On Best Behavior (C3)

by Jennifer Lane

  He padded over to the phone, still attached to its charger. He read the message from Agent Bounter:

  Call me. Got plan for tonight

  His throat tightened, and last night rushed back. His fingers flew over the numbers.

  “Hey.” Bounter sounded tired.

  “What’s the plan, sir?”

  “Cut the sir business—your place might be tapped, remember?”

  He winced. “Sorry.”

  “Go take a shower while our guys scan the place. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Okay.” He yawned, tossed the phone on the bed, peeled off his boxers, and tossed them in the laundry basket. He was just about to turn on the shower when he heard the faint click of his front door opening. Damn, they’re fast. He peeked out from the bathroom and saw two men dressed in plain clothes. They stopped when they saw him, then one gave him a thumbs up. He nodded in return.

  The warm water soothed his nerves, and soon he found himself singing “Pretend You Don’t See Her.” If those Russian bastards had bugged his place, he hoped they were getting an earful.

  Feeling much more alive after he toweled himself off, he reached for his razor. The bathroom door creaked open. He whirled around to face an agent with some sort of electronic scanner, which he used to gesture around the bathroom. Grant got the hint and stepped into his bedroom. He’d just slipped on a pair of dark jeans when the agent beckoned him. The other agent had joined him in the bathroom, and he drew his index finger to his lips then pointed to the medicine cabinet.

  Grant’s eyes bugged when he crouched down to see the bug—a tiny little sphere attached to the underside of the cabinet. How dare Andrei sneak in to his apartment and plant a listening device right under his nose!

  Oh. Then he remembered he wore a wire every time he neared the Russians. Touché, Andrei.

  He waited for one of the agents to remove the bug, but the two men just stood there, staring at him in the cramped bathroom. Perhaps they wanted him to do the job? He reached toward the medicine cabinet, but an agent blocked his arm, then pointed out of the bathroom. Grant shrugged and led them out to the living room.

  One agent crossed the room to turn on the TV.

  Yanking a pad of paper out of his pocket, the agent who’d blocked him from removing the bug started scribbling. Grant approached and read:

  Leave it. They can’t know we found it.

  He closed his eyes. Duh.

  Give us your phones to check.

  Rather than protest that Bounter had recently checked the phone he carried, and Andrei had been nowhere near the secure phone, he shut his mouth and retrieved them. Obviously he was new to this world of espionage.

  The agent smiled after he examined the phones—apparently they were clear. More written directions were forthcoming.

  Bounter needs to talk. Leave the apt

  and call on secure phone.

  Grant nodded. He signaled for the agent’s pen and stooped to write:

  Thank you.

  The agent nodded, then wrote one last message:

  Let’s get these fuckers.

  Grinning, he reached out to shake his hand. The other agent offered a hearty handshake as well before they left the apartment.

  With only the TV as his companion—some political news show berating Governor Grogan for his plan to reduce pension payouts for state employees—he scanned the empty apartment and shivered. He looked down to find his torso bare.

  In his closet, he tugged the first shirt he saw off the hanger. It was a pale-blue button-down from Nordstrom’s Sophie had given him for Christmas, thanks to her father’s largesse. The shirt probably cost more than most of his wardrobe, and the crisp collar hid his button mic well. He stuffed his feet into black leather shoes, grabbed both phones, and snatched his coat from the front closet. Crap—he couldn’t go far because he had to return the secure phone to his apartment, and he still had to shave. Rubbing his hand on his chest, he smiled as he decided the location for his call to Agent Bounter.

  A quick glance out his front door revealed an empty hallway. He slipped into the stairwell and leaped two steps at a time to reach Kirsten’s apartment.

  Pressing his ear to the door, he heard nothing. As soon as he’d unlocked it and entered, though, he could hear the patter of the shower. He hoped it wasn’t Kirsten.

  Then he heard singing. He stepped closer to the bathroom, trying to figure out what song was being butchered. Was that Madonna? It was definitely Sophie. When she punctuated the lyrics with a high-pitched “Oooh!” he had to cover his mouth to prevent bursting out in laughter. Lord, her singing was awful. She was almost as bad as Rog.

  But when the shower shut off, he found himself sad she’d also stopped channeling Madonna. There was something so endearing about her singing. “Soph? It’s Grant. Gotta make a call up here.”

  She yanked open the bathroom door. “You didn’t hear me sing, did you?”

  “What?” He tilted his head, striving to keep a straight face.

  Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she scowled. “Peeping Mick. I’m taking away your key. I thought I was alone!”

  Droplets of water sliding down one shoulder distracted him. “Um, sorry ’bout that, Madonna.”

  “So you did hear me sing!”

  “Singing isn’t quite what I’d call it.” A grin broke out, appearing to enrage her further. “I’d advise you not to quit your day job.”

  “Ooooh! Why the hell can’t you call from your apartment?”

  His smile vanished. “The Russians planted a bug in the bathroom. Sophie, you have to promise me you won’t go down there.”

  “They were here? In the building?” She clutched her towel more tightly to her chest.

  “It’s okay now. But I gotta call Bounter to check in. Everything’s copacetic—just need to touch base. All right?”

  She blinked at him for a long moment. “I guess.” A few more trickles of water cascaded down her chest, and she turned toward the mirror. She opened her towel and tilted forward to wrap her hair in white terrycloth. Catching a glimpse of her milky skin, he leaned over to peer around the partly open door.

  “I thought you had to make a phone call, Mr. Professional Singer,” she said when she noticed him ogling. With that she closed the door in his face.

  “Wow.” He pulled out his secure phone and sat on the couch.

  Bounter answered with a laugh. “I’m not thrilled you went up to Sophie’s, but damn that was funny.”

  “So you overheard Sophie murder that song?”

  “With an ax. Girlfriend’s tone deaf.”

  “Hey!” Sophie huffed as she flew out of the bathroom. “He heard me sing too?”

  She was naked except for the towel-turban wrapped around her head like a vanilla soft-serve cone. Grant eyed her perky breasts before his gaze flew south. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Better get a good look, pal, ’cause this—” her hands sashayed down her body, then rested on her hips “—you won’t see for a loooong time.”

  He could see from the glint in her eyes she was joking—thank God. “Don’t you own a robe?”

  Her head tilted an inch. “Do you want me to wear one?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “I’m still hot from working out,” she said. “I don’t need a robe.”

  “You are hot. You worked out?”

  “At the gym downstairs.”

  “That’s awesome. I haven’t run in a week.”

  Her gaze floated down his body. “You still look quite fit, McSailor.”

  “Do I need to be here for this?” Bounter barked. “Eavesdropping on phone sex is plain wrong. Very wrong. And I want out.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He winced, looking at Sophie. “Right, sir. She’s just a bit distracting.”

  She laughed as she glided back to the bathroom.

  “So what’s the plan for tonight?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “The good news is we don’t need Sophie.”
<
br />   Grant let out a breath. “Good.” He paused. “And the bad news?”

  “We have to make another woman credible as your girlfriend. So you need to get to the hotel to start rehearsing.”

  “Who is this girl? Do I know her?”

  “I briefed Mr. Remington about what’s going down tonight, and he gave me a perfect idea. But I don’t want to say more over the phone.”

  “Sir! You can’t leave me hanging. I have to know who she is—”

  Naked Sophie strutted in the room, stopping him midstream. She’d jettisoned the towel, and her wet hair curled across her shoulders. When she shook out her hair, thick strands fell to her chest, barely skimming her nipples.

  He became aware of Bounter’s voice on the phone. “Mick? You still there?”

  “Uhh…”

  She smiled at him as she crawled over the arm of the sofa, approaching him with a flash of hunger in her eyes. Her hands darted up to his collar, and he felt the shirt tighten against the back of his neck as she drew him closer.

  “Hey, we’re getting static on the mic,” Bounter said.

  Grant couldn’t care less. For once Sophie didn’t seem stressed out by his work with the FBI, and he was going to go with it! She’d applied body lotion in the bathroom, and its intoxicating floral scent made his jeans bulge.

  She purred, “I knew this shirt would look good on you.”

  “Oh Christ,” Bounter muttered. “Is she about to do you?”

  “I sure hope so.” He smiled as she pushed him backward. Now he stared at the ceiling, his back resting on the sofa. He tried to remember he was still on the phone.

  Her flushed face came into view, hovering over him as she unbuttoned his shirt. Still holding the phone to his ear, his free hand reached up to fondle her breast, marveling at the juxtaposition of soft tissue and hard nipple cupped in his palm.

  Bounter gave a disgusted sigh. “Mick, get your ass to the hotel.”

  “You know, this is kind of your fault for keeping us apart so long,” he fired back.

  Sophie seized the phone. “Agent Bounter, unless you enjoy participating in ménage a trois, I suggest you hang up now.” She giggled and tossed the phone to the floor.

  “Good job getting rid of him,” he said, enjoying her new attitude and the freedom to massage her breasts with both hands.

  Her deep moan vibrated against his abdomen as she planted wet kisses along his sternum.

  “So my singing’s not so great.” She gazed down at him. “But there’re many things I’m good at.”

  “Amen, Bonnie.” Her roving lips found his for a sensuous kiss, and his hand skated down to cradle her fine backside.

  Thoughts about tonight still preoccupied him, but when she reached into his pants, all worries about a fake girlfriend vanished. He was with his real girlfriend—his fiancée—right now, and he savored every second.

  ***

  “Hey, Kir.” Handing her friend a latte, Sophie sank into a chair in Kirsten’s office a few hours later. “Jeez…” She wiggled in the plastic chair. “These aren’t comfortable at all.”

  “Try sitting in one for nine hours straight.” Kirsten leaned back in her desk chair and stretched her arms over her head.

  “Not fun.” Sophie scrunched her nose. “At least you have a no-show.”

  “And good coffee.” Kirsten held up her cup, then took a sip. “Thanks, roomie.”

  Sophie sipped her own coffee. “Sorry they don’t have your fave flavor anymore.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Kirsten groaned. “Hazelnut will do, but I still miss Valencia. I guess I’m the only one who likes orange in her coffee.”

  “Hey, I liked it too.” Sophie took another drink. “Starbucks lacks your excellent taste.”

  Kirsten snorted. “That’s okay, I’m used to it by now—happens all the time. My favorite scent of body lotion? Production halted because it wasn’t selling. The restaurant with the best Thai chicken eggplant in the city? Closed. Even the dating web site I joined told me my personality matched only one percent of men!”

  Sophie laughed.

  “Thanks for the sympathy.”

  “Sorry, but are you honestly taking stock in that bogus personality test? Isn’t that the site that matched you with a pig farmer in Kankakee?”

  Kirsten almost spewed her coffee down her shirt. She lunged for a tissue and dabbed the brown dribble on her chin. Her voice trembled with laughter. “Thanks for cheering me up.”

  “I mean, what do you have in common with a pig farmer?”

  “Well, I do like me some bacon. Maybe I should’ve gone out with the guy,” Kirsten said. “He could’ve stocked me up with bacon for a year.”

  “You obviously missed a big opportunity.”

  Kirsten sighed. “Too bad for me. But how’s our dear McSailor?”

  “That’s actually the reason for the coffee.” Sophie held up her cup. “I need to vent about McNavyboy, so I’m bribing you to listen.”

  “Are you kidding me? No bribe needed, I assure you.”

  “But you have to listen to your clients bloviate all day long.”

  “If my clients all had boyfriends as cute as Grant, I’d pay them to hear their stories.”

  “He’s not that cute, believe me.”

  “What?” Kirsten skirted around her desk to the plastic chair across from Sophie. “Maybe you do need my services, ’cause, girl, you are certifiable. What happened?”

  Sophie rubbed her thumb over the edge of cup. “He snuck into your apartment when I was in the shower…”

  Kirsten leaned forward, elbows resting on knees. “Still waiting to hear the part about him not being cute. Or hot.”

  “He had to call the FBI from your place since his place is apparently bugged.”

  “Whoa.” Kirsten sat back.

  “Anyway, I overheard his conversation, and…” She shifted in her chair. “I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling about it. His voice got quiet, and he was being sneaky—”

  “That does tend to happen when you’re working undercover.”

  “Smartass.” Her grin faded. “No, not about his assignment. He was making plans for tonight, and he kept referring to some girl…I think he might be seeing another woman.”

  Kirsten let out a high-pitched cackle. “You are crazy! Have you seen the way that man looks at you?”

  “Looked at me. Since he’s been working with the FBI, he seems distant. He made some crack about my arm muscles, and he bought me this teddy, as if he needs me to dress up like some whore to get turned on.”

  “Oh, my God. I thought you were getting back to your old self after prison—back to your old confidence—but I was obviously wrong. You sound so insecure.” She reached for a worn, thick book on her shelf. “I’ll find a diagnosis for this bizarre behavior of yours. PTSD? Depression?”

  Sophie winced. “Okay, you’ve made your point, Dr. Holland—”

  The ringing phone interrupted her, and Kirsten rolled her eyes. “Here.” She thrust the manual onto Sophie’s lap. “Have some fun with the big book of mental illness. That’s probably the front desk telling me my client just arrived, forty-five minutes late.”

  She took the call, and Sophie looked down at the heavy book. With a sigh, she set down her coffee cup and flipped through the pages. As a therapist, she’d used this manual often, but it had been a while since she’d seen it. Toward the back of the book her hand landed on the page for paranoid personality disorder. Repeated suspicions about partner’s fidelity…

  “I know you miss being a therapist, but quit fondling my book.”

  She flinched as she met Kirsten’s eyes. Evidently her phone call was over. “Is your client here?”

  “Nope. And my next client had the decency to call ahead to cancel, unlike all my other college alcoholic no-shows.” She returned to her chair. “So, did you find your diagnosis?”

  She shrugged. “I’m too much of a whack-job to fit one of their categories. I’m sorry to bother you w
ith all of this. I’m probably freaking out about nothing. I’m just so worried about Grant, and we never get to talk any more—no counseling sessions, no nothing—and when I don’t know what’s going on…”

  “It’s okay.” Kirsten’s voice softened. “Did you ask him about his phone call when it ended? Did he seem suspicious?”

  “Well, not really. I, um, I sort of…seduced him. And then he left for the hotel.”

  Her mouth widened into a huge grin.

  “Exactly what are you smiling about?” Sophie demanded.

  “I just read this article about how women behave when they suspect their men of cheating on them.”

  “And?”

  “Women flirt and make sexual advances much more frequently when they fear infidelity. It’s kind of a way to mark their territory.”

  “Oh.” She smirked, thinking of the bite marks she might have left in more than a few locations. “I guess he knows he’s mine then.”

  Kirsten giggled. “You little slut.” She lifted her hands, palms up. “Looks like my next hour’s free. What’re you up to?”

  “I’m supposed to write my section of Anita’s manuscript.”

  “Wow, you sound so excited.”

  “Oh, yes. Can’t wait to get back to the office.”

  Kirsten winked. “I have a better idea. Did I tell you about Cécile, the theater professor I met during new staff orientation?”

  “Maybe? Is she French?”

  “Oui. She’s totally adorable. Anyway, her office is right next to the storage space for all the costumes. We had a blast in there the other day, trying on hats.”

  Sophie frowned. “What does this have to do with McSailor?”

  “You said you can’t go to Capone’s because he doesn’t want the bad guys to see you, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Kirsten smiled as she raised her hands in front of her face, pinched her forefingers together, then ran them over her lips and down the sides of her mouth, stroking an imaginary handlebar mustache. “My dear Sophia, Dr. Holland has a therapeutic intervention just for you. We will examine your fear that your fiancé is cheating on you, and I’m sure you will find him to be faithful as always. We will face your anxiety head on. A little exposure therapy, you could say.” She rose from her chair, seeming inspired by her little speech, and pointed her forefinger in the air. “The only thing you have to fear is fear itself!”