Love Another Day

by Gina Robinson

  “Don’t get cocky,” Tate shot back. “I recognize you easily enough. I’m just not sure who you’re supposed to be tonight.”

  “Now that’s just cutting.” Vail sat. “And you in that flimsy disguise. What’s the matter with you, Tate? Why the bloody hell are you undercover?”

  “Probably for the same reasons you are.” Tate took a sip of wine. He had to get rid of Vail before Sophia showed up.

  “But wouldn’t it be smarter to come as yourself? I’m sure you could even get a guest lecturer spot.”

  “The Agency thinks I should get some undercover experience.” Tate snorted. It was true enough. On the other side of the room Mason was holding Mal’s hand across the table. Time to get creative and put the brakes on them. He sure as hell wasn’t going to sit by and watch Mal lose her heart to an inferior Brit with a James Bond complex.

  Vail launched into a discussion of some of the more interesting scientific theories bouncing around the serious festival lectures, letting slip what the French were particularly interested in. Tate made polite comments and murmurs, but he was concocting a plan to throw cold water on the budding romance across the room. He owed it to his kid to keep her from getting a low-level British spy as a potential stepdaddy, or at least as her mom’s boyfriend. Mason was as likely to settle down as the Iranians were to voluntarily give up their nuclear missile program.

  “You’re distracted,” Vail said at last.

  Tate grinned. “I’ve appreciated the company and the intel. You know how I hate to eat alone. But to be honest, I’m on the prowl tonight. You know how that goes.”

  Vail grinned. “I see. You may look like the mild-mannered professor, but you’re still you.” He patted his fat belly. “If I weren’t in this suit, I’d be looking for action, too.” He laughed and slapped the table. “I’ll leave you alone in your pursuit.”

  Tate knew Vail would be watching him closely now to see exactly who Tate was after. Tate cursed to himself. He hated complications.

  Vail pushed back from the table.

  What the hell? Tate went for broke, hitting on a way to distract both Vail and Mal. “Do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  Tate reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen. “See that table by the window with the brunette and the Brit? Drop this in the aisle in front of their table. I’d like to be a fly on their wall.”

  Vail was good. He didn’t turn to look. “Interested in what the local branch of MI5 is up to?”

  Tate grinned. “Always. Aren’t you?”

  Vail smiled and took the pen. “Later, my friend.”

  Tate watched while pretending not to as Vail walked past Mal’s table and dropped the pen unnoticed. The thing about that pen—it wasn’t a listening device. It was a new gizmo the Agency had secured from a private vendor. It was filled with a highly slippery substance that was supposed to literally trip up anyone. The idea was to use it when someone was in pursuit. But this seemed like as good a time as any to try it out. That was the great thing about having friends in the Agency’s gags and gizmos department. He got to try the new stuff.

  Vail was good. When he dropped the pen, neither Mal nor Mason noticed. Bad spycraft, you two. That pen could be full of poisonous gas.

  Tate hit a tiny controller button on his watch and the pen popped open, oozing superslick gel all over the carpet. Now that was a compound the eggheads at this festival would love.

  Tate leaned back in his chair, took a sip of wine, and waited for the fun to begin as he kept one eye out for Sophia and her handlers. Within minutes a waiter appeared carrying a heavy tray and headed straight to Mal’s table to deliver the appetizer course.

  Wait for it.

  Mal was laughing and smiling at Mason, who was totally oblivious to the danger.

  One more step.

  The waiter hit the gel and slid into the splits. The tray tilted ominously toward Mal in her stunning dress and Mason in his fine dinner jacket.

  Tate was enjoying the scene. Until Mason reached up and tipped the tray away from Mal with a lightning-quick move so smooth Mason didn’t even take his gaze away from Mal. The tray tipped onto the waiter and then the dominoes began to fall. The waiter took the tray full of food to the chest and tumbled into the table behind him with a crash, sending it falling over.

  The male guest at that table jumped back cursing and knocked over a guest who was walking in the next aisle. That guest toppled over into a second table while the flying food hit several more guests. A hostess ran to the rescue of the first waiter, slipped on the actual pen casing and the spilled food and crashed into the table behind Mal’s. Which sent those guests flying and another waiter scurrying to the rescue.

  By the time the chain reaction came to its conclusion, three tables had toppled, two waiters, one hostess, four guests—two cowering behind chairs and two more behind overturned tables—and numerous dinners had been lost.

  Mason calmly looked around the room, took his cloth dinner napkin and spread it over the gel, stood, offered his hand to the fallen hostess and helped her up. Suddenly Mason was the hero of the evening. Tate watched Mason pocket the pen parts that had caused the entire affair.

  After helping the other fallen waiters and guests, Mason took Mal’s hand and helped her across the mess to the profuse apologies of the restaurant staff.

  He graciously waved them off. “Accidents happen. We’re fine. We’ll have a snack later in our room.”

  As Mason led Mal past Tate’s table, he pointed to a note that had mysteriously appeared on Tate’s table during the mayhem and motioned for Tate to join them upstairs.

  Tate scooped up the scrap of paper. Scrawled in a feminine hand on it were the words See you tomorrow. Kisses, Sophia.

  Damn. He’d been so engrossed in the mayhem he’d caused he’d completely missed the drop and a beautiful woman.

  He caught up with Mal in his room. Mason was nowhere in sight.

  Mal was once again dressed as Mallie and looking adorably delectable, arms crossed as she sat on the bed and frowned. “You couldn’t resist using the slippery pen.”

  How did she know about that?

  Tate shrugged and held up the note. “I got results, didn’t I? I had to create a distraction to give Sophia the opportunity to contact me. It was clear she wasn’t going to act if I didn’t do something.”

  Mal rolled her eyes. “So, naturally, you decided to make a mess at my table?”

  “That was pure coincidence. You were across the room from me, as far away as possible. I couldn’t very well stage something right in front of my table.” He grinned. “And I was testing Mason. He has quick reflexes.”

  Mal didn’t look at all convinced of Tate’s innocence.

  He waved the note again. “And it worked. She made contact. Tomorrow is showtime.” He made a point of looking around the room. “Where’s your date?”

  Mal whipped out her phone and began texting. “I sent him home and slipped back here to become your adoring little grad student flunkie fling again who was simply too tired from traveling to be up for dinner. And truthfully, I’m fighting jet lag. Why aren’t you flagging?”

  “I’m used to being off schedule,” he said.

  “Did you see the parade of agents in the dining room? You’d think the intelligence community was having a convention.”

  Tate was impressed Mal had noticed them all. He sometimes forgot how good she was.

  Mal’s phone vibrated. “Mason says they’ll be ready.” Then Mal flipped the phone around so Tate could see it.

  A picture of Kayla smiled back at him and his heart melted a bit. His kid was a gorgeous bunch of energy and questions.

  “She says to say hi to Daddy.” Mal pierced him with a look. “You should stay in better touch with her. She misses you.”

  Tate whipped out his phone and texted his daughter a big squishy bear hug and kisses. “Satisfied?”

  “I wish you’d think of it on your own.” Mal readjusted until she sat cros
s-legged on the bed.

  “I’ll try to do better.”

  “You mean you’ll do better. There is no try.”

  Tate glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. “What do we do now? It’s early to be in for the night.”

  “Not for a couple who are desperate for each other and ready to cut loose without the prying eyes of faculty and students.” She smiled at him.

  He didn’t like where this was heading. “You’re not really planning on spending the night here?”

  “I am. I’ve told you time and again—we must become our cover lives, believe them wholeheartedly if we’re going to make them convincing.

  “A professor and a grad student who are having a clandestine affair will not spend their first night out sightseeing. They’ll be in banging the headboard and anything else they can find. Then collapsing, dead tired with jet lag.”

  Banging the headboard sounded pretty good to him. He flashed her a wolfish grin with the full intent to make her uneasy.

  “Simulate sex, Tate. That’s it.”

  “This is taking things too far, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” Mal stared him in the eye and bounced lightly on the bed, which reacted with a rhythmic squeak. “Nice firm mattress. The springs are just noisy enough. We have to make everything about this cover seem authentic. If someone is walking by our room in the hall right now, we want them to believe we’re shagging. If we see them at breakfast, they either smile knowingly or look the other way.

  “Now—kick off your shoes and let them thump to the floor. Make it sound like you’re eager to get out of them.”

  He eyed her and pulled them off one at a time and let them drop. He raised a brow. “Good enough?”

  “Take your jacket off and toss it over the sofa back.”

  He shook his head. “You really think anyone is going to hear that?”

  She shrugged. “No, but the key to a convincing cover is acting it out.”

  He shrugged back and out of his jacket, tossing it with a flourish over the sofa as she slid off the bed, walked over to him, and took off her shoes, letting them fall to the floor with a thump.

  She walked directly in front of him and looped her arms around his neck. “Hold me tight, Tate, and dance me to the bed like we’re necking as we go. Knock something over if you have to, stumble over something. We’re hot and ready for each other.”

  With Mal looped around him, looking like she had when they were young, it wasn’t hard to imagine being hot for her. He grabbed her and pulled her close so suddenly, quickly, and fervently that she let out a gasp. “How’s that?”

  She leaned up and whispered in his ear. “Perfect. Now take me to the bed.”

  Tate was not a stumbling, bumbling lover, but he did know a thing or two about unbridled passion and eagerness. He held her close and took two smooth steps toward the bed before intentionally tripping on a pair of shoes. He kicked them out of the way, one after the other.

  “Good,” Mal whispered. “Nice touch.”

  “What will Sophia think if she hears our charade?” Tate couldn’t help asking.

  “That we’re very good at setting up covers.”

  He spun Mal around, holding her so tightly her breasts pressed into his chest in the most alluring way. He tried to ignore the way they rubbed against him as he manipulated her toward the bed.

  At the edge of the bed, he was about to swing her into his arms when she took him by surprise—she bounced up and wrapped her legs around his waist, squeezing him tightly between her toned, shapely thighs, grinning at him, daring him to be turned on.

  He squeezed her grabable ass and fell onto the bed on top of her. The bed groaned appropriately beneath them.

  “Perfect.” Mal sounded breathless. “Now bounce my bones, Tate. And make it convincing.”

  “The things I do for my country.” He ground his pelvis into her as she continued to hold him as tightly as a vise. And then he began moving rhythmically, seductively, slowly at first.

  Mal tossed her head back and closed her eyes.

  Damn, he’d seen this view of her many times and it never failed to turn him on.

  She rocked against him and slowly started to moan.

  Damn her. She really wasn’t playing fair. He moved more rapidly, bouncing the bed, and her, more forcefully.

  “That’s it.” Her voice was a sensuous rasp. “Give it to me hard, baby.”

  He bounced her so hard the headboard banged the wall. Again and again.

  Mal’s gentle moans escalated in intensity and volume as Tate bounced her and tried to hide his desire.

  “Come on, Tate. Get into it. Give me some dirty talk or something.”

  “I’m a cultured professor.” If he started talking dirty to her, he was going to come in his pants like a horny teenager. “I don’t talk dirty.”

  She opened one eye and looked at him. “You’re a horny geek. That’s the cover. At least grunt a little.”

  “I’ll grunt at the fake climax.”

  She shook her head. “Make it convincing.” She glanced at the clock. “How much stamina should a mathematics professor have? We’ve been at this five minutes.”

  “I can go all night.”

  “I’m not talking about you. You’re undercover.” Still bouncing against him, she glanced at the bedside clock again. “Let’s give him a little credit and give ourselves another three minutes of bouncing action.” She was starting to breathe hard, which only turned him on more.

  “I think it would be authentic if we climax together.” She rocked against him. “On my signal.” She turned and stared at the clock.

  “Clock watching is not sexy during sex,” he said dryly, though personally he was glad for the turnoff. “And it’s not authentic.”

  “Who’s running this cover?” She kept her gaze fixed.

  He bounced her harder, slamming the headboard against the wall with even more force.

  “Okay, ratchet it up,” she whispered in his ear between escalating moans. “We’re heading toward the big crescendo at the finish. One. Two … three!”

  Her moan broke into the most seductive, satisfied scream he’d heard in a long time. He grunted and froze over her as her screams subsided.

  Finally, he fell back and rolled off her onto his back beside her. “Satisfied?”

  She pursed her lips as she turned to look at him. “Not really.”

  He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “What do we do now?”

  She smiled as she caught her breath. “We wait ten minutes and do it again.”

  She was trying to kill him.

  * * *

  Mal had forgotten how much Tate warmed the bed and how cold sleeping alone was in comparison. Tate slept hot, while she slept not. After a second rousing bout of pretend lovemaking, Mal had padded to the bathroom and gotten ready for bed, saying that since it was their first night in England, the two inexperienced American travelers would be tired. She’d then boldly taken the bed while Tate got ready.

  She’d expected him to take the sofa, although that wouldn’t be according to their cover. Instead, he’d brushed his teeth, taken off his shirt and pants, and climbed into bed next to her in his underwear on what had traditionally been his side.

  It wasn’t like she’d never seen his naked chest before. Or slept next to it. It was more that the chemistry that had caused them to marry in the first place hadn’t fizzled simply because they’d gotten a divorce. She found herself aching to toss her arm over his chest and pull him to her, to cuddle against him in the cool English night. Truthfully, every part of her was tight and aching with sexual frustration. Tate knew how to make love and turn her on, apparently even when they were only faking it.

  The fake lovemaking reminded her, in a good way, of being a teenager caught up in necking and petting. She tried not to think about rubbing her crotch against his obviously erect member. She’d almost climaxed just pressing against him.

  It was all that faked moaning. She’d gotten way
too far into the role. She’d told Tate to get out of bed, but he’d thrown her words about living the cover back at her and stayed put. Leaving her to sleep fitfully and lightly, punctuated with sexual dreams of him. Was he trying to kill her?

  At morning’s first light, she bounced out of bed and into the shower. Being off schedule definitely fit the cover life. She was half afraid Tate would get into the cover life a little too much and decide to join her in the shower. She locked the door and took a cold one, trying not to think about him.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom, she found Tate sitting up in bed, still shirtless, reading his iPad.

  “Anything interesting going on in the world?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m reading the schedule of festival events.”

  “Anything strike your fancy?” she asked with a smile.

  “The Secrets of Creative People looks good. The School of Hard Sums is a comedy show featuring math. The Hazards of Life—should we be worried about them? Will that hamburger and fries kill you or do you have a greater statistical chance of being hit by a bus as you drive to the fast-food joint? Or what about Stand-up Maths? I’d like to see a guy not divide by zero.”

  “I’m sure you would. I’m more interested in Designing for Light and Life.”

  Tate cocked a brow, shook his head, and looked resigned. “What do we have tickets for?”

  “We’re supposed to be two math geeks in love—which means you win. We have tickets for all the math shows, as well as the serious math lectures, including the one where Sophia is on the panel.

  “But don’t get your hopes up. The festival doesn’t start until tomorrow and our first show is late in the afternoon. With any luck, we’ll have our target and be well on our way to a successful exfiltration by then, under the cover of a family emergency calling our love-struck professor home. The Agency will have to scalp our tickets and recoup the losses.” She looked Tate over with an appraising eye.

  “Tonight we have the party. You need a tux. And it would be so romantic if Dr. Stevens bought his paramour a new posh frock for the big doings.”

  Tate rolled his eyes. He hated shopping for women’s clothes. Too bad. She was determined to torture him, and pay him back for the possibility she’d have to sit through a comedy about math.