Secret Agent Santa

by Carol Ericson

  Chapter Nine

  Claire’s eyes widened and something in their violet depths flickered. Did she understand that bad news for the country meant good news for her?

  Of course she did. There wasn’t much Claire Chadwick didn’t understand except maybe that her obsession with getting justice for her husband and then her mother had put her life on hold and, even worse, in danger.

  He could detect the movement of her Adam’s apple in her slender throat as she swallowed. “These blue pills mean something to you?”

  He squeezed her hand before releasing it and them. “You heard me mention Tempest on the phone just now, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” She crumpled the foil in her fist and stuffed it back into the cigarette box with the tips of her fingers. “It didn’t mean anything to me then and it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”

  “It’s a covert ops organization, like Prospero, deep undercover. In the past few months we’ve become aware that they’ve been using their power to destabilize the world.”

  “What have they been doing?” She trapped her hands between her knees and hunched forward.

  “Assassinations.”

  “Just like Director Haywood.” Tilting her head to one side, she gathered her hair in her hand and twisted it into a knot. “What do the blue pills mean?”

  “Tempest has agents, just like we do. But unlike Prospero, Tempest has been experimenting with its agents—drugging them, brainwashing them.”

  She ran a thumb between her eyebrows. “That man at the bus station in Philly was one of these agents?”

  “Looks like it.” He flicked the cigarette box with his long fingers. “I’ll send these in for analysis, but the coincidence is too great.”

  “So, since Spencer sent this man after me, this superagent, that proves he’s in league with Tempest, doesn’t it?”

  “If your stepfather is behind the death of the director and ordered that man to abduct you.”

  “We’re back to that.”

  “We have no proof Spencer Correll is involved in anything—including your mother’s accident.”

  “Unless we get a match on those videos.”

  “And this latest discovery just might light a fire under that investigation.” Mike grabbed his phone again and called Jack, pressing the speaker button.

  “Nothing’s changed, Mike.”

  “It has here, and you’re still on speaker.”

  “What’s up?” Jack’s voice lost its bored edge, and Mike nodded to Claire.

  “I emptied the pockets of the man who tried to abduct Claire from the Philly bus station, and I just made a crucial discovery.” He reached for the cigarette pack as if he needed concrete verification. “He had some blue pills on him, and they look exactly like the T-101 pills Max Duvall showed us.”

  Jack whistled through the phone. “If Tempest is in DC and was responsible for the director’s murder, they might still be plotting something bigger for the White House, just like McCabe said.”

  “And Correll just might be the guy on the inside of it all.”

  “If we can tie him to Tempest and this setup of Claire.”

  “The videos, Jack.” Mike tossed the cigarette pack back on the table. “ID the guy in the videos.”

  “We’re on it. In the meantime, send us those pills for analysis.”

  Mike ended the call and cupped the phone between his hands. “If there’s anything else you can think of, Claire, now’s the time.”

  “Maybe Hamid knows something.”

  “You can’t just give him a call on his cell phone. If he’s off the grid, he probably dumped his phone already.”

  She slumped back in the love seat and stretched her long legs in front of her, tapping her boots together. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “Don’t look at me.” He threw up his hands. “Believe it or not, Prospero doesn’t have a line on every suspected terrorist in the US.”

  “Hamid is not a suspected terrorist.” Her eyes glittered at him like jewels through the slits of her eyes.

  “He is now.” He tapped the display of his phone, where she’d read the news about Hamid on the bus.

  “In the beginning of our association, Hamid and I communicated via a blog, more like an online discussion group.”

  “The FBI already tracked your communication with Hamid. That’s why they dropped in on you in DC.”

  She shook her head and her blond locks caught the low light from the lamp on the table next to her, giving a glow to her face, already animated with this new idea. “Once Hamid got to London, we stopped that form of communication. There was no more need for it. He was no terrorist and I was helping him gain entry to the US on a student visa. The kid is seriously a genius.”

  “Your communications with him from that point on were out in the open?”

  “For all the world, and the FBI, to see. There’s no way the Feds know about our back-and-forth on this website prior to Hamid’s arrival in London.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I communicated with others in this discussion group, as well. They picked out, or my stepfather led them to, Hamid because he’s the only one they knew about. That’s the stuff they traced.”

  He rubbed his chin. Prospero would want to talk to Hamid, anyway. Claire could do the work for them to bring him in. “So, you’d try to make contact with Hamid through this blog? How do you know he’ll check it?”

  “I don’t, but there’s a good chance.” She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “If Hamid is in trouble, he’s going to try to reach me. He knows I’ll try to reach him, too. He knows I have connections, political connections. What he doesn’t know at this point is that it’s those connections that got us both into trouble.”

  “Give it a try.” He twisted to the side, grabbing his laptop. He logged in, entered a few passwords and launched a web browser. Holding the computer in front of him, he rose from his seat and positioned the laptop on Claire’s thighs. “Do you remember the URL?”

  “Absolutely.” She tapped his keyboard while he circled around behind her on the love seat.

  He hunched over the back, peering over her shoulder as the page filled the window, populated with pop-up ads for clothing and instruments and music lessons. “What kind of discussion group is this?”

  “On the surface?” She clicked several links on the page in rapid succession. “It’s a blog and discussion for people looking for musical hookups, but in reality it’s a message board for people who want to hide their communications.”

  “Really?” He squinted at a variety of messages on the page. “Whatever happened to using the drafts folder of a shared email account?”

  “I haven’t heard about that method. Have you ever had to use it?”

  She jerked her head around so suddenly, her nose almost collided with his chin. He reared back. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get into your personal space. My damned eyes are getting worse and worse since I hit forty.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, you’re a pathetic physical specimen.”

  Her gaze swept across his shoulders and down his arms, still wedged against the back of the love seat. His nearness gave her butterflies in her belly—just like a high school crush. He could get into her personal space as much as he wanted.

  She patted the cushion next to hers. “Sit here. You can see better, even though all I’m going to do is post a message. Right now I don’t see anything that could be from him.”

  Her side of the cushion sank when he sat next to her, causing her shoulder to bump against his. She left it there.

  “Would he use his real name?” He ran one finger down the list of posts on the screen.

  “He’s Einstein—for obvious reasons.”

  “And you’re...?”

  She wrinkled her nose as her cheeks warmed. “Paris.”

  “How’d you come up with that?”

  “Hamid actually came up with it himself.” She shrugge
d. “He’s a fan of American pop culture, and I’m the only blond heiress he knows.”

  “Makes perfect sense to me. What are you posting?”

  Her fingers hovered over the laptop. “I just want to let him know we can help.”

  She chewed her lip and started typing.

  Mike read her words aloud as she entered them. “‘Everything okay with the band? I think we’re in the same boat. Let me know if you need a backup singer.’”

  She clicked the button to post her message under the username Paris. “If he sees that, he’ll know what I mean.”

  “Why so cryptic if the message board is a safe zone?” He took the computer from her lap and logged off.

  “You can never be too careful.” She raised her arms, stretching them toward the ceiling and yawning.

  “It’s past midnight. You gotta be tired even after all that so-called sleep on the bus.”

  She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “I haven’t even looked past the bathroom in here. Are there two bedrooms?”

  “Yes. Do you want to check them out first and call dibs?”

  She wanted to call dibs on him.

  She stuffed the thought back down into her tired brain. She wanted Mike Becker because he believed in her and it had been a long time since anyone had believed in her. It couldn’t be real attraction. She didn’t have time for that.

  He crouched before the fire to douse it, and her gaze traveled from his broad shoulders, down the length of his strong back and settled on his tight backside encased in worn denim.

  He believed in her and he was as hot as that fire he was smothering. The sensations pummeling her brain and body emanated from overwrought emotions and pure lust—nothing more.

  She forced her languorous muscles to move and pushed off the love seat. “Do you know if the beds are made?”

  “Should be.”

  She clicked on the hall light and poked her head into the first bedroom—standard-issue bed, including sheets and a turned-down bedspread, a dresser, and a small nightstand sporting a lamp and a clock radio.

  She crossed the hall to the other bedroom, where a king-size bed dominated the room and a dark chest of drawers stood in the corner.

  “You can have this room.”

  He appeared behind her, and she jumped.

  “You okay?” He placed his hands on her shoulders from behind and the warm breath caressing her ear made her heart beat a little faster.

  “On edge.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” He pinched her shoulders. “I found some toiletries in the closet and left them for you in the bathroom—toothbrush, toothpaste, soap. What were you just saying?”

  “You can have this room.” She flung out her arm into the space. “You need the bigger bed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Besides, the other room has a mirror. I’m going to need to spend long hours in front of that mirror tomorrow morning to fix myself up after the day I had today.”

  “You did have a rough day, and yet—” he shifted to her side and cupped her face with one hand “—you still look beautiful.”

  A pulse thrummed in her throat and she parted her lips to protest, to assure him she hadn’t been fishing for a compliment. She never got the chance.

  He swept his lips across hers, and when she didn’t make a move, not even a blink of an eyelash, he pressed a hard kiss against her mouth that felt like a stamp. He pulled away just as abruptly.

  “Get some sleep, Claire.”

  “G-good night.” She sidled past him out the door and practically flung herself into the bathroom across the hall.

  She slammed the door behind her and hunched over the small vanity, almost touching her nose to the mirror. She couldn’t.

  She hadn’t been with a man since she lost Shane. Her attraction to Mike felt like such a betrayal to her dead husband.

  A sob welled up from her chest and she cranked on the water in the sink, letting her tears drip down her chin and swirl down the drain with the water.

  She’d kept telling herself that she’d let go once she found justice for Shane, but maybe she’d been fooling herself. Once Shane’s killer was brought down, would she have another excuse?

  Maybe Mike Becker had been sent not to save her from Spencer, but to save her from herself.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING she shuffled into the living room in the same jeans and sweater from yesterday and wedged her hands on her hips as she watched Mike make coffee in the kitchen. “No fair.”

  He looked up, a lock of dark hair falling in his eyes. “What’s not fair? I said you could have the bigger bed. Do you regret your generosity now?”

  “I’m not talking about that.” She perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island that doubled as a table. “You’re wearing different clothes.”

  “From the bag I took from the hotel.” He pinched the gray material of the waffle-knit, long-sleeved shirt away from his chest. “Luckily I had some casual clothes in there.”

  She folded up the sleeves of her blue cashmere. “This used to be one of my favorite sweaters, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sick of it by the end of the week.”

  “We can get you some clothes—not those designer duds you favor, but there are a few stores in town.”

  “Do you think I need to wear a disguise?” She fluffed her hair. “I can color my hair, but I refuse to cut it.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You’d look good as a redhead, but those eyes...”

  She blinked. “What about them?”

  “They’re violet.”

  “Only sometimes, and so what?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone looking into those eyes once and being able to forget them.”

  “You’re waxing very poetic this morning.” She jumped from the stool and pulled open the freezer door, inhaling the iciness from its depths in the hopes it could cool down her heated blood. “Anything for breakfast in here?”

  He clinked some cups behind her. “I’m not exactly sure what ‘waxing poetic’ means, but I’m sure I’ve never done that before in my life. Coffee?”

  “Do you like playing the poor, rough boy from the streets?” She yanked a box of breakfast sandwiches from the inside door. “Does that usually work for you with the ladies?”

  She clutched the cold box to her chest, afraid to turn around. But Mike laughed, and she spun around to face him.

  His lopsided grin had her warming up again despite the frozen breakfast pressed against her body.

  “The poor, rough boy from the streets does work with the ladies, but I never once thought you’d be susceptible to the act. Are you?”

  She smacked the box on the counter. “Nope.”

  “Hey, watch that. You’re breaking my...breakfast.”

  “No news from any quarter yet?” She needed to get this conversation and relationship back on the business track. They didn’t have to play engaged couple anymore.

  “I don’t know about your discussion board, but I haven’t heard anything from Prospero.” The coffee dripped to a stop and he poured two cups. “The news media are still flashing Hamid’s picture, but you haven’t even been mentioned as a person of interest yet.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. “That’s not good, is it? I mean, if a legitimate agency like the FBI is after me, at least I know they’re not going to shoot me on sight.”

  “But we don’t want your picture and name splashed all over the media, either.”

  “At least the Chadwicks have no idea what’s going on. Should I call them again to find out if they’ve heard anything?”

  “Don’t invite trouble. If you act suspiciously, you’re putting them on the spot if the FBI goes out there to talk to them.”

  Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up her coffee cup. “I don’t want that. They’ve been through enough.”

  “Ethan’s safe with them and Lori.” He wrapped his hands around his own cup. “Lori’s reliable?”

  �
�She’s wonderful. Ethan adores her.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “At breakfast yesterday morning I caught the tail end of something between her and Correll.”

  “Ugh, yes. He’s propositioned her a time or two, but she came right to me.” She blew on the surface of her coffee, wishing for some half-and-half. “Lori can handle herself. She’s tougher than she looks. She’s actually a former army nurse.”

  “Impressive.” Folding his arms, he leaned against the kitchen counter. “Correll had a thing going on with his admin assistant, too, right? Fiona? That’s how you got into his laptop in his office.”

  “That’s right.” She tapped her head. “The eyes may be going, but you’re not senile yet.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Why did you bring that up?”

  “Would Fiona be willing to do more snooping for you? For a price, I mean.”

  “She might be, although I think she’s still sleeping with him.”

  “After he cheated on her?” He reached for his cup and took a sip of coffee. “Some women don’t know when to quit.”

  Was he talking about Lori, her or his mother?

  She turned away and slid her thumb beneath the seam of the box. “A little jewelry can go a long way. Do you want me to contact her?”

  “We’ll keep her in our toolbox.”

  “We have a toolbox?” She pulled two plastic-wrapped frozen sandwiches from the box and held one up. “Looks like egg and sausage on an English muffin.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  She ripped open the plastic with her teeth and placed the sandwiches on a plate. “Is this town safe for us?”

  “The FBI hasn’t released any info about you yet. I’m positive we weren’t followed, once we got rid of that money.” He tugged on the end of her hair. “And you need some fresh clothes.”

  “I just might risk getting nabbed by the FBI for a change of clothes at this point.”

  “We’ll be fine, and I need to go to the post office and send off these pills.”

  With visions of new clothes before her eyes, Claire wolfed down her breakfast almost as quickly as Mike did.

  As she rinsed their cups in the sink, she asked, “Can you log in to your laptop so I can check the message board?”