Taming The Billionaire

by Darcia Cobbler

  “Miguel’s gone for sure?” Travis asked, swallowing hard. Miguel was one of the agency’s top spies – and one of Travis’ closest friends. They’d worked at least a dozen operations together.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Bruce nodded sadly. “I heard him breathe his last over the phone. They left him to bleed out in an alley in Playa del Carmen. I’m still holding out hope that Sasha, Dembe, and Michiko will turn up, but everyone else is accounted for – and not the good kind of accounted for.”

  Travis nodded slowly. “What do you need me to do?” he asked. He felt anger building in his stomach. A spy’s life is lonely and precarious and his fellow agents were the closest thing to a family that he had. Even as Travis tried to come to grips with the loss of his friends and co-workers, a loss that still didn’t seem real, he could feel anger beginning to grow in inside him. He wanted revenge.

  As if he could sense Travis’ growing fury, Bruce shook his head. “For now, all I want you to do is to go far, far away from here. You’re being put into deep cover, Travis. I’m not risking your life too. Not until I get this mess sorted out.”

  Travis frowned. “But I can help! I can help you figure out who is behind-”

  “Listen to your boss, boy,” Maud interrupted him. “You’re still a professional, aren’t you? So take your orders like one.”

  Travis looked from Maud to Bruce. “Please,” he said, gazing into Bruce’s eyes. “Please, let me help.”

  But his boss shook his head. “No. I want you kept safe. I want there to be someone left after all this blows over. If anything changes, I will be in contact immediately. But, until then, you are to lie low and stay put. Are we clear on that?”

  Reluctantly, Travis nodded.

  “I assume you came prepared?” Bruce asked, pointing to Travis’ black backpack.

  Travis nodded again. “Yes. I’ve got all the fake documents and paperwork I’ll need, plus a couple of handguns and a box of ammo.”

  “Good,” said Bruce, reaching down to pick up a small, green duffel bag that was lying next to his chair. “Then all you need is this,” he told Travis, putting the duffel bag on the table in front of them.

  Travis unzipped the bag to find it crammed full of bills. He raised his eyebrows at Bruce.

  “Maud wasn’t the only asset not in the database,” Bruce smiled. “This should keep you afloat until I find out what’s going on.” Reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket, Bruce pulled out a scrap of paper. “Go here,” he said, handing the scrap to Travis. “Consider it your new home until further notice.”

  Travis memorized the address then handed the paper back to Bruce. “Oregon?” he asked.

  “Oregon,” Bruce replied.

  Travis sighed. He was being sent to the middle of nowhere.

  “There’s a car on the street for you. A blue Mazda. Here are the keys. Now get going.” Bruce offered Travis a set of car keys.

  “Thanks, Bruce,” said Travis, looking his boss directly in the eyes as he took the keys. “For everything.”

  Bruce nodded.

  “And thanks for the coffee, Maud,” Travis said, standing up and taking his two bags with him.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Maud, looking up at his through her large reading glasses. “Seriously, Travis. Don’t mention it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  Smiling for the first time since he’d left his apartment, Travis nodded. “Mum’s the word,” he told her.

  And with nothing more to say, he turned and headed for his new life.

  Chapter 2

  Travis drove all night and all day, his mind racing even faster than the car as he went over who could have done this and how. At least the why, he thought with a grim smile, was fairly obvious. Travis worked for an international spy ring loosely associated with the CIA, which infiltrated and took down everything from corrupt dictators to human trafficking gangs and drug smugglers. It was the kind of work that made you enemies – powerful ones. But, for all the years that Travis had worked for the organization, nothing like this had ever happened. Sure, there’d been close calls and the odd leak or mole, but they’d always been contained issues, never something this massive.

  Finally, his mind and body exhausted, Travis pulled over on the side of the highway somewhere in Montana for a few hours of sleep. At least, even if he was no closer to coming to any conclusions, he only had another day’s drive until he reached the tiny coastal town of Chilloot Bay, Oregon.

  When he arrived in Chilloot Bay, it was night again and he drove slowly through the quiet streets of the sleepy town, looking for the address Bruce had given him. Finally, away from the main street, he found an old, abandoned florist’s shop. Next to the shop’s entrance was a narrow red door with 1290 nailed to it in rusted brass numbers. That was him.

  Driving around the block to leave the car in the small driveway behind the store, Travis made a face. What on earth was he going to do here for the next few months? If only Bruce had let him help. But orders were orders, so Travis parked the car, slung his two bags onto his back, and made his way up the rickety wooden back steps to his new apartment’s back door. He shook his head. What self-respecting spy lived above a flower shop?

  But he was too tired to think any longer. Dropping his bags on the kitchen table, Travis lay down on the couch and was asleep in seconds, his feet dangling over the edge of the armrest. He assumed there was a bedroom somewhere, but the couch was closer. Gratefully, he let oblivion take him.

  The next morning he woke up to the sound of banging on the door. Immediately, Travis was on his feet, one hand already drawing the gun out of his ankle holster. Silently making his way down the stairs to the front door, Travis looked for a peephole but the door was solid wood. The banging got louder. Adjusting his grip on the gun, Travis inched the door open – only be nearly bowled over by a robust old woman bearing a tray with tea and scones on it.

  “Hello!” The elderly lady beamed at Travis as she maneuvered herself into the hall uninvited. Hastily, Travis managed to stuff the gun into the back of his jeans before she saw it. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.

  “Mr. Phelps told me that you got in very late last night. I thought you could do with a bit of a pick me up,” she smiled, lifting the tray. “I know you young things never have a crumb of food around. I’m Miranda, by the way. Miranda Sharpe.” Shifting the tray onto one hand, she stuck out the other for Travis to shake. Hesitantly, he did so. Miranda’s grip was firm and vigorous and the strength of her fingers surprised Travis.

  “Um,” he said. “I’m Travis,” he told her.

  “Lovely to meet you, Travis. Now, let’s get you fed and watered, shall we?” Miranda smiled at him and made her way up the stairs, once again not waiting for an invitation. “It’ll be lovely to have another florist in town. Old Mr. Singh, he was our last one, died of a heart attack at 89, wouldn’t you know? Can’t complain about that, can you? 89 years old and nice and fast. The only thing better is going in your sleep!” Miranda cackled. “Mind you, it’s been a year now that we haven’t had anyone to do the flowers. A whole year, can you imagine? But you’d think we lived on another planet, we get so few newcomers here. But we muddle along as best we can, of course. Yvette down the street grows some lovely roses, but she’s not much for arrangements, you know. Just sort of stuffs the poor things into a vase and there you are. No grace or elegance to it whatsoever. But now you’re here so I suppose our troubles are over. And a good thing too. We’ve got two weddings coming up in July and high school graduation just around the corner. You’ll be busy then, let me tell you. Corsages, bouquets, crowns, the whole kit and caboodle.”

  “I see,” said Travis, who was doing his best to follow Miranda’s unending stream of talk. “That’s good,” he added, feeling that his first response hadn’t been enough.

  “I dare say it is!” Miranda agreed. “Can’t have you moving in and then turning around and leaving for want of work, can we? No, sir. We’ve been in desp
erate need of your services. We’ll make sure you have all the work you need, don’t you worry, young man. Now,” she put her hands on her hips and eyed the tea service, which she’d laid out on his plain wooden table, “that’ll do nicely. Sit yourself down and eat before you faint straight away. Look at the state you’re in, poor man. Haven’t got a lick of fat on you, have you?”

  Travis looked down at his lean, muscular frame. It probably wouldn’t reassure Miranda to know he worked hard to keep himself ‘without a lick of fat’.

  “Though,” Miranda continued, smirking, “our floral needs aside, I’m sure your looks will keep the shop bustling just by themselves.”

  Travis blinked and, to his amazement, felt a blush creeping up his neck. At six foot two, he was a striking man even without his bright green eyes, tightly cropped black hair, and tanned skin. But he wasn’t used to having old ladies tell him so to his face. “Thanks?” he replied uncertainly.

  Miranda nodded. “Eat,” she instructed him as she made herself comfortable on one of the two wooden chairs.

  Travis, who really was hungry, sat down and reached for a scone, cutting it open and spreading it liberally with butter and jam. Smiling, Miranda poured him a cup of tea from the giant teapot she’d brought. It was covered in a thick, crocheted tea cozy that Travis could only assume Miranda had made herself. “Milk?” she asked.

  He didn’t really know how he liked his tea so he took it like he took his coffee. “Please. But no sugar. Did you make these yourself?” Travis asked, holding up the scone as Miranda fixed his tea.

  She nodded. “I did indeed. You’re not going to find that kind of quality in store bought, let me tell you, young man. I made the jam too. Strawberry rhubarb from my own garden.”

  “It’s delicious,” said Travis, and he meant it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted homemade baked goods. He wasn’t much of a cook, never mind a baker. And the only thing he could remember either of his parents baking was one of those pre-baked garlic breads that came in foil bags from supermarket rotisseries. “Thank you for this. It’s very kind. I was expecting…well, I wasn’t expecting anything, really,” he admitted.

  “No need to thank me,” said Miranda as she buttered herself a scone. “Just common courtesy to welcome newcomers,” she smiled at him.

  “Well, thanks,” Travis repeated.

  “When do you think you’ll have the shop up and running again?” Miranda asked. “Only I know my niece would just love to have a nice bouquet for her kitchen. She’s just had it remodeled, you know.”

  “Of course,” said Travis. “Um, well, I’ll try to have the place going as soon as possible, but there’s still paperwork and the suppliers and, erm, well, it might take me a bit before I’ve really got the place running,” he replied vaguely.

  Miranda nodded sagely. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait,” she smiled.

  “I hope so,” Travis answered, covering his grimace with a sip of tea. God, what had Bruce gotten him into now?

  ***

  Travis had been getting ready to lie low in the picturesque little town, but he soon realized that that was not going to be possible. Just a few hours after Miranda left, other new neighbors were knocking on his door to bring pies or chicken salad sandwiches and to enquire about the florist shop. By the end of his second day, Travis was sure he must have met the whole town.

  “These people are crazy for flowers,” he told his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved on his third morning in town. “You’d think I was a goddamn surgeon the way they’re going on about it. I don’t even know the difference between a rose and a…a…” Travis searched for another kind of flower, “a carnation! That’s a kind of flower, right?”

  His reflection didn’t answer him and he groaned, his head hanging between his shoulders.

  As it turned out, there was still at least one member of the town’s tiny population that he hadn’t met. That afternoon he went down to take a look at the florist’s shop, just to see what all the fuss was about. As he was standing in the middle of the front room, eyeing the dusty shelves and old cash register with despair, there came a tap on the large glass display window. Travis whirled around, his heart racing and his hand going to the gun he had tucked into his waistband. He was still expecting to find assassins at every turn. Instead, a petite Asian woman was looking at him through the dirty glass, her large, dark blue eyes amused.

  Opening the door, Travis looked down at the delicate woman. “May I help you?” he asked. He bit his lip. Seen in full, the stranger was very beautiful.

  “I hear you’re the new florist,” said the woman, without introducing herself. Her dark hair was up in a sleek ponytail and her green t-shirt ended a tantalizing inch above the belt of her jeans, hinting at a smooth, golden stomach.

  “Yes, so have I,” he replied without thinking.

  The woman chuckled. “Yeah, we’re a pretty tight-knit group. You’re going to have to get used to hearing the same news and answering the same questions a million times over.”

  Travis smiled. “At least everyone seems really nice.”

  “That’s because they are. We take care of our own here,” she told him and Travis wondered if that was a threat or a promise.

  “I’m Travis, by the way,” he said, suddenly remembering his manners.

  The stranger nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ve already heard. I’m Karen. Karen Itsumi. I teach at the local high school. My students are very excited you’ve moved to town. It’ll save the boys having to make their own bouquets for first dates. And just between you and me, I feel like you’ll do wonders for their chances of a second date.”

  “Their bouquets are that bad?” Travis asked, laughing.

  Karen nodded. “I’ve seen more attractively arranged roadkill.”

  “Ew,” said Travis, but he couldn’t help but snicker.

  “Well, it was nice to finally see the new sensation for myself,” said Karen with a grin, “but I’ll let you get back to work. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for holding up your grand opening.”

  “Right,” said Travis, trying to sound cheerful. “Nice to meet you.”

  As she turned to go, Karen gave him a once over and said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you don’t look like a florist.”

  Travis’s stomach clenched but he rallied. “Well, from what I understand, your last florist was a geriatric Pakistani man, so, no, if that’s your image of a florist, I’m not surprised.”

  Karen laughed, but she didn’t look convinced.

  Watching her go, Travis made a face. He was going to need some flowers and quick. The last thing he wanted was some suspicious townspeople poking around in his past and blowing his cover.

  ***

  As it turned out, being a florist was a lot harder than it looked. Just cleaning out the shop itself took him a few days. But it had been empty for a year and things needed a good cleaning – he even shelled out a few bucks for some paint and gave the whole place a few coats. As he’d hoped, this kept the questions at bay for a little while. Townspeople would peer in the windows, see him working and give him a cheery wave and smile and keep going about their business. But there was only so much fixing up he could do before even he had to admit that the place was ready for business – except for the complete lack of flowers.

  “Have you ordered stock yet?” Miranda asked him one afternoon. She’d stopped by with some freshly baked brownies and her usually tea cozy-covered teapot and it hadn’t taken her long to convince Travis to take a break. This whole “tea” thing was really a lot tastier than he’d been led to believe. Maybe Maud had been right.

  “Er,” said Travis as he chewed one of her delicious, fudgy brownies and thought about the run he’d have to go on to work it off. “Erm, I’m talking to some people, but it’s going a bit slowly. There’s, uh, been some problems getting a hold of…uh…carnations.”

  Miranda shrugged. “Oh well, nobody really likes carnations anyway. Get in so
me nice dahlias and lilies. Oooh, or some gladiolas. I love showy flowers, can you tell?”

  Travis smiled and laughed and, as surreptitiously as possible, scrawled dallias, lilies, gladdiolas on a scrap of paper so that he could Google them later. “I’ll make sure to have plenty of all three just for you, Miranda,” he said, with a sinking feeling in his gut. “After all these treats you’ve been bringing me, it’s the least I can do. You’re spoiling me rotten.”

  “Oh shush,” said Miranda. “I don’t have anyone to fuss over now that my Eddy’s gone, God bless him. And like I said, you haven’t got a speck of flesh on your bones. It warms my heart to see you eating proper food.”

  Travis smiled at the old woman with her giant straw hat, over-sized glasses, and wiry, fly-away gray hair. He’d never known either of his grandmothers, but he’d always wanted one just like Miranda. Although, all of her guileless generosity made him feel guilty for lying – and not just about being a florist. “Thanks, Miranda,” he said.