Love Another Day

by Gina Robinson

  “That makes this your—”

  “Second.” He knew good and well how many kills she had. She wasn’t a field agent. She didn’t get many kill-shot opportunities. As the shock began to wear off, she fought the trembles.

  Tate pursed his lips like he was considering the news. Without warning he came to her and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, touched. Damn Tate. He could be a real person when he wanted to be. And when he was, he pulled her heart directly toward him.

  “Sure?” His tone was soft.

  She nodded again.

  “Hey, it’s okay to be rattled.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Look on the bright side—this is Britain. You’ve just earned your double 0.”

  “I’m not a British agent like Bond.” She was grateful to Tate for trying to put her at ease.

  “As the senior officer, I’ll put you in for a commendation. That was nice work with that bra and panties. You have good aim.”

  “High praise.” She smiled at him. “If your commendation report makes even one tiny mention of the panties—”

  He laughed. “Hey, come on. That was genius, a real creative use of intimate apparel. I liked it.”

  “You would.”

  “Quick thinking. Nice cover story.” He nodded toward the accident. “We’ll be the talk and envy of the conference.”

  “Well, we can’t all go around like Bond leaving messes in our wake. That kind of recklessness builds suspicion and blows perfectly decent covers.”

  * * *

  The Dashwood House Hotel was a former Georgian manor that had been home to a duke when it was first built in the late 1700s. In the early 1800s the duke sold it. The new owners put it into service as a Regency-style hotel in 1808. It had remained as a hotel for just over two hundred years, still sporting its Regency style and glamour. With thirty-three rooms, it was an intimate setting where guests were destined to run into one another, giving Sophia ample opportunity to bump into Tate.

  It had free Wi-Fi, a complimentary off-street carpark, and was within easy walking distance of the racecourse, the Pitville Pump Room, and the town center. Perfect.

  Tate signaled to pull into the circular front drive to drop Mal and the luggage off.

  “No! Keep going. Drive around back to the carpark. We’ll haul the bags in from there.” Mal pointed the way.

  “You’re kidding. I was going to be a gentleman and drop you off—”

  She shook her head. “And then have the valet park the car? I don’t think so. You’re supposed to be an American nerd who’s not used to traveling. A fiercely independent, fiscally conservative—some would say a tightwad—American who isn’t used to being waited on. No valet parking. No letting bellhops deliver your luggage to your room, not without protest, anyway. And when the bellhop does deliver your bags, no overly generous tips. A pound per bag and that’s it. And act self-conscious about it and unsure.”

  “And I was just starting to enjoy traveling with you.” Actually, despite having to make a stop by the car rental place and get a new vehicle, he’d been enjoying being on a mission with her a little too much. So much so that he needed a cold shower and the carefully constructed wall around his heart was in danger of starting to crumble.

  Where was Sophia? He wished she’d show up so he could seduce her on the spot and get this mission over with. The adrenaline from a chase always made him horny.

  Mal smiled serenely back at him. “I’ve only just begun, Professor Stevens. Don’t forget your cover story.

  “I asked MI5 to book the most romantic room available, preferably one with a fireplace. But I can’t guarantee a bearskin rug here in England.” She laughed. “I also had them book the room next door. So I’ll have my own room to disappear to once Sophia makes contact or if I need to be undercover as someone else. In the privacy of the room, you’re free to be Tate Cox. Out in public, however…”

  He resisted rolling his eyes as he parked the car.

  She got out and grinned. “Open the boot.”

  He popped the trunk, tiny as it was. This new rental car was exactly the same as the old one, but in pristine condition. Good thing the Agency had taken out the extra rental insurance.

  They each retrieved their luggage and wheeled it to the hotel entrance, which was framed on either side with a pair of ornately topped, sandstone-colored columns that held up the porch roof. Geraniums bloomed in flower boxes above the porch. A well-trimmed boxwood hedge ran along the sidewalk to the edge of the stairs, three steps to be exact. A large door with a glass window covering the upper half greeted them. Very Georgian or Regency or whatever. Tate grudgingly had to acknowledge that if he were a woman, he’d find it romantically promising. He held the door open for Mal and let her in first.

  She paused just inside the door, admiring the surroundings, pleased with the atmosphere. “Isn’t it wonderful, Tate? Just like something out of a Regency romance!”

  Oh, she was good, sounding young again, her expression the epitome of wonder and excitement. His heart did that damn little flip like it had done the first time he laid eyes on her, that horrible flip that sent him head over heels for her. Thoughts of the long-ago trip they’d taken to the Cotswolds came back unbidden. He pushed the memories away.

  “If you have time to read romances, I haven’t been working you hard enough, Mallie.” He looked around the room, acting like a tourist, but in reality doing a spy’s assessment, looking for the exits, escape routes, cameras, places to hide, hidden doors to secret passages.

  The lobby was lovely—crystal chandeliers, ornate gilded mirrors, a large potted plant of some kind, and an open polished brass staircase.

  A very British receptionist checked them in at the front desk and handed them keys, actual keys, not keycards. Tate made a mental note to install his own security devices. Quaint was one thing. An open invitation to be spied on or murdered was another. A lock was too easily picked. Tate could get into almost any room with a standard lock within seconds. Not that a keycard or an electric lock provided much more protection. He whispered as much to Mal.

  She gave him one of her “I know” looks. “I may not do much fieldwork, but I do know a thing or two about personal security. I was married to you, after all. I have the Cox Software security app on my phone, for one.”

  Was it his imagination or was this her version of flirting? His thoughts were cut short by the appearance of a tall, dark Englishman that had caught Mal’s eye. Was she openly gaping?

  “Dr. Stevens?” The man’s eyes shone with friendliness as he extended his hand for a shake. “I’ve been expecting you. Mason, James Mason.”

  Mason’s eyes may have shone with friendly intent, but next to Tate, Mal went positively goo-goo eyed. Tate wasn’t a ladies’ man for nothing. He read the signs of attraction as easily as most men read the online news.

  Mal’s eyes were wide—when the central nervous system becomes aroused, or interested, involuntary visceral muscles of the eyelids produce rounder-than-normal eyes. Having had Mal’s rounded eyes aimed at him too many times to count, Tate recognized them immediately.

  Damn, he thought, experiencing an involuntary pang of jealousy.

  Worse still, Mal was subtly fiddling with her hair, preening. Whether subconscious or not, self-preening gestures signaled sexual interest. And while Tate wasn’t in the habit of assessing other men’s attractiveness, Mal’s reaction to Mason saved him the trouble.

  Mal jumped in before Tate could reply. “Being American, I guess this means I have to call you Jimbo, or Jimmy if you prefer.”

  Mason obviously got the Bond reference. American CIA operatives in Bond movies generally resisted calling Bond James. Mason smiled widely and subtly ran his fingers through his hair.

  Ah, shit—mutual preening, mutual attraction. A string of stronger language ran through Tate’s mind.

  Mal took Jimbo’s hand before Tate could. “Mallie, Dr. Stevens’s grad student assistant
.”

  “Lucky Dr. Stevens.” Mason took Mal’s hand in both of his and squeezed them, lingering in the shake too long for casual business interest. “I prefer James. Or simply Mason.”

  If Mason kissed Mal’s hand, Tate was going to have to intervene and punch Mason out just for the fun of it.

  Mal laughed. “James it is.”

  Tate cleared his throat. Mason finally dropped Mal’s hand, obviously reluctantly. As Tate extended his and shook hands, he felt Mason sizing him up. Mason with his immaculately tailored designer clothes, his Italian leather shoes, dressed as Tate would normally be dressed, acting comfortable and casual. While Tate was wearing nerd glasses.

  “Pleased to finally meet you,” Mason said. “Your reputation precedes you. I can hardly wait to hear your opinions on abc conjecture and the proposed Teichmuller Theory.”

  Tate smiled, recognizing the request for the code verification to prove his identity. “It will be the greatest mathematical achievement of the twenty-first century if anyone can grasp Mochizuki’s new mathematical language and verify his proof. I have my thoughts.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Mason was still sizing up Mal, looking like he wanted to gobble her up whole, or ravish her in a decidedly un-Regency, ungentlemanly manner. But he answered with the correct response. “It looks like you’re on your way to your room. I was just on my way up, too. I’m in room 203. Mind if I walk up with you?”

  “Our pleasure.” Mal’s smile was too big and too eager for Tate’s taste. “Awesome! We’re neighbors. I’m in 205. And Tate is in 207.”

  Yeah, fantastic, Tate thought, wondering why he’d never run into this James Bond impersonator before. Oh, yeah, because this guy was only MI5, not MI6, which meant he worked on local intelligence operations inside Great Britain, not on international issues and assignments. In Tate’s opinion that made him a small fish. A small fish with big pretensions and obvious designs on Tate’s ex-wife.

  Tate was going to put a stop to this instant attraction immediately. There was no way he was going to chance Mal getting involved with a Brit. Tate knew too well how easily Mal was attracted to British men. He wanted Kayla to have a typical American childhood.

  Mason grabbed Mal’s bag. “Allow me.”

  The three of them tromped up the stairs to their rooms. The hall was empty so the three of them ducked into Tate’s. As promised, the room had a gorgeous fireplace, a four-poster bed, and a romantic Regency décor done in tones of blue and white. Not at all to Tate’s modern tastes, but Mal seemed impressed.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered as she took it in. “Perfect.”

  Mason closed the door behind them and whipped out his bug-sweeping device. Not to be outdone, and never trusting to anyone else’s competence, Tate pulled out his and did a sweep. “All clean,” he said in unison with Mason.

  Mal simply smiled and took a seat on the settee at the end of Tate’s bed. She looked sweet and sexy sitting there with her legs crossed and an amused, happy expression on her face.

  Mason sat on the settee next to Mal, leaving Tate to pull over a chair from an antique desk, an uncomfortable chair at that.

  “I hear you had a spot of car trouble on the way here.” Mason pulled out his cell phone and brought up a picture. He showed it to Mal. “Recognize these two?”

  Mal took the phone and studied the photos. “Mug shots? Don’t tell me they were ordinary criminals?” She put some pouty disappointment in her tone and gave Mason a flirty little smile. “They had a rocket launcher.”

  Mason smiled and inched his leg closer to hers. “Boris Avilov and Vadim Galkin, a couple of low-level RIOT operatives.”

  Mal handed the phone across to Tate.

  “Our cover’s blown, then?” The look on her face said she was already thinking up a new cover story and a way to save the operation.

  Mason shook his head. “No, we don’t believe so. If RIOT is trying to lure Tate out, why kill him almost the minute he arrives? It’s too elaborate a plan for a simple assassination, and an inelegant one at that. They have to be up to something else.

  “We think it’s a case of his cover being too good, actually. They really believed he was Dr. Stevens, an obscure mathematician on the verge of discovering a way to crack a one-time pad. We believe they wanted to kill him before he got the chance.”

  Mal’s eyes lit up with the praise. “Wow, wonderful.”

  “Wonderful?” Tate crossed his arms. “They wanted us dead.”

  Mal delicately shrugged her shoulders.

  Tate took the opportunity to disabuse Mason of any ideas he might be getting of Mal being a delicate, sensitive woman who needed protecting. “Which one was driving?”

  “Boris.”

  “Nice,” Tate said, making his tone light. “It’s a good thing Mal pelted him with her panties and shot him for good measure.”

  Mal shot Tate a quick dirty look before shrugging casually for Mason’s benefit. “I had to do something. They had a rocket launcher. Tate said he’s going to put me in for a commendation and my double O.”

  “Your second kill?” Rather than being put off, Mason looked more intrigued and impressed with her than ever.

  Damn, I shouldn’t have mentioned the panties. Mason is probably picturing her without them as we speak.

  “Witham said you’re a master of the secret passageways of the Cotswolds,” Tate said, changing the direction of the conversation and getting the camera off Mal and back on him.

  “Yes, certainly.” Mason stood. “You know this house was built by a duke in the late 1700s. The duke appreciated a varied diet in all things, including his women, something the duchess did not approve of. A rather provincial attitude in those times when marriages were arranged to preserve, protect, and increase family power and wealth and few were love matches.”

  Mason strode to a bookcase near the fireplace. “The duke, if not loved, at least respected his wife’s wishes. Or maybe just wasn’t one for a domestic fight. From all accounts he preferred a happy, quiet household. So he built his houses with a bedroom to consort with his various mistresses, a bedroom as far away from his wife’s suite as possible, and with a secret passage to sneak the mistress into the house and back out again, should the need arise.”

  Mason stared at Mal with that vacant look that told Tate he was thinking about having a clandestine tryst with her in this very room. He turned and fiddled with one of the shelves, flipped a hidden lever, and the bookcase slid back to reveal a concealed door. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. Almost immediately a dank smell enveloped the room.

  He held his arms out in a gesture of welcome. “It leads past the kitchen into the gardens in back. Ignoble and insulting to have to exit at the servants’ exit, true. But the duke’s mistresses, who were always well taken care of and compensated, probably overlooked the insult. Besides, they weren’t likely to be caught by the duchess, who was reported to have rather a temper—a hothead, as you Americans would say.

  “It’s rumored she went after one of the few women she did catch him in bed with with a letter opener sharpened to cutlery standards. The woman got away in the end.” He gestured again toward the door and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. “Shall we have a look?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Witham wasn’t joking, Mal thought as she followed James with his flashlight pointing the way through the secret passage. It was dank, dark, and rank smelling. Narrow, tight, winding steps, low ceiling, bare brick walls tinged with dampness, but it was still charming and fun in a clandestine, almost childish way. Mal loved it almost as much as she loved pulling Tate’s chain. And pulling she was.

  Why she was able to was both perplexing and gave her a ridiculously girlish high. It was being back in England where they’d met, back in the Cotswolds where they’d taken their first romantic holiday together. Echoes of the past before Tate had decided his playboy image and the Agency were more important to him than she was. Before. If only she could go bac
k to before …

  And do what? Change Tate into a man he wasn’t?

  With her thoughts engaged elsewhere instead of on the treacherous stairs, she slipped on a smooth, tiny step and tumbled directly into James. He spun around and took her in his arms, pointing his flashlight beam into Tate’s eyes. “Are you all right?”

  Their eyes locked. It was dark in the passage so of course his eyes were dilated, but there was more to it than that. He was attracted to her. He smelled like bergamot and grapefruit, leather and pepper, exceptionally spicy, masculine and daring. Spicebomb? Yes, probably. Mal had an eidetic memory when it came to design, fashion, and cologne, and a nose that would have made her an excellent perfume designer. His hands were strong and warm around her waist as he steadied her.

  He was a handsome man, with a British accent that was devastatingly sexy. He reminded her of a British Tate. Tate, damn him. She had to get over him. James might be the man for the job. Being sandwiched between two attractive men had already led her to slip; now she hoped she didn’t lose her concentration completely and slip up. James held her a moment long enough to show he was interested.

  “Is there a problem? We should keep moving,” Tate said from behind her in an obviously irritated tone.

  No, it wasn’t her imagination. Tate was jealous. Confusing, but wasn’t it sweet?

  James released her. “It’s not much farther now.” He led them down the passage to a door that opened to a quintessential English garden in full summer bloom, a Regency garden in classic style—small, well-manicured shrubs that made a room of the outdoors, heirloom and old-fashioned roses in pink and white, bright pink satin flower, yellow wallflower, and evening primrose that was not quite ready to bloom for the day.

  James opened the door just a crack. They gathered around and peeked out. Scent is a powerful memory inducer, a mental, olfactory scrapbook entry. How would she remember this moment in the years to come? Whose cologne would have the bigger impact on her—James with his Spicebomb or Tate with his adventurous, sexy Versace Oud Noir? Speaking of which, as Professor Stevens he shouldn’t be wearing that scent. She made a mental note to tell him so.