by Aimee Laine
A change of lanes jostled her. “Why does everyone except me know who’s called this meeting?” She peeked with one eye.
Neither man turned around.
“Some things are best left unsaid,” Cael said. “For now, the team is needed. And that means you.”
The team. She, Lily, James and Cael. An unstoppable team. The guys—the brawn, as she referred to them—balanced her mind. She often admitted James’s logic matched hers, and Cael’s capability for manipulation reached well beyond her own.
“I thought I was the one who knew everything, though?” Charley spoke without punch. Under normal circumstances, she would have been the one in the know—called for missions, adventures, projects, whatever, thanks in most part to her shape-shifting ability but also for her mind.
Cael remained mute.
She gave up. Deep breath in—out—in—out, and one muscle at a time, she unfurled the tension she’d built up in herself. She folded her arms across her chest, let her hands rest against her body and relaxed.
Alone in her thoughts, she considered the possibilities: someone famous, political, a foreign dignitary, or a family member to any of the same. Her mental list blanked on her, with no particular person standing out. That she did not know did not bode well and ratcheted up her nerves again.
Tree-lined roads flew past as they moved from highway to countryside. If they’d turned left, they’d head downtown. The opposite direction and they’d end up near Turner Point where the girl Wyatt knew as Mira disappeared but never left. A surge of memory-fueled adrenaline rushed through her.
Think happy thoughts, Charley.
She smiled as the images of her town passed through her mind. Suburban to the point of excessive. A railroad stop with a rich history. The trains had run since the nineteenth century and continued, blowing their horns as they passed, adding noise and disrupting traffic. She loved the contrast it held to her work—stressful and fast mixed with heritage and timeliness. Some days Charley hated the departure from small town to large. On others, her excitement got the better of her.
Trees grew more sparse, the buildings more dense as they drove on. She ignored the car as it slowed, but the sharp squeal of metal against metal took her attention. The gate before them began to move. At only a foot every couple seconds, she had time to process her location and gawk at the house to which they’d driven. Charley leaned forward—elbows on the seat in front.
Home. House. Whatever they called it, Charley termed it ‘huge’. The house on Turner Point had been hers for at least half her life. Although small in comparison to the one before her, many thought it grandiose.
The statuesque Queen Anne Victorian held its position with regal elegance. Three stories towered in the center, encircled by a wrought-iron fence. Traditional gables and ornate flourishes accented the exterior—adding to the feel royalty once lived within its walls. Charley could stand outside and marvel for hours if left on her own.
The circular drive brought them to the home’s base in short measure. Behind them, James’s car followed.
“Who’s here?” It had unnerved her for far too long to be deliberately kept out.
What they’d asked her to do—to be—would not be difficult. If it required education, skill or stamina, she’d educate herself or acquire the ability. With Lily’s help, she’d look the part.
The question of why bothered her most.
James and Lily flanked her within seconds.
“You guys made good time.” Charley crossed her arms, stood with her feet shoulder width apart. “But I’m still royally pissed you won’t tell me who’s called us.”
A creak preceded a lazy, enchanted swing of a white-washed panel door.
As its angle widened, the group waited.
From within, a man stepped. Under his weight, the porch groaned.
Charley gasped. Her body swayed.
James caught her before she hit the concrete but not before she understood.
There could be no mistake.
Wyatt.
• • •
“Just give her a second,” Lily said.
“I told you she’d probably pass out.” James’s voice carried to Charley.
“I’m glad you were there,” Cael said.
The ruffling of paper suggested the exchange of dollar bills, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
“Can I help?” Wyatt’s voice, deeper yet the same, licked at her ears.
“She’ll be okay in a sec … the heat and all.” Lily’s lie flowed like a lazy river. The wave of her hand added a small breeze across Charley’s face.
Wyatt.
Charley hadn’t imagined she’d ever get to see him again, let alone work with him. Her team seemed to think she’d be the perfect candidate for a simple project.
I’ll do it. Just tell me what and where. Anything. I’m your puppet. Don’t say any of that out loud. Argh!
“Oh Chaaaaarley!” Lily sang her name, adding a slight beat to the made up tune.
The sounds of life cleared, but Charley’s mental tsunami would burn into her psyche. With flush cheeks, she’d be the butt of jokes for the rest of the day.
She wished Wyatt would leave so she could get herself on her feet with some semblance of dignity. Yet, at the same time, she wanted him to hold her, touch her and kiss her like he had so long ago.
Lily’s hand ran over Charley’s face again, and the chill interrupted her thoughts. “Wake up, Charley.” Lily’s tone held a little more force.
Charley cracked one eye—enough to see Lily’s nose inches from hers, James at her shoulders, Cael at his and Wyatt above them all.
Heat raced back into her cheeks.
A squeeze of Lily’s hand, and Charley pulled herself out of James’s arms to sit on her own. She swayed an inch before she caught her balance again.
“Ma’am,” Wyatt said. “Should I get you a chair?”
Ma’am? Her heart ached. “I’m okay.” One hand in James’s, another in Lily’s, Charley brought herself up to her full height.
Gone were the wisps of curls that infused his dark hair—he’d opted for a long military cut. His green eyes tugged and pulled at hers—same as before. Her fingers itched to find their way to muscles hidden under his dark suit. Soft warred with hard as small creases added to the corners of his eyes, reflecting age and wisdom.
They stood, the four of them focused on Wyatt. Charley took a deep breath, blew it out and counted.
She caught each of her companions’ gazes. “Shall we try this again?”
At their nod, she gave herself another single count.
“Let me apologize—”
“None needed. I’m told your group is very unique and moments of unusual activity should be expected.” Wyatt held his hands tight in front, his body still but not at rest.
“True. But it’s odd that I have the problems.” She held a hand to her heart.
Wyatt nodded. From behind her, Lily pressed a hand into Charley’s back.
“Let me introduce us,” Charley said. “My name is Charley Randall,” and I want to marry you … Her hands moved to her companions. “… and this is Lily Crane.” She moved on. “Cael Aldrige and James Henry.”
“Wyatt Moreland.” His hand reached and Charley snatched the opportunity to shake it, sliding her palm against his. “I’m a Senior Field Agent for the Counterintelligence and Foreign Law Enforcement Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Whoa! That’s a mouthful,” James said as Cael snickered and broke from his uber-professional mold.
Charley’s heart thudded against her chest as Wyatt smiled. It pounded harder when the grin reached the corners of his eyes. She wanted to jump up and down like a giddy school girl who’d found out the popular boy might, maybe, like her.
She kept the motion hidden. “And it’s you who’s asked us here?”
“Yes.” Wyatt’s ringless hand motioned toward the house. “Shall we? I think this conversation is better suited for
a more private place.”
Cael nodded, his head inclined toward the house. “I agree.”
Wyatt took the lead, his long legs stepping wider than hers, gait controlled and firm. Charley itched to grab and hold on forever.
“You’ll get your chance,” Lily whispered into Charley’s ear before she moved in front. Lily’s two crossed fingers behind her back brought a curve to Charley’s lips.
The four of them followed, up six granite steps to the front entrance.
“Sheila McGowan. Please come in.” The woman offered each of them a handshake as they entered. Once through, she led the way through a short foyer. Her skirt zip-zipped as she scooted to the front while her heels clacked against the hardwoods.
Efficiency in motion.
“She’s a bit severe, don’t you think?” James snickered to Charley.
She stifled a laugh.
High ceilings overdramatized the foyer’s size. Antiques graced miniature shelves at random intervals. They followed Wyatt into a room dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun, through the two layers of glass, warmed, and the jewel tones in the paint and accessories accentuated it.
Sheila motioned them to sit. Charley found a spot on a Victorian chaise with Lily next to her. James slouched into a padded recliner, and Cael, in his standard-issue FBI uniform, positioned himself in a side armchair.
Wyatt sat opposite them, and like Cael’s, his posture remained stiff and controlled.
Sheila pulled folders from a briefcase she’d picked up from an antique buffet they’d passed.
“Ms. McGowan—” Charley began.
“Please, call me Sheila.”
Charley cocked her head.
Sheila laid her hands on the items in her lap, crossed and uncrossed her ankles.
Nerves? “Sheila, then. You’ve gotten our attentions, mine in particular. However, I would very much like an explanation for why I’ve been asked to take on this project.”
Sheila broke her stare, turning to each of them and pointing toward folders within their reach. “Please, take a moment to look at the information I’ve provided. Ms. Randall? I think that which you are looking for is in there.”
Charley drew the government-issued, navy-blue folder from the table. As she opened her copy, Cael let out a low whistle. Mr. I’m-at-work had broken his facade again. Charley stifled her laugh but smiled; she’d rib him about it later.
She pointed to a photo. “Who’s this?”
“The page to its left will explain everything,” Sheila said.
“Okay, but I’d like to hear your perspective while I read it.” Charley’s tone bordered on exasperation, though it came from long suppressed emotional frustration.
“Sheila, if you’d please give Charley the rundown on the situation, that would help … considerably,” James said.
Charley knew he did it to soften Sheila as her own gruff response couldn’t.
Sheila stiffened. “Absolutely. I’m sorry. I was told Ms. Randall preferred to read and then ask her own questions.” Sheila proceeded with details in a clipped recitation.
Charley stood before she finished and ran her hands through her hair. She needed the movement to prevent another mental meltdown. Her group would ignore her as she paced the room, but she assumed Sheila and Wyatt would watch her every move.
Can he tell it’s me?
She’d kept the height but changed the hair. Gone were the enhancements she’d added before. Her eyes took on a golden brown.
“Ms. Randall …” Sheila began, but James signaled silence with a finger to his lips.
Charley’s need to move diminished. As she passed Wyatt on her first round, she noted the strength of his shoulders—how their width made her want to touch them, to run her hands along their plane. She drew her hands into fists at her sides and released. Repeated.
I’ll do it for you. I won’t even ask questions.
She hustled away from Wyatt before she came to rest in her original spot.
“Okay. Now.” Charley’s hair fell from her clip.
Wyatt’s head shifted as his gaze stayed on her.
Recognition?
She shook the thought away. “What you’re asking isn’t a mind-boggling activity. It’s a search for information. Go in and get the details, get out. End of story. What isn’t written in your FAQs?” Charley pointed back toward the folders they held. “Please tell me why you need me for this.”
“Because we were told you can look and act the part.” Sheila’s eyes exclaimed their disbelief.
“Riiiiiight.” Charley leaned against the back of a chair. “Because I’m the only woman in the FBI who can pole dance?”
9
How she’d look the part, Wyatt didn’t know. He gauged her height at no more than five foot eight at best. As she’d walked, he’d watched. Long legs took strides twice the length he’d expected, and stirred memories he couldn’t find. Puzzles like her had pushed him to the FBI.
“Go on.” Charley jerked him from his thoughts.
The cadence of her voice drew him in. He couldn’t place her origin—a skill for which he’d become known in his eleven years; hers had a unique pace.
Sheila cleared her throat, but Wyatt retook control. “I’ll take it from here, Sheila.” He nodded.
She returned the same.
“We’ve managed to gather some intelligence already, through Candie.”
James smirked. “The skivvy-dressed blonde in the photo?”
“Yes.” Wyatt’s own grin snuck through, though he’d tried to refrain. Candie, as he knew, had a reputation as a busy-body. Luckily for him, he’d been in her circle when she blabbed. “She’s a dancer … in a club.”
“Where?” James asked.
“Montreal.”
“Out of your jurisdiction,” Charley said.
“Yes.” Wyatt stared into her eyes before shifting his own away.
Years of ingrained training had taught him not to stare, but he’d found it hard not to get caught in the gaze of a beautiful woman. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a shade of black like that of her curls; they fell from a band holding them away from her face. When lights shined and reflected against them, a silvery blue shimmered in the highlights.
Wyatt returned his thoughts to the project. “We need a private organization to go into the country and acquire a piece of information.”
“What she didn’t hear before or what she didn’t tell you, you mean?” Charley asked.
“Yes.” His boss had assured him about the team, but Wyatt’s doubts grew.
He knew the beauty of being privatized gave them flexibility. Overseas, across borders, and into places the government wasn’t allowed to step, they could go with immunity.
“Is she an operative?” Cael asked.
“No. Innocent bystander. About a month ago, she overheard a conversation. After a few too many drinks, she started sharing.”
“With whom?” Charley cocked her head.
“Me.” Wyatt mirrored her tilt. As he did, he remembered the same move—a habit of a girl’s in a relationship long since over.
“I think I got this now. You need us because this scenario plays out very close to, but across the border from, the great U S of A. You need me because of the way my mind works and my ability to … ah … dress appropriately.”
“Yes.” Wyatt shook his head. “I have to ask, Ms. Randall. I’m sure you’ve noted our subject’s height?”
“I have.”
“How do you propose we account for a four-inch difference?”
“We’ll handle that,” Lily said—quiet until that point.
Wyatt noted she’d jumped in before Charley, but Cael’s lips twitched. Does he understand how they would?
“Why is this information critical?” Charley brought Wyatt’s gaze back to her.
“Our reasons for this mission are classified.”
“Then how am I supposed to know what else to learn?”
Wyatt coughed into his f
ist. “You have a photographic memory for both sight and sound, correct?” Charley nodded at him. “We’d like to keep you wired for both and have you tell us everything you see—what we won’t be able to.”
“A play by play?” Cael asked.
“Yes, in debrief, also.”
“And to be successful in this, I have to become a six-foot, blonde pole dancer at an American club in Montreal. There’s no other way?” Charley held her hands out, palms up. She’d shifted toward him, her elbows on her knees, the folder beneath them wrinkled.
“No. We’ve explored every avenue, including the engagement of Miss Candie by the United States, as she’s a U.S. citizen.”
“But, that would be downright stupid.” James’s comment came by way of a throat clearing, to which Wyatt nodded.
“While we’ve found her information credible and sound, to keep the element of surprise, we must exclude her from project participation.”
“You mean, she’ll spill the beans to the bad guys if she knows what she knows is worth knowing,” Lily said.
Wyatt nodded, but the smile that escaped came in response to Charley.
She’d bumped her shoulder into Lily’s and let out the smallest of laughs. Her smile brought up those old memories again—ones he couldn’t place. It would eat at him if he didn’t ask, but to do so would be just plain rude, as his mother always advised.
“Can we go in as customers? Investors? Hire her for a private dance inside the club?” Cael asked.
Wyatt smirked. Cael knew the answers to all his questions as he’d been briefed before their meeting, but Wyatt would humor him for the rest of the group’s sake. “We’ve thought of that. The problem lies in Candie’s status at the club. She is one of their more … ah … popular dancers. We actually need to get her out of the club first.”
“You’ve tracked her movements?” James asked.
“Yes, for about a month. We have her habits expertly noted. The issue we’ve run into is that the men Candie heard the information from will be back at the club tonight.”
“And you call us now?” James straightened like a whip-switch, fury emanating from him. The knuckles of his hand grew white with his hold on the chair.