate, she scowled, picturing Sophia’s response to meeting him—pure animal attraction. Tate photographed well, but a flat picture did nothing to showcase his charm and personal magnetism. The girl would go down, hook, line, and sinker, as her grandpa liked to say.

  Malene had only been twenty herself, an American student at London’s Central Saint Martins College when she met Tate while visiting the Tower of London. She’d gone by herself, taken the tube. The day was sunny, blue sky. She was homesick, tired of British accents and longing for a good old American twang, drawl, or intonation as she wandered around by herself. Though why she thought she’d particularly find one at the Tower, she didn’t know. It seemed as good a tourist place as any to try. Later, she thought it must have been fate. Now she thought it was fate playing a cruel joke.

  She’d simply been hoping to run into a tourist from home, and by home, she meant from anywhere in the U.S. Male, female, old, young, she wasn’t particular, though she was hoping for a grandmotherly type. Someone chatty and nonthreatening. She really didn’t care what kind of American accent as long as the person behind it originated from one of the fifty states. Her friends still laughed at that—wasn’t she enchanted by the way the Brits spoke?

  Oh, she had been. For a while. But she reached a point where she needed a sound from home, the feeling of a compatriot right there with her. Someone far from home, too, and willing to laugh about it. She was tired of being an expatriate.