Love Another Day

by Gina Robinson

  James pointed to an escape route through the gardens. “We’ll have a car ready at all times just there through the hedgerow. You know the way to the train station.” It was a statement, not a question.

  They made their way back to Tate’s room where James handed Tate a key to the secret passage. “As far as we know, RIOT hasn’t discovered this particular secret passage yet. But keep your eyes on it. If they find it, they’ll use it.”

  “What about Sophia? She doesn’t know about it, either?” Tate asked as Mal took her seat on the sofa and the two men remained standing.

  “No, not yet. Not until we know we can trust her. Maybe not even then. It’s an ace up our sleeve.

  “She hasn’t approached us directly yet. But we’ve done everything we can to give her access to you. There’s another secret passage that runs from the second floor to the third, one obviously unconnected to yours that the servants used to move about. When this place was built servants weren’t meant to be seen.

  “The house kept clean magically by itself and the fireplaces were self-lighting. Food miraculously appeared out of nowhere and clothes were laid out and arranged by unseen hands, that sort of thing.

  “We’ve gone out of our way to drop hints to her about the passage’s existence. She’s a sharp girl. I’m sure she’s sussed out its location. Let’s hope she’s savvy enough to keep it from her handlers.”

  “How does she seem?” Tate asked James. “Confident? Skittish?”

  “Reserved. Cautious. Naïve and charmingly girlish with just a touch of the math geek shining through. Young,” James said with too much admiration in his voice for Mal’s taste.

  Mal didn’t like the way either man looked as they thought about Sophia. “Are our rooms connected in any way? Can we move from one to another without having to use the hall?”

  James focused on her, giving her a winning, flirtatious smile that made her wonder if he’d taken her question the wrong way, as an invitation to her bedroom. “Unfortunately, no. That’s one thing the duke didn’t want. We’ll have to take our chances.”

  James outlined the escape plans, gave them their tickets, and talked about disguises.

  “We have disguises covered,” Mal said, trying not to sound defensive. “Disguises are my area of expertise.”

  “Tonight at dinner will be our first opportunity to observe Sophia. She arrived two days ago and so far has dined in the hotel restaurant promptly at seven both nights. She has reservations for tonight.

  “Tate, of course, will dine alone so he’ll be approachable. Malene, may I have the pleasure of your company? Two sets of eyes are better than one,” James said.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” Mal smiled back at him. “Do you think there’s much chance Sophia will approach Tate in public?”

  “No,” James said. “But she may find a way to deliver a message to him. Sending anything electronically or using social media in any way is too risky. Good old-fashioned paper and pen will have to suffice. I wish she’d had some training using a dead drop.”

  “I assume I have reservations for seven, too?” Tate said.

  “Of course.”

  “Just like you have reservations for two.” It took an expert ear to recognize it, but Tate didn’t sound happy, though he was obviously using interrogation-resisting techniques to cover it.

  James smiled. “I’m sure you’re both tired and would like to rest before dinner. Jet lag can be a bear. I should be going.” He made a move toward the door.

  “I’ll go with you.” Mal jumped up. “You can walk me next door. I’d like to check out the other room and make sure it fits our needs. I’d be interested in seeing that other secret passage, too.” She turned to Tate. “I’ll check on you before dinner.”

  James walked Mal to her door next door. “It’s been a pleasure. I’m looking forward to dinner.”

  “So am I.” Which was completely true. She leaned in and whispered seductively, “The secret passage?”

  James nodded. “Just there past the fire alarm, the large gilt-edged, full-length mirror.” He leaned in so closely she could see the stubble on his cheek as he whispered back in her ear. “There’s a small lever just behind the mirror.”

  “The mirror looks heavy.” If she turned her head just a few inches, she’d be in position for him to kiss her. Despite how attractive he was she was strangely not tempted. She blamed Tate.

  “Not for a determined lover.” James’s breath was nearly as seductive as if he was blowing in her ear. “It’s a decoy, made of lightweight materials.”

  “Subterfuge, like everything here,” she said, spinning suddenly and inserting her key in her door. “Meet me downstairs at seven.”

  “Not at your door?” He pointed to the room next to hers. “I’m just here.”

  She smiled. “No. Too obvious. I’ll make an entrance through the front door.”

  * * *

  Tate rested very little. He’d never needed much sleep. He didn’t know why he was so damned irritated with Mal and James. James! He had half a mind to start calling Mason Jimbo to get under his skin. Moving in on another spy’s ex-wife in the middle of their first mission together since their divorce was ungentlemanly and below the belt. Tate was having a hard enough time dealing with Mal and keeping a professional distance without this new nuance.

  He slapped on his cologne and dressed for dinner in an angry frame of mind, rather than the cool, calculated manner he was used to. No one had ever been able to rattle him like Mal did. She messed with his spy mojo. Always had.

  He put his fake glasses on and studied his reflection in the mirror on the armoire. Not bad. Not brilliant, as the Brits would say, but not bad. The glasses weren’t as much of a handicap as Mal had intended. The almost hopeful thought that Mal was jealous, too, bounced through his mind. He discarded it just as quickly.

  He’d managed to put together a fairly smoking outfit from the wardrobe of nerdy clothes she’d packed for him. She could try to foil him, but he’d lived with her long enough to hone his innate sense of fashion. He grabbed a comb and ran it through his hair and was checking his reflection again when there was a rap on the door.

  “Tate? Are you in there? Open up?”

  Damn. He couldn’t believe she was stopping by to check on him. Didn’t she have a dinner date?

  More rapping. “Tate! I know you’re in there.”

  He was sure she did. She’d probably been listening for his door to open.

  “Hurry! Let me in before someone sees me out here and I blow this cover.”

  “Coming!” He took the fake glasses off and set them on the nightstand.

  When he opened the door, it took a second to recognize Mal. She looked stunning and sophisticated and not at all like herself. She was undercover this evening as Mason’s date. Because Mason had a reputation as a playboy who only dated beautiful women, she was dressed as a fashionable, sexy English society woman. Mal, who was an expert, carried her undercover persona confidently. She’d always told him the key to carrying off a cover life was to find something to relate to in it.

  Her dress was red, curve-hugging, short, with a plunging neckline halfway to her navel. Her shoes were strappy sandals with wickedly high heels. Her lips were a vibrant red and her hair, which had to be a very good wig, was suddenly a deep shade of brown. And so were her eyes. Colored contacts?

  While he was assessing her, and getting turned on, she was studying him and shaking her head. “No, no, no. This won’t do.” She gave him a gentle shove in the chest backward into the room, following him in and shutting the door.

  She put her hands on her hips. “You’re supposed to be an absentedminded professor, not a GQ centerfold.”

  He smiled. “You like how I look. I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t say I liked it. I just called you a shoddy spy. You’re supposed to be staying in character, Tate.”

  “What? I am.” He gestured, indicating the clothes he was wearing. “Did you, or d
id you not, pack these for me?”

  She sighed. “I did. And you know very well they’re not intended to be worn together like that. Am I going to have to sew tags in all of them like a mom does for a small child so you can match them properly?” She shook her head again. “Take off your jacket. And your shirt.” She held out her hands for them and pursed her lips, still studying him.

  He hated obeying her commands, but he wanted to rattle her so he stripped off his jacket, handed it to her, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. “What’s that look for?”

  “I’m debating whether the pants work or not.”

  The suggestion gave him a rise she’d certainly see if he dropped his trousers. He arched a brow, shrugged, and reached to unzip his fly, calling her bluff. “Whatever you say.”

  “I didn’t say. Keep your pants on.” She tossed his jacket on the bed and rummaged through his unpacked suitcase.

  He rarely unpacked while on a mission. Too often he had to take off in a hurry. Though he would gladly leave these rags behind. He slipped his shirt off and was standing there bare-chested and subtly flexing when she spun around.

  Her eyes got that soft, rounded look. Yes, she was interested. Lack of chemistry had never been their problem.

  They locked gazes.

  “I guess I’m stuck being your valet.” She held the shirt out for him to slip into.

  As he was about to stick his arms in, she pulled his shirt away like a matador teasing a bull.

  “Mal, come on. That’s just childish.” He took a step into her and smelled her perfume, a scent that reminded him of sex.

  She took an obvious whiff of him, frowned, and wrinkled her cute little nose. What the hell? He’d just showered.

  “You’re not wearing the cologne I packed for you.” Her face was set.

  “If you think I’m going to wear that cheap, old man’s stuff you packed, you’re crazy.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. I packed you a perfectly appropriate cover cologne.” She turned and headed toward the en suite bathroom.

  “Oh, come on, Mal. I’m supposed to be attracting a hot young thing.” He had to yell over the sound of running water. “I couldn’t attract an old crone with that shit you brought.”

  She returned from the bathroom with a wet washcloth in hand and a determined look on her face. In three steps she was next to him, scrubbing his neck with the wet, soapy cloth in a way he shouldn’t have found erotic, but did.

  “Give me your wrists.” She took them in her warm hands, and washed them, making slow, mesmerizing circles.

  His pulse leaped in her hands. If she were as observant as he was she would have seen it. Maybe she did.

  She ran the washcloth up his arm, stroking his bicep, which flexed, preening almost involuntarily beneath her touch and going hard along with his cock. She locked eyes with him and slid the cloth across his chest along his breastbone and over his nipples until they stood straight up in the cold air and he was having a hard time breathing normally.

  When she finally broke eye contact and leaned in and sniffed his neck, she stood so close her breasts, which threatened to escape from the barely there confines of her dress, brushed across his naked chest. He could only take so much. He lost all control, grabbed her chin and tipped her face up for a kiss. Not a gentle kiss—a deep penetrating, tongue-dancing kiss.

  Either she was startled or stunned, but she opened her mouth to him and definitely didn’t fight it except to drop the washcloth and brace her hands against his chest. Even then, she was less fighting and more stroking and getting him worked up in the way she’d been so expert at doing when they’d been lovers.

  Just at the point he was ready to take her in his arms and take her to bed, she wrenched free suddenly. “That’s enough.”

  Her chest rose and fell rapidly like she was excited. Her face was flushed and her lips moist and tantalizing. She bent, picked up the washcloth and handed it to him. “You have red lipstick on your lips. It’s not your shade.”

  Damn, she was cold. Just like she’d been at the end of their marriage when she refused to listen to his excuses. When she refused to believe that she was the only woman he loved. Ever. That his infidelity had all been just business.

  As he wiped the evidence of her kiss off, she grabbed the cover cologne and spritzed his neck.

  “Wrists.”

  He held them out while she sprayed them with the expertise of a perfume counter girl. Without another word, she retrieved his shirt and held it out for him. He slid it on. As he buttoned it, she ran her hands over his shoulders, a move that only kept the burn going in him as she smoothed the shirt over his shoulders.

  She gave him a tacky jacket that didn’t quite coordinate with the shirt and slacks. Handed him a pair of brown socks when black would have gone better and waited for him as he sat and put them on while she set out his shoes.

  When he was dressed, she studied him with a fashionista’s eyes.

  “Stand up.”

  He stopped fighting her and did as he was told.

  She pulled his shirt, loosening the tight tuck of it into his pants, giving him a slightly sloppy look.

  “Starting again?” he whispered.

  “You still look too put together, damn you. Next time forget to shave, and maybe miss a spot or two when you do. Stay there.” She grabbed a tub of hair gel from the bathroom, and returned to rub a dab between her palms and into his hair, massaging his scalp as she worked it in.

  Did she have to drive him mad with desire again? She knew how he loved having his hair played with. But she was all business now. She tousled his hair until it looked just unkempt enough, then handed him his fake glasses and waited for him to put them on.

  She studied him again until he felt like a carpet sample being scrutinized beneath her discerning eye. Finally, she reached across and swept a lock of hair across his forehead. “That will have to do. Charming. Bumbling. Cute. She won’t be able to resist you.”

  She pivoted and just like that strode to the door. “Behave yourself at dinner and stay in character tonight.” She paused. “And remember—I’ll be watching you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  At least Mason had been competent enough to book Tate a table with his back to the wall, an accessible path past it, and a clear view of all the exits. Tate made a mental note of each of them, mapping several quick escape routes. Unfortunately, he also had a perfect view of Mason and Mal’s table and had to watch them flirt with each other whether he wanted to or not. Mal had the sexy habit of crossing her legs provocatively and moving her foot. No matter how much Tate tried to avoid it, the motion caught his eye and drew his gaze to her shapely legs.

  Tate sipped a passable table wine and ordered an entree of stuffed mushrooms and an appetizer of rump steak, which was sirloin in American. The Brits had everything backward, calling appetizers entrees and entrees appetizers.

  Tate hated dining alone. As a consequence, he rarely did. There were always dinner companions to be found. He sat casually, trying to look approachable in case Sophia decided to make an appearance. Mason had sworn she had reservations. But women were known to change their minds.

  There’s a rule in the espionage business—always assume you’re being watched. As Tate scanned the room he noted several other secret agents scattered about from various countries’ agencies. There was an Israeli member of Mossad, a CSIC agent from Canada—what were the Canadians doing here? A Russian, even a Korean.

  If Tate were paranoid, he might have imagined they were all aware of his operation. Instead, he took it in stride. A festival like this was a magnet for intelligence types. Everyone wanted the latest on scientific and mathematical breakthroughs. From the string theory of today came the weapons of tomorrow.

  Across the room from him, Mason was leaning across the table toward Mal, acting as if he was totally enthralled by whatever story she was telling him. It didn’t look like an act to Tate. Mason wasn’t that good an actor. Mason was a womanizer through and through.
He’d get into Mal’s pants if he could. Tate made up his mind not to let that happen. For Kayla’s sake. Mal deserved better. Mason wouldn’t be any more faithful to her than Tate had been. Probably less so.

  Tate, at least, had never meant to hurt Mal. She just hadn’t believed he could compartmentalize his roles and love her and only her, be faithful in his heart, while doing his duty. In less than twenty-four hours of being with Mal on a mission, his sense of having made a mistake in losing her was multiplying.

  She sat next to the window. It was June and still light outside. The low evening sun shone through the window, outlining her sexy feminine form. Her dress was a dark shadow against the evening sunlight. Her face radiant as she laughed with Mason.

  The waiter brought them a bottle of wine. Mason went through all the formalities—swirling it, tasting, nodding his head that it was acceptable.

  Even though there were a few hours of daylight left, the waitstaff was beginning to come around the room and light the candles on the tables. The room was done in Regency-period wallpaper. Replica, or Tate missed his guess. The genuine stuff would probably be faded and peeling by now. Mal would be able to say for certain.

  Mason poured Mal a glass of wine, leaning over to touch her arm as he told her a joke and the two of them raised their glasses in a toast.

  “Dr. Stevens, I presume?” A round-bellied, right jolly old man with a bushy moustache smiled down at him. The accent was undeniably British. The man beneath the convincingly real fat suit and moustache was Vail Belanger, the French spy and master of disguise known as l’Artiste.

  Belanger was absolutely the last spy Tate needed to run into tonight. The U.S. and the Brits were trying not to involve their ally the French. And he was partially blocking Tate’s view of Mal.

  Wait. Are Mal and Mason intertwining arms as they drink their toast?

  Tate fought down a scowl and looked up at Vail just as he pulled up a chair uninvited.

  “Come on, my old friend. Don’t you recognize me?”