A Fare To Remember

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Rachel rested her cheek against Roman’s chest during the silent drive. She didn’t bother looking outside or trying to gauge where they were or where they were going. She didn’t care. She was with Roman, safe and warm, and after ten minutes or so, the chill of nearly being killed surrendered to the residual heat of their lovemaking. Roman cared about her. She knew that now. He may have sought her out because of his case, but he’d stayed longer than he should have because they’d connected in ways neither one of them had experienced before-in ways neither of them wanted to give up.

  The car pitched downward as the driver pulled into an underground parking garage. Rachel held tight to Roman’s hand as they got out of the backseat and went straight into a dark, mirrored elevator. Sensing a gentle vibration in his touch, she squeezed harder. He didn’t like elevators. She’d known that fact for a while. She’d never thought to ask why, figuring he just preferred the exercise of jaunting up and down the stairs. There was so much about this man she didn’t know-could he tell her? Was his fear born of some innocuous childhood mishap or was this phobia rooted in international secrets?

  She had no time to ask since the moment the doors swooshed open, they were led into an office with clear glass walls that darkened to an opaque blue the moment the door closed. Flat plasma screens dominated the room, each playing opening credits from a half-dozen documentaries in a successive loop. Rachel recognized the two that were hers and was drawn to the images. They were so familiar and yet…

  Roman cleared his throat, trying to divert Rachel’s attention to the smartly dressed woman at the other end of the conference table.

  “Agent Brach, report.”

  To an outsider his boss, Amelie Tremayne, likely appeared less than intimidating. Physically, she was average height and weight. Her hair was shock white but softly styled, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing her without dangling pearl earrings. She dressed conservatively, but usually wore a brooch or scarf to lend a dash of color to her somber navy or charcoal-gray suits. He wasn’t good at guessing ages, so he’d never try with Tremayne, who had earned the respect of her minions with a cool, ageless wisdom. She didn’t amuse easily, so Rachel’s curious presence didn’t so much as inspire a crack of a smile.

  Roman ran down the facts of what had occurred at the hotel, leaving out the most interesting parts, naturally. Tremayne didn’t need to know-and clearly wasn’t interested-in the sexual and emotional precipices that he and Rachel had climbed tonight. She wanted only the details that mattered regarding the terrorists.

  “We identified the man in the street,” Tremayne said. “He’s confirmed as a member of the second cell. We know now that their orders are simply to provide support to the first cell, the one receiving their instruction from the graphics.”

  Roman’s eyes widened. He didn’t anticipate his boss speaking so freely in front of Rachel. She was, after all, a civilian. Though in all honesty, she didn’t appear to be listening to a word they said. From the moment they stepped inside the conference room, Rachel hadn’t stopped watching the looping opening images and credits to the documentaries. He knew she’d found the message, because she’d also found the remote control. She’d stopped each screen at the precise moment the message flashed on the screen.

  “Find anything interesting, Ms. Marlowe?” Tremayne asked, her tone barely interested. She clearly gave little credence to Rachel’s presence, which made Roman tense with worry. Tremayne had the power to make Rachel disappear. She’d come to no harm, but if Tremayne made a case that Rachel’s presence in New York could jeopardize an ongoing investigation, she could be shipped off and tucked away where even Roman might not ever find her.

  Roman stepped forward and, despite Rachel’s narrow, concentrated stare, removed the remote control from her hands.

  “She didn’t see anything she hasn’t seen before.”

  Rachel started to shake her head, but Roman stopped her by clutching her arm tighter.

  She responded by punching him hard in the shoulder. Twice. Three times. She’d keep pounding until he released her, so he did.

  “Manhandling me in the park was acceptable since you were trying to save my life. But back off here, Roman. I’m perfectly safe.”

  Tremayne sat forward, her manicured nails tapping lightly together.

  Not a good sign.

  “No,” he said, through tightly clenched teeth, “you’re not.”

  “Mr. Brach is quite correct, Ms. Marlowe. Your presence here is ill advised. But since Mr. Brach’s judgment has proved questionable so far where you are concerned, I’m afraid I’ll have to take your future under advisement myself.”

  No one but him heard Rachel’s sharp intake of breath, but she quickly covered it with a sly grin. “Then take this under advisement, Ms. Spy Boss. I know who designed those graphics. And with a little negotiation, I may let you in on the secret.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “MS. SPY BOSS MAY BE accurate and mildly clever, but silly nonetheless.” The elegant woman stood and extended her hand. “Amelie Tremayne.”

  Rachel arched a brow. “Is that your real name?”

  “For the moment.”

  With a nod, Rachel accepted her hand. “Fair enough.”

  “Roman,” Ms. Tremayne said, her eyes barely flicking toward her operative as she gestured for Rachel to sit. “Would you excuse us? I think Ms. Marlowe and I have a few things to discuss.”

  Ice rippled over Rachel’s spine at the sound of her lover’s cool dismissal. She could only imagine how he bristled. Well, she didn’t have to imagine for long. Roman stood his ground.

  “I don’t see the logic in that, Amelie. This is my project. I’m still the lead field operative, unless something has changed?”

  A miniscule degree of regret glazed Tremayne’s sharp blue eyes. “Quite a bit has changed. You jeopardized the mission by your continued involvement with Ms. Marlowe. Your status on this case is pending at best.”

  Rachel didn’t turn and look at Roman. She didn’t have to. She figured humiliation looked the same on proud men as it did on women, and right now, her entire expression radiated beet-red with anger.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands tightly under her armpits to keep from jumping up and slapping this rude, vindictive woman. So what if she held the safety of innocents in her hands? She didn’t have to be so holier than thou about it.

  “His status better change quickly or what I do know will remain just that-what I know and you don’t.”

  Tremayne arched a pencil-drawn brow. “You’re feisty.”

  Rachel grinned, pushing away the creepiness of having another woman call her that. “Must be what Roman loves about me.”

  She swallowed her wince and forced her expression to remain confident. Love. She’d used the word love. Well, that was presumptuous.

  “How do you know he loves anything about you at all? You have too much faith in men, Ms. Marlowe.”

  “Actually, until I met Roman, I had none whatsoever.”

  Amelie Tremayne took her seat, sliding closer to the table with casual grace. “So you’ve changed your views based on a man who has done nothing but lie to you from the beginning?”

  “Ultimately, what he lied to me about was unimportant. When push came to shove, I got the truth. I’m here, aren’t I? And I have information you need. So unless you’re going to try to beat it out of me, I suggest you drop your attitude toward Roman and let’s get down to business.”

  A long moment thickened in the air. Rachel had to admit she had no idea if Tremayne would order the information beaten out of her, but she had to trust that she could bluff her way just a little further.

  Tremayne’s gaze flicked to Roman and then, after a brief clash with Rachel’s unwavering glare, to the chair beside hers. He sat, a handsomely smug grin on his face. He’d probably pay for it later, but Rachel guessed he didn’t care much. Like her, Roman was a live-for-the-moment kind of guy.

  “You win, Ms. Marlowe. So
tell me, what do you know about the images you saw?”

  “Graphic art is just that-art. There are styles, signatures, sometimes very subtle since the images go by so quickly.”

  “We’ve broken down each image frame by frame,” Roman insisted.

  “I’m sure you did. Even if you’ve studied every aspect of graphic design, you might not pick up something so insignificant. In fact, I might not have seen it myself if I wasn’t such a geek. I love studying the work of other designers. That’s how I learn and improve. Most working artists don’t really bother.”

  “What can you tell us about this person?”

  Rachel took a deep breath. “He’s not in New York.”

  “It’s a man?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Where’s he located?”

  She shrugged. “I can give you his name, that’s it. His work is fairly popular. He’s in high demand. Though come to think of it, he’s dropped off the circuit a bit lately. Being really choosy about what he does, from what I hear from production people who wanted to hire him and then got me instead. Our styles are fairly similar.”

  Amelie Tremayne’s stare narrowed. “This is a rather convenient coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Rachel had considered that, but the truth was the truth. “Perhaps. Or maybe just one hell of a lucky break.”

  WHAT HAPPENED NEXT HELD no resemblance whatsoever to what Rachel expected. Even before she’d stopped talking, Roman had dashed out of the room, stopping only to kiss her thoroughly and deeply so that her knees nearly buckled from the overload of pleasure.

  Then he was gone.

  Tremayne remained for a few minutes more, extending the interrogation until another operative came in and took over. Rachel was given a computer with secure Internet access, and through a portal she was sure wasn’t legal, she was able to tap into her home computer. She pulled up as much information as she could about those old studies, but she didn’t have much more than what she’d told Tremayne and Roman initially. She admired the man’s work.

  Then she’d waited. The Agency had put her up in a fairly comfortable room within the same building, provided her with hearty meals and endless entertainment in terms of television, satellite radio and video games. But she hadn’t been interested in anything but the computers.

  Surprisingly, she was allowed to continue to study the images she’d seen in the conference room, and after nearly twenty-four hours of trying, she’d perfectly mimicked the messages she’d seen-just to prove she could. Only moments after she’d popped open a can of Diet Dr Pepper to celebrate her success, Director Tremayne knocked on her door.

  “You’ve been a busy bee,” she said, walking inside the apartment with a dark-haired, dark-skinned male lackey behind her.

  “I’m not good at relaxing,” Rachel said.

  “Clearly not. You’ve succeeded at copying the style of the graphic in question. Very clever. We should have asked you initially instead of wasting our own team’s time.”

  Rachel took a sip from the soda. “Yes, you should have.”

  “Do you think you can replicate the graphic again?”

  With a snort, Rachel set the cola can beside the laptop. Every move she’d made had been watched. She wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t creeped out.

  “With my eyes closed.”

  Tremayne’s eyes narrowed, her expression serious to the point that Rachel felt her stomach roil with dread.

  “We’ve intercepted the artist you directed us to. According to the agents on the scene, he was preparing to send a final message to the sleeper cell.”

  “But you stopped him?”

  Tremayne shook her head slightly, but enough for Rachel to understand that this was not a victory. “If the cell expects a message and receives none, they may take that as an order to attack.”

  “What kind of attack?”

  Tremayne frowned. “We’re not sure. We haven’t been able to locate the cell, Ms. Marlowe. And at this point, the only way we can find them is by sending another message in the style of their initial contact. They’ve likely been trained to recognize the signature-a signature you’ve succeeded in re-creating.”

  Rachel shivered. It was one thing to mess around on the computer, something else to have the safety of the free world on her shoulders. She expected the weight of what Tremayne was asking her to do to stop her dead in her tracks. Instead, a rush of adrenaline shot through her body like a precise line of newly lit gunpowder.

  “I’m a civilian,” she said.

  “That can be changed,” Tremayne replied. “The communication between terrorist cells through various media forms is becoming more and more common. You’re a freelancer, yes? We’re simply asking you to work for us now.”

  Rachel knew Tremayne was one of the good guys-technically. But something in Tremayne’s tone, an underlying sharpness along the edge of her voice, caused Rachel’s skin to prickle in warning.

  “Where’s Roman?” she asked.

  Poised to help his investigation, the least Rachel could demand was a one-on-one with the lead field operative, or whatever he’d called himself. Besides, she missed him. Deeply. Even now, with a prospect of being able to help avert a tragedy sizzling in her blood, she wanted to share this with him. He’d understand, right? He’d appreciate the importance of what she was about to attempt in order to fight the terrorists.

  “Roman Brach is no longer your concern. Concentrate on your new assignment. Once you are done, we’ve arranged for you to leave the country.”

  Rachel’s heart slammed against her chest. “What?”

  Tremayne laughed lightly, as if she enjoyed toying with Rachel. The woman had a sick streak, nearly making Rachel refuse her offer.

  “We’re talking a brief vacation from the city-just until we round up all the men who might have recognized you from your association with Roman.”

  Rachel frowned but remained silent. She didn’t want to be sent away, separated from her apartment and friends. She loved to travel-but on her terms and under her own direction. But there was world safety to think of-and the fact that the whole idea of using her skills to help stop terrorists from communicating worked for her in ways she never imagined they would. Even as a dreamy teen, she’d never fantasized about being a spy. She always thought James Bond was sexy, yeah, but the idea of joining up with any suave super-agent gave her hives. She loved to travel and set off for distant lands, but avoided guns and thieves and con artists at all costs. Now she was thinking about becoming all of the above?

  Unless, of course, the suave, sexy agent was Roman Brach. That might change her mind a bit.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Tremayne instructed. “I’m simply suggesting a nice vacation once your work is complete, and you can consider then whether you’d like to remain on our payroll. We understand that two friends of yours, Mario Capelli and Iris Rivera, are planning a trip to Puerto Rico. It’s reportedly a romantic getaway, but we thought, perhaps, you’d like to tag along. I doubt they’d mind.”

  “You’ve spoken to them?”

  Tremayne shrugged one shoulder. No, she wouldn’t have any way to speak to them. Mario wouldn’t trust this woman if she paid her full fare with a fifty-percent tip, cash up front. But Roman, he’d trust. With a hard swallow, she tamped down her hopes for a rendezvous with Roman. For now, she had a job to do.

  “How much time do I have?”

  “From the notes we retrieved, the scheduled broadcast is only a few days away.”

  “What language will the message be in?”

  Rachel had copied the signature but not the images. She had never seen them before.

  “That’s where this agent comes in,” she said, gesturing to the man who’d entered behind her. “He’s an expert linguist and has studied the text of all the previous messages for nuance and syntax. He’ll tell you what to write.”

  “How do the terrorists know when to look for the graphics?”

  The pattern, Tremayne
explained, hadn’t been so difficult for them to figure out, once they realized exactly what they were looking for. Rachel had a little over three days to work with Tremayne’s Arabic-speaking assistant and create the graphic that could possibly stop some unnamed and unexplained attack.

  For now, Rachel would concentrate only on that goal. Only once she was successful would she allow herself to contemplate if she’d ever see Roman again-and if she did, what then?

  YOU WOULD THINK AFTER saving the world, the CIA or the FBI or whatever agency she’d really been working for could have sprung for tickets on a plane that actually departed on time.

  Realizing in her exhaustion that her wrist had slipped from holding up her head and ended her nap, Rachel shook consciousness into her body and reached for the caffeine-laden diet soda she’d balanced on her backpack. The warm, fizzy bubbles scraped down her throat, and once her vision cleared, she glanced down at her watch. The plane was now more than two hours late. A quick look around told her that Mario and Iris had once again left her for a stroll around the terminal. She couldn’t blame them. She wasn’t exactly delightful company, especially since the two of them had stars in their eyes only for each other.

  In spite of her own foul mood, she grinned a little at the way Iris and Mario’s romance had developed. Mario had a reputation as a matchmaker. This time, however, her ill-fated affair with Roman had actually spurred Mario to make a move on Iris. About time, too, since he’d been sniffing after her for as long as Rachel could remember. She was happy for them.

  And miserable for herself.

  After yawning unattractively-something she realized only when a blond guy in a baseball cap leaning against a nearby wall chuckled and made brief eye contact-Rachel shifted in her seat. She rubbed her makeup-free face, combed her fingers through her hair and hoped she didn’t look as exhausted and cranky as she felt.