My Spy

by Christina Skye

  Unnerved, Marsh glanced up at the camera. “You can't videotape without a posted notice.”

  “It's right beside the outer door. I suppose you were too intent on threatening me to see it.”

  He moved away, smoothing down his windbreaker, already playing to the camera. “Naturally I'm upset. I'm seriously dissatisfied with your services. I intend to register a complaint with the state tourism board as soon as I get back.”

  Annie studied him coldly. “Harassment in any form is not only unethical but illegal. I think I'll discover you have a pattern of such behavior.”

  Marsh moved from foot to foot, and Annie could see his jaw twitch. “What are you suggesting?”

  “That you've done this kind of thing before, Mr. Marsh.”

  “That's bulls—” He glanced up at the camera. “Baloney,” he snapped. The arrogance surged back. “You should be worrying about your defense in court.”

  Annie clicked her tongue. “Should I? Lawsuits are unpleasant and expensive.” Her voice fell, confiding. “I think I'll make a few calls and check out how many other times you've done this. It should look nice in my file.”

  Marsh's hands opened and closed as he stared at her. “You won't find a thing.”

  “Let's see.” Annie reached for the phone. “And now I'm going to finish my call.”

  She was trembling when he stormed out, trembling so much that it took several seconds to hear Buzz's voice.

  “Stay put. I'm coming right over. No one can talk to you that way.”

  Annie sank into her chair, shaken. “I can handle this, Buzz.”

  “I heard enough to know he threatened you. I can bring him in and question him. I figure I can hold him for at least a few hours.”

  “He's a pro at this and I need more ammunition before I take him on. But I hope you'll be a witness, if this comes to trial.”

  “You've got it.” There was a long silence. “I hear Taylor's golf cart got pretty banged up last night.”

  “You heard about that?”

  “People love to talk. Any particular reason Taylor's golf cart got banged up?”

  “We were a little drunk.” Way more than a little, Annie thought.

  “You sure you're okay?”

  “Just fine. It was one of those sister things.” Make that twenty-seven years of buried sibling rivalry, Annie thought. A hangover was a small price to pay for purging years of painful misunderstanding.

  “Well, if you decide to run Attila the Hun in for an afternoon behind bars, it would be my pleasure to oblige. Consider that a sheriff thing.” He was silent for a few moments. “Did you really get him on camera?”

  Annie smiled faintly. “No. That camera hasn't worked in three months. But Marsh doesn't know that—and he never will.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ANNIE HAD JUST GONE BACK TO MAKING FILES OF HERB SAMPLES when she heard the sharp click of stiletto heels.

  Today Taylor was wearing black leather pants, a leopardprint sweater, and black alligator ankle boots with four-inch heels. “Amazing. I actually found you.”

  “The MTV awards are on the other side of the hall,” Annie said.

  “Very funny. Let's go.”

  “Look, Taylor, I'm buried here. I can't possibly—”

  “Now, ace. Otherwise I'll call in the marines.”

  Annie's eyes narrowed. “What marines?”

  “The one with the cute butt. With that body, if he's not a ma rine, he's something close, so don't bother lying.”

  Annie sat back with a sigh. “You're impossible.”

  “Only when it's necessary.”

  “I have to be back in an hour.”

  “Two.”

  Annie tapped two fingers on her desk. “One and a half.”

  Taylor smiled. “Three. You work too damned hard.”

  Annie reviewed her day. Hangover. Temporary insanity with Sam. Another confrontation with Tucker Marsh. Hardly a stellar success so far. Probably an hour break couldn't make matters any worse.

  And she definitely needed to relax. If she could relax, she might be able to forget about Sam.

  About his incredible body, his amazing hands.

  About that skillful mouth and how it drove her crazy.

  Earth to Mars! No more thinking about the man in her casita.

  She closed her files with a snap. “Let's go.”

  HE SAT IN THE DARKNESS, CRADLING A COLD FOSTER'S, DEAFENED by the energetic wail of a singer in a red cowboy hat with rhinestones the size of golf balls.

  He hated country music, but his contacts always set the meet location via pager with no callback number. Each time, a different place.

  Never a place like this though.

  All he could do was sit and sweat, watching dancers shuffle past and wishing he could cover his ears.

  Another drink of beer.

  Another glance at his watch.

  Someone ambled past on his right, a little too close and too fast. He relaxed when a waitress in pink cowboy boots bent down beside him. “A call for you, sir.”

  He nodded. He had been contacted by different people over the last year, some men and some women, but never in person. Their voices were always digitally altered, but over time he could recognize differences. Today's caller was one he'd heard several times recently. A powerful person, you could tell that from the way he spoke.

  Someone used to giving orders, not taking them.

  “Did you get a fix on that item we discussed?” His contact's voice was sharper than usual.

  The man at the table frowned. “It's some kind of locker key, just like you thought. I tried National and Dulles, but no match.”

  “What about Union Station?”

  “No good. They changed to all-plastic keys two years ago. Most other places have phased out their public lockers for security reasons.”

  His waitress came back with a new drink, and he paid with a smile, which faded as soon as he was alone again.

  His contact went on curtly. “It has to be somewhere in the downtown area. We had McKade under constant surveillance before he jumped on that school bus.”

  He remembered that day all too well. Every plan shot to bits in minutes.

  He sat back, frowning at the country singer who was wailing on the narrow stage. “Except for the time he was in the men's room at the Federal Triangle Metro station. What if he slipped out a window?”

  There was a long silence. “You mean that he could have dropped something off nearby, then hustled back.”

  The man at the table fiddled with his drink. “That's what I came up with. It's a long shot, but I made some calls and found out they still have employee lockers at the Old Post Office. It's a short walk from there to the Federal Triangle station.”

  “Check it out.” The order was curt.

  First things first, the man at the table thought. “What about my money?”

  “Same place. The deposit will be made in the usual amount. If you find that locker in two days, the payment will be tripled.”

  The line went dead.

  Tripled.

  He put down the phone and stood up, tossing an extra bill on the table for the waitress. The money had been good before, but now it was incredible. If he had to take some risks, so what?

  He smiled at the singer with the red cowboy hat on his way out.

  SAM WAS SWEATING HARD, CURLING A THIRTY-POUND WEIGHT with his good arm and trying not to think about Annie. He especially didn't want to imagine the soft curves hidden beneath her silk robe. About the heat of her skin and the husky rasp she'd made when he'd leaned into her and nuzzled her breasts.

  He nearly dropped the weight.

  Damn it all anyway.

  Cursing, he pulled the weight onto his chest and began doing sit-ups, ignoring the dull ache at his left shoulder.

  “Better slow down, McKade. That makes forty.”

  “It doesn't count until you hit two hundred,” Sam said irritably.

  “That was then, this
is now.” Izzy tossed him a bottle of water. “You're in rehab, not BUD/S, remember? Take five.”

  Sam sank onto his side, frowning. Annie had left over an hour ago, but he couldn't think of anything else. Hell, he could almost smell that soft perfume she wore, mixed with the apple scent of her shampoo.

  She didn't go for makeup or daring clothes. Not much in the way of jewelry either. She dressed for comfort and ease, since she was always on the move.

  He liked that.

  He could imagine her leading a tai chi class or demonstrating water aerobics in the outdoor pool. He mused on that for a while, certain she wouldn't go for a thong or some ridiculously miniscule bikini.

  Too bad.

  He suspected that Annie was nothing like his usual choice of companion. He had a sense that he preferred women who showed their assets in tight spandex and probably laughed more than they should. Then again, having deep conversations in bed didn't seem like something that was high on his agenda.

  Until Annie.

  He enjoyed talking with her as much as he enjoyed touching her, and that was saying a lot, considering that he wanted to touch her every second he was awake.

  But he also liked the way her eyes carried a challenge and her laugh rippled softly in her throat, building until it poured out in a husky rush.

  Even her laugh left him rock hard.

  With a grimace, he headed for the big Swiss exercise ball. If he was lucky, a few dozen leg lifts might clear this haze of painful lust.

  But probably not.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ANNIE SIGHED. “FINE, TAYLOR. BUT TWO HOURS, TOPS. I'VE STILL got the payroll to finish.”

  “Forget about the payroll.” Taylor pointed her to the door. “You have more important things to worry about than money.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sex, power, and lingerie.” She gave Annie a despairing look. “Your underwear has the sexual punch of a peanut butter sandwich.”

  “We can't all dress like Madonna.” Grumbling, Annie followed Taylor down the hall. “Where are we going?”

  “You'll see.”

  They passed Megan and the chef, who were both smiling broadly. Clearly they were in on Taylor's plan, whatever it was.

  “What's this all about?” Annie hissed.

  Taylor pushed open the door to the therapy rooms. “If you're going to have an affair, you have to do it right.”

  “Who said anything about an affair?”

  Taylor shook her head. “So naive. As if you could fool your sister. Now be quiet and pay attention.” She turned the sign on the door so it read Closed, and bustled inside. “To have an affair, you've got to learn to relax.”

  Annie crossed her arms. “Who said I—”

  “Don't insult my intelligence by denying that it's on your mind.” Taylor opened the glass door to the outdoor pool, where steam rose gently over heated salt water. “Lesson number one: build a mood.” She swept her Louis Vuitton bag down onto a deck chair. Annie knew the bag dated back ten years to Taylor's first trip to Paris. It was her most prized possession, after her computer and an amazing black leather jacket she'd picked up for a song in Florence.

  Taylor took out a plastic bag and scattered rose petals over the water. “Color and fragrance spur the imagination, and imagination is all.

  “Lesson number two.” She reached back into the bag and held up a pair of cotton mitts. “Exfoliating gloves. Trust me, he's going to loooove the feel of your skin after these. Now for lesson three.”

  “Heavy animal tranquilizers?”

  “Very funny.” Taylor pulled out a shallow glass bowl, set it on the tile near the pool and filled it carefully with water. After that she lit six small candles and floated them in the water, scattering a final handful of rose petals between the drifting candles. “You're good to everyone else. Now it's time to be good to yourself.”

  Annie stared, on the verge of tears. “You planned this all for me?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  Annie shook her head. “I don't know what to say.”

  “Just say thank you and smile. I'm allowed to take care of my best sister.” Taylor frowned. “Especially when she's being an idiot and working herself to death, oblivious to the hunk standing in her kitchen.”

  “He's a client, Taylor.” Annie had been trying hard to remember that.

  “Like that makes a difference. When the man looked at you, I could feel the recoil all the way across the porch.” Taylor took a deep breath. “If you're worried about making time, I'll even fill in for a couple of days.”

  “You?”

  “Don't act so shocked. I worked the resort from the ground up, remember? Mom and Dad saw to it that I put in my three summers as a fitness coordinator. I used to be damned good at motivating the guests.”

  Annie couldn't speak. For Taylor, this was the supreme sacrifice. “You'd do that for me?”

  “An offer is an offer. Just don't take too long deciding, or I might change my mind. I'm starting to feel faint at my generosity already.” She dug to the bottom of her bag. “And don't go all giddy on me, because there's one more item of business. Your lingerie has got to go.”

  Annie tugged at her white camisole, outlined beneath the top of her knit dress. “What's wrong with my underwear?”

  “You want a list?”

  “Sorry, Taylor. I appreciate the offer, but I'm just not a black lace kind of woman. I don't own any push-up bras or fishnet stockings.”

  “About time we changed that.” Taylor had a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Especially since you're one of the few people I know with the body to wear that kind of stuff.” She tossed a bag at Annie. “Go change.”

  Annie pulled out a scrap of black lace, hardly big enough to cover the essential areas dictated by civil code. “No way.”

  “Try something else.”

  Annie reached in the bag again, pulling out a feathered and beaded bra in gleaming satin. “This?”

  “Trust me, he'll go nuts when he sees you.”

  Annie shook her head and delved in once more, hoping for something more sedate. Instead she found a scrap of snakeskin spandex. Confused, she turned it right and left, up and then down. “I don't understand. How does it go? There are too many openings.”

  Taylor sighed. “You are such an innocent.” She held up the spandex underwear. “They go like this.”

  Annie flushed slightly. “You mean—”

  “Yeah. They're great with the fishnet stockings. He'll be begging for mercy.”

  “I really don't think—”

  Taylor pointed toward the dressing room. “Go try them on. The red thong might be a little much, but give it a go.”

  Red thong?

  Annie looked into the bag, feeling slightly faint. “What's wrong with white cotton?”

  “Nothing—if you're having a slumber party with five of your twelve-year-old girlfriends. For crying out loud, you're twenty-seven, Annie. It's time to let things rip a little. Every item in that bag is guaranteed to be Big O material. Trust me, he'll go berserk, and what woman doesn't want to make a man crazy sometimes?”

  Put that way, there was some tortured logic to what Taylor was saying. Annie felt a little flutter in her chest at the mere thought of Sam's hot gaze running over her.

  Then his hands.

  Then that hot, clever mouth.

  “Fine, I'll try them. But this stays strictly between us. It doesn't go into any book.”

  “Of course not. My lips are sealed. Not a word.”

  After Annie disappeared into the changing room, Taylor frowned. “On the other hand,” she mused, “this could make a fabulous opening for chapter six.” She pursed her lips. “With the right details changed, of course.”

  As clothes fell to the floor behind the door, Taylor considered the idea. “Don't forget to try the red lace,” she called out thoughtfully.

  SAM PUT DOWN HIS DUMBBELL, WINCING. HIS SHOULDER WAS ON fire and his leg felt like a truck ha
d run over it. Day after day he was pushing hard, fighting to get back up to speed, but he still hadn't remembered anything significant. The specialists said he would remember with time.

  But how much time?

  When Izzy signaled Sam to take a secure call a few minutes later, Admiral Howe didn't seem to be too pleased with the situation, either.

  “Slow down the rehab schedule,” the admiral ordered. “I don't want to see you back in a hospital bed.”

  Sam grunted.

  “I'm not hearing you, McKade.”

  “Yes, sir. I won't push too much.” Like hell he wouldn't.

  “What have you found about those fire alarms?”

  “Izzy's still checking, but it appears to be defective wiring.”

  “The problem is recent?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep an eye on that. I never have believed in coincidences.” The admiral cleared his throat. “How are you getting along with Ms. O'Toole?”

  Sam rubbed his shoulder irritably. “She's doing her job, and I'm doing mine.”

  Sam could almost see the admiral's raised brow. “No problems of any sort?”

  “No problems.” In a pig's eye.

  “Izzy says she's good, and he's damned particular about who he praises.”

  “She knows all the moves. Except for my knee, my lowerbody recovery is about 90 percent. Of course this blasted shoulder is a different matter entirely.”

  “Stay with it. That was one hell of a tumble you took.” A little silence fell. “Remembered anything yet?”

  “A flash here and there,” Sam said tensely. “Nothing that holds still long enough to make sense.”

  “The trauma, coupled with your post-op medications, can make recovery unpredictable. Don't let it get you down.”

  “I feel like a piece of cardboard, sir. There's nothing I can connect with.” Sam stared out at the gray surf. “Nothing that feels like me. ”

  “There's another problem.” Admiral Howe's voice hardened. “Someone broke into your apartment in Virginia.”

  Sam frowned. “Don't you have a surveillance team there?”