Secret Agent Santa

by Carol Ericson

  He climbed up the two steps and stretched out on the ground, cracking his back. Then he rolled over and extended his hands into the opening to help Claire.

  She handed him the bags first and then scooted out of the tunnel and collapsed beside him on the frosty ground, breathing heavily.

  He inched his hand over and entwined his fingers with hers. “We need to get moving.”

  “I realize that. I’m just not so sure I can stand up.”

  He rose to his feet and stomped his boots. “Feels good to be upright.”

  “Feels good to be alive.” She extended her arms, and he took both of her hands and pulled her up until she stood beside him.

  “All right. Let’s go steal a car.”

  Forty minutes later, Mike gunned the engine of an old pickup truck and hit the highway heading south.

  Claire knotted her fingers in her lap. “Where are we going? I thought all the safe houses had been compromised.”

  “Do you know Senator Bennett from Connecticut?”

  “Not personally.”

  He steered the truck onto the highway. “I know his son, Jase, and they have a family place in Maryland. We can crash there in between...skulking.”

  “The senator’s not there, is he?”

  “The house is empty, except for staff.”

  Claire shuffled through the glove comportment. “I feel bad about this truck, and it’s almost Christmas. What if the guy needs his truck for Christmas?”

  “Think of it as a rental. We’ll get the truck back to him along with a nice sum of cash. That should brighten his Christmas.”

  “You’re a real Santa.” Bending forward, she held the registration up to the little light from the glove box. “Gary Lockhart. He lives in Barnhill, Vermont.”

  “I’ll have someone contact him when we drop the car off at the train station.”

  “He’ll still report the truck as stolen. What if we get pulled over before we get to the station?”

  “Then I guess we get booked for car theft, but we won’t be in jail for long. It helps to have friends in high places, and we’re still not on the FBI’s radar.” He tapped the radio. “Music? Or do you want to sleep?”

  “I slept all day. You must think I’m a slug or something.” She rubbed her finger across her teeth. “I could use a toothbrush, though.”

  “I don’t think you’re a slug, but our sleep patterns are kind of messed up. That can make you tired no matter how much sleep you get.”

  She hit the volume button on the radio. “Crank it up.”

  Static filled the cab of the truck, so he tried a few other stations. “Nothing but classical coming in. You wanna listen to that?”

  “Sure, if it doesn’t drive you crazy.”

  He set the station and put the volume on low for background music. “How are you feeling? Any irritation of your eyes or throat from that smoke?”

  “I’m okay.” She brushed his forearm. “I noticed the hair on your arms got singed. Are you okay?”

  Her touch gave him a thrill. He’d been ready to make love to her all over again when they woke up, but Tempest treated them to fireworks of another kind. And it had to be Tempest. No other organization would’ve been able to compromise a Prospero safe house. Had agents been sent to destroy all of the safe houses they’d discovered, or did they know he and Claire were in Vermont?

  He flicked at the burnt hair on his arm. “I hadn’t noticed. There were several fires in the living room when I went to retrieve my laptop and bag.”

  “Thank God you were able to get them and they weren’t destroyed.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Is that the money bag in the back?”

  “The money and the weapon bag, so along with the laptop, I got all the essentials out of there.” He captured her fingers and brought them to his lips. “And the most essential item of all—you.”

  Sighing, she scrunched down in her seat. “It’s a good thing we did sleep in today. If we’d been in that living room, we could’ve been injured.”

  “The way that living room looked? There’s no doubt.”

  She swept some dirt from her jeans and then brushed her hands together. “Whoever killed the director must know who you are now and must know that I’m with you. That firebombing proves that, doesn’t it?”

  “I agree. I doubt that anyone is after me for any other reason.”

  “I led them to you.”

  “Or I led them to you. Does it matter?”

  “What I’m wondering is if Spencer went through all the trouble to set me up in the eyes of the FBI, why is he trying to kill me now?”

  “It’s easier.” He squeezed her knee. “Sorry, but it’s easier for him to have you killed than to have the FBI bring you in for questioning and start answering all kinds of uncomfortable questions. That is, if those were really FBI agents at the bank.”

  Her knee bounced beneath his hand. “You mentioned that before. How long has that suspicion been swirling through your brain?”

  “Since that Tempest agent tried to abduct you from the station in Philly. If someone really wanted to set you up, those would’ve been FBI agents waiting for us at the station, not some guy with a gun in the ladies’ room. Also, your name was never mentioned in the papers, never mentioned in connection with Hamid.”

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. At least I don’t need to fear getting recognized at the train station or walking down the street.” She sat up and grabbed the edge of the dashboard. “That also means I can call Ethan again without the Chadwicks wondering what’s going on, right?”

  “Were they expecting your call? You said they had him out all day for snowboarding.”

  “No, but they won’t be surprised by a call. If I call on your phone again, the call can’t be traced.”

  “Let me think about it. First things first.”

  “My son is first.”

  “I know that.” He stroked her hair, littered with specks of dirt, but still soft.

  “Okay, so what’s first for you?”

  “Right now? You.”

  Leaning against the window of the truck, she turned to face him, her eyes glittering in the low light of the truck. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I know.” He drew a line from her cheek to her chin. “But it’s true.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.” She gathered her hair into a ponytail with one hand. “So, what’s next?”

  “We’re going to pay a visit to Fiona.”

  “Tomorrow? In person?”

  “Correll’s taking that rich widow to the White House. It’s the perfect time to visit Spencer’s spurned lover.”

  “We’re going to waltz right into Spencer’s office after he’s been presumably trying to kill me?”

  “Presumably.” He held up one finger. “Ever hear of a disguise?”

  She planted her palms on either side of her head. “My head is spinning. We’re going to Maryland first, though, right? Hiding out in Senator Bennett’s house? That makes a lot of sense.”

  “He won’t be there, and you should fit right in. The Bennetts are loaded, too, and that house is staffed with servants. In fact, I’m surprised you don’t know Jase Bennett. You two must’ve traveled in the same circles, although you’re a little older than he is.”

  “Watch it.” She punched his shoulder. “Do you think all rich people just sort of hang out together and go to the same schools and the same parties?”

  “You mean you don’t?”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, which gave him all kinds of ideas.

  “Hey, as long as the Bennett house has hot and cold running water and a roof, I’m there.”

  And after several hours and three different modes of transportation, they were there.

  The brick colonial house with white siding and dark green shutters gleamed behind a tall gate. Mike had already put the word out, and Jase had facilitated their arrival.

  One word from Mi
ke into the intercom and the gates opened as if by magic. A housekeeper greeted them at the front door and didn’t even turn up her nose at their appearance, as grungy as they must’ve looked—and smelled.

  “I’m Mrs. Curtis. Mr. Jason phoned ahead. None of the family is in residence, however, and the senator and his wife are in Paris for the holidays.”

  “We won’t be any trouble.” Claire hugged her plastic bags to her chest and smiled.

  “Mr. Jason indicated that you were to make yourself at home. You can call me via the intercom system in the house if you need anything, or just help yourself. There’s food in the kitchen, and there are two rooms at the end of the hall, upstairs to your right, ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Curtis. We can manage.” Mike took Claire’s arm and steered her upstairs. He whispered in her ear, “Two rooms?”

  “I guess you forgot to tell Mr. Jason that you crossed the line between work and pleasure.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Did I tell you I like the pleasure part a lot better than the work part?”

  They stopped at the second-to-last room on the right, and Claire pushed open the door. “This is nice. I think the two rooms are joined by a bathroom.”

  “You can have the shower first. I need to make a few more phone calls.”

  She swung her plastic bags in front of her. “The shower will be great, but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to salvage many of the clothes I bought in Vermont.”

  “Jase has a sister and he said you’re welcome to any of her clothes in the house. I don’t think she’s as tall as you, but she’s not short. You should be able to find something to wear.”

  “And where are we getting our disguises? Not from Jase’s sister’s closet.”

  “We’ll figure out something.” He pulled off his boots and fell across the bed. “When was the last time we ate? My stomach is growling like a hungry bear.”

  “We had dinner on the way to the city to meet Hamid, unless you had something when we got back to the cabin.”

  “That was a long time ago. I think a midnight snack is in order even if it’s not quite midnight. Should we trouble the accommodating Mrs. Curtis or forage for our own meal in the kitchen?”

  “The less contact we have with anyone in this house, the better.”

  “This is the domain of the Bennett family. Discretion is the word.” He held a finger to his lips.

  “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised at how much servants talk.”

  “You mean that loyal retainer stuff is a myth?”

  “For some.” She shook out some clothes and draped them over her arm. “I’m going to hit the shower. Maybe you can try the kitchen for some food.”

  “That’d be the first place I’d look.”

  She rolled her magnificent eyes at him and shut the door of the connecting bathroom behind her.

  Mike managed to make it downstairs and find the kitchen without running into another human being in the huge house. He opened the door of the stainless Sub-Zero refrigerator and poked around the containers.

  He settled on slicing some cheese, grabbing a few apples and ripping off half a loaf of French bread. He piled his booty onto a big plate and then snagged a bottle of Napa Valley chardonnay from the fridge.

  He opened the bottle of wine and shoved the cork back in the top. He carefully threaded his fingers through the stems of two wineglasses, stuffed some paper towels beneath the plate and carried everything back upstairs.

  When he entered the room, a cloud of lilac-scented air greeted him, and Claire floated from the bathroom dressed in one of his white T-shirts, toweling her hair dry.

  She widened her eyes when she saw him. “Did you clean out the kitchen?”

  “Hardly. You should see the stuff they have in there. Those servants must be living it up.” He held up the bottle of wine. “Nabbed some good stuff, too.”

  “Wine? You took a bottle of—” she strolled toward him and squinted at the label “—what appears to be some very expensive wine?”

  He looked at the blue label adorned with a yellow squiggly line through it. “Really? This is expensive?”

  She brushed her thumb across the year printed on the label. “I think so.”

  “Good.” He dislodged the cork and poured a measure of the golden liquid into one of the glasses. “You deserve it, and Jase assured me that his casa was our casa, or something like that. Said to take whatever we needed—food, clothing, cars.”

  “Cars, too?” She took the glass from him and swirled the wine up its sides. “Generous guy, this Jase.”

  “You got that. He owes me anyway. I’ve saved his careless ass more times than I can remember.”

  She took a sip of the wine and closed her eyes. “This is good. That shower was even better.”

  He set his glass down and peeled off his shirt, crumpling it into a ball. “You eat and I’ll get in the shower.”

  “You said you were starving. Are you sure you don’t want to sit down and eat first?” Her fingertips trailed across his pecs and down to his belly, where a fire kindled. “I don’t mind that you’re...dirty.”

  He swallowed. “I have a confession to make.”

  “Really?” She walked her fingers back up his chest and drummed them against his collarbone.

  “I already ate a banana downstairs, so I’m not starving anymore.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “And you’re so perfectly fresh and rosy from your shower, I don’t want to smudge you.”

  She lifted her wineglass. “Hurry back...before I eat everything.”

  He practically ran into the bathroom, unbuttoning his fly on his way. The steam from Claire’s shower still fogged the mirror.

  He cranked on the water in the stall, big enough to house a family of four, and read the labels on the two bottles of shower gel. At least he didn’t need to smell like a lilac.

  He squeezed a puddle of fresh ocean breeze into his palm and lathered up. He washed and rinsed his hair, sluicing it back from his forehead as he faced the spray. He almost felt human.

  Then he felt superhuman when he walked back into the bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist and saw Claire sitting cross-legged on the bed biting into an apple.

  She said around chews, “You clean up nicely.”

  “I was thinking the same about you.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Hard to believe you were crawling through an underground tunnel about six hours ago.”

  “Hard to believe we made it out alive.” She wiped her hands with a paper towel and then rolled up her apple core in it.

  He dug into his bag and pulled out a clean pair of boxers. He put them on beneath his towel and then dropped the towel.

  Half closing her eyes, she tossed back some wine. “Damn, I was looking forward to the striptease with the towel coming off.”

  “How many of those glasses have you had?” He sat down next to her on the bed and curled his hand around the neck of the wine bottle, lifting it up to the light.

  “Enough.” She yawned and fell over on her side, dragging a pillow beneath her cheek.

  He smiled and stroked a length of creamy thigh that was exposed as his T-shirt hiked up around her hips. “Can I tempt you with a toothbrush and some toothpaste?”

  “Absolutely.” She shot up, the thought of brushing her teeth giving her new life. She tumbled from the bed, yanking the T-shirt down around her thighs.

  Mike finished off the bread and cheese and had started on another glass of wine by the time Claire stumbled back into the bedroom.

  “Ah, such a simple amenity can make all the difference in the world.” Running her tongue along her teeth, she fell across the bed. “Did I leave you enough food and drink?”

  “Plenty. Are you ready to go back into the fray tomorrow?”

  She cocked her head. “By fray do you mean go to Spencer’s office and try to pump Fiona for information?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It feels dangerous being back here.” She folded her arms b
ehind her head. “Back in the vicinity of the political world, close to the White House. What do you think Tempest is going to do?”

  “Not sure, but I plan to be in the thick of it to stop them.”

  “It’s important to you, isn’t it? I mean, it’s important to everyone, but it’s personal with you. What happened on your last assignment?”

  He choked on the smooth sip of wine trailing down his throat. Even slightly tipsy, she could read him. “Who says anything happened on my last assignment?”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Mike, but it’s so clear that things didn’t end well for you. This White House plot fell into your lap, a way to redeem yourself.”

  “No wonder you had Spencer Correll figured out. You’re one perceptive lady.”

  When it didn’t involve her own motives.

  “I just understand that drive to prove yourself.”

  He tossed back the rest of the wine in one gulp. “Okay, my previous assignment didn’t have the ending I wanted. We lost hostages. I’d never lost hostages before.”

  “It happens.” She stared past him into the space over her shoulder. “Those situations are chaotic and dangerous. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was leading the charge, so to speak.”

  “Nobody else blamed you, did they? Jack didn’t blame you.”

  “I blamed me.” He pushed off the bed and collected the dishes. “Do you want anything else from downstairs? Water?”

  “Yes, water, please.” She waved her hand up and down his body. “Are you venturing out in your boxers? You might give Mrs. Curtis a fright...or the thrill of a lifetime.”

  His lips twisted. “I suppose I’d better pull on some sweats.”

  “Chicken.”

  He left the wine and took everything back downstairs. Again, silence greeted his presence. He stayed in the kitchen for several minutes, throwing away their trash and washing the plate and glasses.

  By the time he crept upstairs with a couple of bottles of water tucked beneath his arm, Claire was curled up on the bed, her hand beneath her cheek and her damp hair fanning out on the pillow.

  Any thoughts he’d had of making wild, passionate love to her ended on a sigh from her lips.

  He drowned his disappointment by gulping down the rest of the wine straight from the bottle—the only way to drink the good stuff.