The sentiment was nothing Eva hadn’t thought herself, but she’d be damned if she’d let someone else insult her. Screw him.
“How was it?”
Angelis eyed her suspiciously. “How was what?”
“The Gulf War, the first one, how was it?”
Visibly taken aback, he asked, “How did you…?” His hand ran over his leg. “Are you trying to make a point?”
“I don’t know, am I?”
Angelis appeared partly shocked, part angry. Paul gave the slightest shake of his head, as if asking her to drop it. Bishop seemed to be having a marvellous time.
Eva gave a tilt of her head. “I’m just a silly girl, what would I know?” She shrugged. “But I’m guessing that’s how you got your leg injury, wasn’t it? In the Gulf War. It seems you’ve come a long way since growing up in Liverpool.”
“How the hell did you know any of that?” He eyed Paul and Bishop.
Paul held up his hands. “We’ve told her nothing.”
Bingo. “Liverpool, well, it’s obvious. You try to sound more southern, be more crisp with your pronunciation, but really, it’s like trying to hide an elephant with a blanket. As for coming from a military background instead of hired directly out of university, which is the norm, it’s in the way you move, for one. The way your hand went straight to your leg when I mentioned the war. The way you move in straight lines, your efficiency of movement. Minimal and deliberate. You move like you were born in khaki.”
His face had softened, but only slightly. “I could have been in the military and not have fought in a war.”
“A military man who hadn’t seen combat wouldn’t be as reluctant as you to get in a firefight. You’ve seen action. Given your age, that’s either the Gulf War or Bosnia.” Eva paused and gave a weak grin. “The Gulf War was actually a guess.”
“A good one.”
“You also eyed the street taking in all the dark corners.”
“That’s what spies do, we look for dangers.”
“Yes, true, but a spy would stick to the shadows themselves. You march in a straight line out in the open. I use that word deliberately. March. Like you spent half your life on a parade ground, you even turn precisely. I bet your bed has corners you could cut yourself on. So,” she folded her arms, “if you don’t mind, please stop underestimating the skirt.”
The smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth spread like wildfire across Angelis’ face. “Oh, I like her.”
Eva raised an eyebrow. “I like me too.”
“You pass.”
“Smashing, do I get a lollipop and a pat on the head?”
“Oh, I really like her.”
Paul beamed. Unlike her earlier test, she seemed to have passed this one with flying colours.
For the next twenty minutes, the conversation returned to the mission, although in a more collaborative manner. Eventually the points of discussion whittled down and she yawned. Angelis handed out room keys and recommended everyone rest up for the operation in the morning.
Eva shook everyone’s hand and headed towards the lift. Bishop shadowed her. As the rickety doors to the ancient lift closed, Bishop nodded towards the room key. “We should see if the bridal suite is still available.” His eyebrows virtually danced off his forehead.
There were times when she could let Bishop’s comments slide, sometimes even find them amusing. It wasn’t one of those times. She was already tense from the mission, and had just had a confrontation with someone who had no faith in her abilities. She wasn’t entirely sure why Angelis had decided to dislike her, but she had a strong suspicion it was her gender. In short, she didn’t have the patience to put up with Bishop’s sexist crap.
Eva grunted. “Sounds like someone got out of the regular side of the bed this morning.”
“What’s that meant to mean?”
She groaned. “It means I look forward to the day you don’t hit on me, make a chauvinist remark or twist every statement into a Carry On double entendre.”
“I feel you have me categorised as something I am not.”
“I feel I’ve categorised you pretty bloody well.”
“Can I say anything at this stage that wouldn’t frame me as a boorish misogynistic sycophant?”
“I don’t know? Have you ever tried?”
The elevator pinged and the doors slid open.
“You’ve taken it all the wrong way…”
Eva exited and turned on Bishop. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You and all those in your exclusive boys’ club probably say to yourself you’re just joking, having a bit of fun. But when you can’t have a civil conversation without throwing in a sexual innuendo you’ve gone beyond a joke and have become a sad parody of yourself.” Eva wasn’t entirely sure why she was so fired-up, but there was no stopping her. “What I’m saying, Bishop, is you’re not having a joke, you are the joke.”
Bishop grimaced but his hand shot open to stop the door from sliding shut. His face stripped of all humour it seemed her barb had cut, though it seemed he wasn’t going down without a fight. “Righto. You’re the paragon of the women’s liberation movement but you can’t see we’re here because you’ve disregarded your own principles?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re always telling me off for my sexist ways, but do you think maybe some of that anger is misdirected? Perhaps you’re hard on me because of the guilt you feel for accepting all those dresses, the jewellery and trips from Lancing, in return for giving up large chunks of yourself, what you believed in? I mean, it doesn’t sound terribly suffragette, now does it?”
Fucken ouch.
“No. But nice try on misdirection by saying I’m using misdirection. You’re more like Harry than you know.”
Bishop stopped walking and stayed in the elevator.
Eva pointed at his key. Annoyed, she said, “This is your floor, too.”
The doors began to shut. “I just remembered I have a meeting. In the lobby. With a bottle of scotch.”
The doors slid noisily closed.
Eva couldn’t sleep. She’d lain awake contemplating the ceiling for hours. Her final conclusion was that, yes, it definitely was a ceiling. Time well spent.
Lightning flashed and she counted the seconds before the thunder. Four kilometres. Rain pounded the window while the wind buffeted her new favourite city. There were already reports of flooding further south.
When she’d retired earlier she’d claimed it was to rest up for the mission the next day. It was also to avoid Bishop. She’d probably been too harsh on him. He represented everything she despised; the unashamed sexism, the incapacity to speak to a woman as an equal, or at the very least not as a sex object. Unfortunately, no matter how much she loathed everything he represented, there was something Eva found most horrid. She was oddly attracted to him. That was what offended her the most.
There was a confusing melange of thoughts bouncing around her brainpan. The mission itself was at the forefront, dangerous and unknown. She was already conflicted about working for MI6 to apprehend her ex-lover. Then there was Bishop. How could she be drawn to a man that represented the antithesis of everything she wanted? Maybe it was due to the stress she was under and she was looking for a form of relief. Perhaps Bishop represented the best way to release that tension. Maybe not. Either way, she’d spent a good hour chastising the bad-boy chip in her head.
In an effort to clear her head and hopefully assist with sleep, she decided to take a shower. Unfortunately her room didn’t have one. The building dated back to before the time when having a private bathroom was the norm. The hotel had been luxurious, if not convenient. Luckily the bathroom down the hall had a shower with the water pressure of Niagara Falls. Eva was sure she’d used the hotel’s supply of hot water, but it was worth it. She felt better.
As it was 2.00 a.m. local time, she didn’t see the need to get dressed to go back to her room. She wrapped a towel loosely around her body and stepped into the hall. The door to the
bathroom was an original fitting and heavy. It closed far quicker than Eva had anticipated. So quick, in fact, that she had to leap out of its way. Unfortunately she wasn’t quick enough. The white towel became wedged between the door and the door frame.
“McSlutnuggets.”
She tugged and tugged but the towel was firmly stuck. She tried the handle but it didn’t move. It was then she remembered the bathroom required a room key. Like the one sitting neatly on top of her clothes. In the bathroom. That was locked.
Eva glanced at the empty hall. Her wet hair dripped on the ostentatious oriental carpet. Her only worldly possession was a single white towel that was impossible to dislodge from its current position.
In the following ten seconds Eva uttered every swearword she knew and invented a number of new ones. A thunderclap added to the atmosphere.
She contemplated her options, or rather, lack thereof. There was no hotel phone on the floor. She had the choice of leaving her towel behind or getting in the elevator and having a quiet nude chat with the receptionist. Not exactly up there on her list of desirable scenarios. Eva wasn’t ashamed of her body, far from it, but taking her naked, tattooed form across a public hotel lobby wasn’t exactly in keeping with a low profile.
There was only one choice.
Cum-absorbent waffle stompers.
She took one last look at the towel wrapped around her body and stepped away. It fell to the floor with a soggy plop. She stood without a stitch of clothing, every inch of her feeling the cold. If anyone saw her standing in the hall they’d be able to make those two determinations for themselves.
Eva strode down the hall about ten metres and paused in front of Room 25. She placed her forehead on the cool wood. She didn’t want to do it, but just as equally, didn’t have a choice.
She knocked quietly on the door and waited. No response.
Eva tried again, a little louder. Again, no response.
Her third knock was less subdued, and more a pounding. Eventually she heard movement behind the door. A groggy voice murmured, “Who is it?”
“It’s me. Can I come in?”
There was a pause. “Go away.”
“Bishop, please…”
“I must apologise, I’m busy being terribly sexist right now, I simply don’t have the capacity to entertain.”
“Bishop, you don’t understand–”
“I’m in no mood for your feminist abuse, Ms Destruction. We have a mission tomorrow, er, today. Please go away.”
“Bishop…”
“Go.”
She realised she was gritting her teeth.
“Bishop…I’m naked.”
The door flew open with a whoosh of a jet engine. Eva did her best to cover herself. One hand over her genitalia and her other arm attempting to cover her breasts. Bishop wasn’t attempting to cover anything. He was, like her, completely naked. Unlike her, however, he had no compunction about standing in front of her in his birthday finest.
“Christ, did you strip off to open the door?”
A flash of lightning silhouetted him against the window, a flashbulb moment highlighting his muscular physique. Eva blinked to return her eyes back to normal light levels. She promised herself she wouldn’t look down. Well, she’d already seen it, so she promised not to look again. But she did.
Oh my.
It seemed Bishop could back up his swagger and have plenty left over.
“My eyes are up here Ms Destruction.”
“Mmmm?” She shook her head. “Yeah, uh, I took a shower and got locked out. No key, no towel. Can I have yours? Please. A towel. Not a key. A towel. Thanks.”
Bishop placed his hands on his hips. “Quite the predicament.” His self-satisfied grin was unbearable. He was loving every second of it.
Eva repeated in her mind, Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
She looked down.
This wouldn’t have happened if she’d known Paul’s room number. If she’d been able to knock on his door he’d have thrown a towel at her and never peeped in fear that Nancy would somehow find out. Bishop wasn’t Paul.
“Towel,” Eva growled.
“My, you are demanding when you’re naked, aren’t you? I like it.”
It seemed they were having some sort of naked Mexican standoff. She was about to unleash a tirade when Bishop opened his cupboard and held out a towel. He made no movement towards her. Taking the towel would mean moving closer and exposing herself. The grin on his face told her he was perfectly well aware of that fact. Git.
Screw it.
Eva dropped both hands, exposing herself fully. Bishop’s grin morphed into something less arrogant. He took his time exploring her body. He appeared to like what he saw.
She stepped forward and grabbed the towel. Bishop held onto it. They both clasped an end, a minor tug-of-war. Eva took another step forward until their faces were nearly touching. She could smell his masculine scent and the scotch on his breath.
She stared into his eyes. Huskily she said, “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”
“How could I not? Eva, by any measure, you’re a stunning woman, an amazing woman. You’re in my room in the middle of the night. Naked.”
There was no mention of her brain in the compliment, but she was okay with it. She wasn’t exactly thinking with hers.
He tucked a lock of stray wet hair behind her ear. “I think that is a pretty accurate summation of enjoyment. I apologise if I’ve come off as a chauvinist bore. I thought we were playing. I’ll be much more attentive to your desires from now on, if you’ll let me.”
Every atom of her body screamed at her to grab him and kiss him. Ignoring the man he was, Eva had desires, she needed release. She had no idea what the next few days would hold, or even if she’d be alive at the end of the week. Their respiration became deeper, panting.
She leaned further in, tilting her head slightly. She murmured, “Fucking bad boys.”
Throatily, he asked, “Why am I a bad boy?”
“A gentleman would have handed me the towel straight away.”
He leaned in. “Then the gentleman,” his nose brushed her ear, “would have been an idiot.”
Bishop’s hand slowly ran up her thigh. Wait. That wasn’t his hand.
My god she wanted him. Old Eva would have already thrown Bishop on the bed. But that was the thing, she wasn’t Old Eva. Chasing bad boys only led to heartbreak, torment or sometimes, both. No, she was better than that. She was better than him.
Eva stepped away. Bishop’s mouth opened in surprise.
She nodded to the towel. “Please.”
He stared at it, as if was surprised he still held it. “Indeed.”
She wrapped the towel around her and opened the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“As always, I look forward to it, Ms Destruction. Sleep well.”
The door clicked closed behind her and she exhaled. Had she just grown? Had she royally messed up? She didn’t know.
The one thing she did realise was that she still didn’t have a room key. That would mean she’d need to head to reception. At least she was less exposed. Eva strode towards the elevator trying to position both the towel and her face to convey the greatest amount of dignity possible.
The next morning, the hotel restaurant was practically empty. She wasn’t sure if it was due to a special arrangement, everyone out assessing the storm damage or if the hotel wasn’t that popular. The only other diner was situated at the far corner devouring the huge meal before him.
Eva helped herself to a bowl of Rice Bubbles and sat opposite the man. She dropped her backpack on the chair beside and Angelis stopped shovelling in bacon long enough to wish her a good morning.
“Been Station Chief here long?”
He chewed quickly to reply. “Six years. The first two unofficially after the previous Chief disappeared with the wife of a Czech cabinet minister and never officially resigned. He eventually sent word from the Maldives, apparently he and the missus needed ac
cess to his government pension because they needed cash for cocktails while working on their tans.”
“That’s suspiciously un-spy-like talk.”
“Oh, my dear, this whole city knows that particular sordid tale. Prague is almost Parisian in its lust for juicy gossip and I have to admit, that one is delectably sleazy.”
It appeared Angelis held no grudge by being called out by Eva the previous evening. In fact, she suspected standing up to him had won him over. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that Eva found enchanting. Like a favourite uncle who told the best rude jokes at family gatherings.
As he sliced into a tomato, he asked, “I’m dying to know, the name. Is it real or do you partake in a spot of roller derby?”
She smiled. It was more polite than most of the questions she usually received.
“Real. Well, real enough. My mum changed her last name as some sort of feminist statement back in the day. When she finally had me she thought adding Eva was some kind of political declaration.”
There was no mention of the fact that she hadn’t spoken to her mother in the years leading up to her death. Eva shrugged. “I didn’t choose the name, I just lived with it.”
He frowned. “I was looking for something a little less pedestrian.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He raised his fork in agreement. Angelis’ face suddenly fell. He leapt away from the table, stumbling backwards. She twisted to see what he was staggering from. Storming through the restaurant door surged three black-clad figures wearing balaclavas.
Eva reeled around to ask if this was some kind of a test. When Angelis drew his gun she had her answer. Before she could do anything, Angelis’ chest exploded in a spurt of red. His body flew backwards and hit the wall.
The Barista’s Guide to Espionage Page 19