Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  I get a minor reprieve for virtual run-throughs of Kozyrev’s boat (though that’s looking less and less useful) until ten o’clock rolls around and the boutiques downtown are open. César takes the reception desk and we head in to Lowertown, ByWard Market specifically.

  I choose to focus on the positive: I’ll look amazing for Danny. I don’t have to worry about Fyodor, about facing off with an enemy spy, about trying to prolong our relationship. I just have to find a pretty dress for Danny.

  But the choices for that quickly dwindle to basically nothing. Fortunately, Linda and Marie-Christine agree we can’t give the wrong impression, so they aren’t bothered by my selection-limiting modesty rules.

  I know, it’d probably be okay to wear something for work, for one night, but . . . look, I do a lot of stuff that isn’t strictly okay by the standards of my church (or the ethics of any good person) for the sake of my job and my country. If I get a choice, I like to try to choose the right.

  By noon, though, it seems like I won’t have a choice until Marie-Christine pulls out this amazing coral red dress. It has a wide band of fabric running from one shoulder under the opposite arm, making the neckline asymmetrical. The sleeve and the dress under the band are both gathered a little into what the saleslady calls “subtle sculptural folds,” wrapping around the back in a graceful sweep of fabric. The skirt’s full enough to float around me and give me mobility just in case.

  Just in case the worst happens.

  No. I’m buying a dress to look nice for Danny. Fyodor is incidental. Because nothing will go wrong.

  I try the dress on, and it fits. And I can move in it. And it’s gorgeous. And ridiculously expensive — I don’t pay triple digits for clothes. Ever. I’m the least glamorous spy on the planet, I know. Can you say “government income”?

  “C’est ideal.” Marie-Christine’s gushing. I can’t blame her.

  Linda agrees. “He will love it.”

  To be honest, I don’t care what Fyodor will think. I can’t wait to see Danny’s jaw drop.

  Rather than trying to match the dress’s red, Linda insists we should go for gold slingbacks, but Marie-Christine and I get her to agree to some metallic brown shoes with a “reasonable” heel and not too pointy of a toe. I think the ankle straps convinced Linda. I know that and the fact that they’re only slightly less comfortable than flats did it for me, even with the triple-digit price tag again.

  I have no input on my accessories and I don’t care. They pick out earrings shaped like a pair of parentheses closed together, but decide to let my dress speak for itself. Translation: no necklace, I guess. While Linda pays for the jewelry with my company card, Marie-Christine plucks at my hair and sighs. “I think we need professional help.”

  Linda glances over with a frown of sad-but-true. Doesn’t exactly make me feel good, but I know they’re right.

  Marie-Christine grabs Linda’s wrist. “Do you know Amperage?”

  Linda lights up, but immediately dims. “They will be busy.”

  “The manager is my neighbor. He will get us in.”

  I’ve never heard of the place, but considering I go six months between haircuts and trim my bangs myself, it’s not that surprising. “How far is it?”

  “Oh, it’s in Gatineau.”

  I.E. across the river. I.E. in Quebec. I.E. I can carry on a conversation in French only if we stay on the topics of the weather and food. I inform them of my francophonic failures, but Marie-Christine waves a c’est-pas-grave hand. “Even the unilingual French speak English in Gatineau.”

  Right.

  Twenty minutes later, they usher me into the black-and-lime, glowing-wall-art, no-straight-lines lobby of Amperage Coiffure + Esthétique. I’m not sure I’m cool enough to inhale their hair chemical fumes, let alone scan the oversized glossy hair books with my makeover team. I pretend not to notice we’re the only people in here speaking English.

  Even more than that, I’m trying not to relive my personal hall of hair horrors. Ninety-five percent of the exhibit involves salons and some miscommunication with the stylist.

  Yeah, I’m not setting myself up for disaster.

  The nerves are building up like pressure behind a bullet, but I try to convince myself this will be a success if I walk out of here without purple hair. Marie-Christine flips back to the section of long waves in the “look book.” I’d love to be that glamorous, but it’s neither realistic nor practical for tonight. I guess she’s not in ops. “I can’t have my hair getting in the way,” I remind them.

  Linda flicks through the album to the updos section. Two pages of French twists and chignons. (Danny won’t recognize me.) “Too formal. She is not going to a wedding.”

  “No, these are more like she is in the wedding.” Marie-Christine runs her fingers through her loose curls. “She needs movement.”

  I choose to ignore the fact they’re talking about me like I’m not there. At least they’re still using English. “I need my hair to stay where it is.”

  Linda says nothing, but continues through the book to reveal more hairstyles. This spread is all perfectly formed curls, pinned and shellacked into position so well they wouldn’t move without a jackhammer.

  “And it needs to look like I could possibly do it myself.”

  Linda turns the page again. I’m having a hard time picturing any of these on me, between the fashionable sideswept bangs and the perfectly conditioned and highlighted locks. My blunt bangs and plain, dark brown hair are not made for style.

  Marie-Christine moves on to more pictures and taps a photo on the left.

  “Oui.” Linda passes the book to me. It’s some kind of updo with a mass of loose curls. Even I’m convinced, as long as it’ll go with my bangs. The model’s long bangs are curled to match the back.

  But tonight looks aren’t everything. “Will it stay?”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  I raise my eyebrows and lower my voice. “Fight him off if I have to.”

  And they have no idea how literal that might be.

  Linda and Marie-Christine make eye contact, and I hope that look means they realize we’re not playing dress up. Then again, Linda isn’t supposed to know we’re not lawyers.

  “If we have it higher, at the crown perhaps?” Linda murmurs. Marie-Christine agrees.

  As soon as we decide, a stylist comes and calls Marie-Christine’s name. We follow Joannie to the back. While she brushes, tugs, pulls, curls, pins and nails my hair into place, I browse pictures of Signatures on the Internet (again) with my phone. By the time she finishes, it’s almost four and my battery is getting dangerously low.

  “Ça y est!” Joannie turns me around with a flourish. I don’t know who that is in the mirror, but it’s definitely not me. My hair is now smooth and shiny. My totally boring bangs are chic. The rest of my hair is piled in loose curls on the back of my head.

  I shake my head hard, and Joannie jumps back a step. I know, I might destroy all her hard work, but if it doesn’t stay in place, it’ll come out if we run into trouble.

  I need to stop being so pessimistic. I’m not going to run into trouble. I won’t allow it.

  In the mirror, my curls have redistributed themselves, but the overall hairdo is intact. Joannie finger-brushes my bangs and beams at my reflection, and I reflect that beam right back. I hope this isn’t another three-digit purchase, though if it is, it’s totally worth it.

  But there’s a lot of work to do in the next two hours before I head in to Signatures.

  We’re probably ten kilometers from the office as the spy plane flies, but unfortunately, we have to use roads, and with the river between us, the fastest route back to Keeler Tate is twice as far. They seriously need another bridge around here.

  “Can I charge my phone on the way?” I hold up my cell.

  Linda shoots me an apologetic frown. “My husband has the car charger.”

  Marie-Christine directs me into the backseat to work on my makeup. “The natural light
is better,” she says, though I’d really prefer not to be moving while she lines my eyelids with a sharp pencil.

  Forty-five minutes later (thanks, bridge traffic), we pull into our office lot and I commandeer the rearview mirror to see.

  Now I really don’t know who that is. My skin looks perfect, smooth and sun-kissed. My lips are the same color as my dress, and my hazel eyes totally stand out with the thick black liner, those-cannot-be-real lashes and the green/gold ombré eye shadow.

  Danny’s jaw won’t hit the table — until I sit with him and he realizes it’s me.

  Linda examines my eye makeup, too. “Waterproof?”

  Marie-Christine nods and Linda smiles her approval. “I will take care of your purse and you will be ready for anything. Oh! I have an idea!” She drags us into the bathroom on the first floor of our office building and hands me my dress and shoes.

  It’s the first test for my clothes: our office. I step into the dress, careful to keep it well away from my hair and makeup, and pull on the shoes.

  Now I look like I could walk through Rostov-on-Don with my head held high.

  We take the elevator up to a floor above Keeler Tate, and the stairs back down. I put on my sunglasses before we get to the cameras and the doors, and then we sweep through the reception area and swipe ourselves into the bullpen.

  I hear the impression I’m making before I see it. The clack of computer keys stops. César starts to pull manila folders over his papers, covering his classified documents. The rest of the boys’ club stares in silence.

  I take off my sunglasses, and there still isn’t a sound. Finally, Elliott stands up and begins to slow-clap. At least half the people in the room turn to him in confusion.

  “The award for the best disguise ever goes to Talia Reynolds,” he announces.

  And the rest of the office erupts in applause. I bask in the confidence boost. I’ll need it.

  Most of the time on an op, my job is to blend into the background, to be completely invisible, to be the person you don’t remember seeing. But every once in a while, a spy can do her work most effectively with every eye in the room on her.

  Tonight I have to perform in the spotlight, the heat and the pressure. Before I get to show off for Danny, I’ll have to make it through a date with Fyodor. With the enemy.

  In a spare office, I stare at the patchy scruff on Elliott’s jawline while he pins a small bejeweled maple leaf brooch to my dress—my mic and camera. When he finishes with the clasp, he hands me the earpiece and I put it in. He steps out for the sound check.

  “Test, test,” he says.

  “When’s the last time you shaved? February?”

  “Hilarious.” Elliott comes back in, pulling a University of Ottawa sweatshirt over his head. A nice touch, since we’ll be down the street from the school’s Sandy Hill campus, even if it’s too hot for sweatshirts.

  He starts threading his iPod/comms through his collar, but stops to come stand in front of me. “Be careful.” He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then tries again. “This has bad news written all over it.”

  A sudden flash of nerves makes me edge a few steps to the side. I try to cover it with a joke, but the worry wears through my words. “What, I’m too hot for my own good?”

  “Maybe.” There’s something strange, almost nostalgic in his expression, like he’s remembering the first time he saw me — or afraid tonight will be the last. “You know boys only have one thing on their mind.”

  I cast my eyes at the ceiling in a oh-please look. “If it’s not aerospace, then no. But thanks for the heads-up, Mom.”

  “I — I’m serious, though.”

  “Elliott, I’m going in there to compromise him, not myself.”

  “Huh? Oh, no, not that.” He leans down to peer into my eyes. “Power. Respect. Prestige. Call it what you want, but that’s what he’s after. That’s why he’s here. Play to his motives.”

  “He’s a guy. I get it.”

  Elliott studies my face again for a minute. Either he really doesn’t see me under all this makeup, or he’s really concerned about one little covert op.

  “What do you have to worry about?” I mean that he’s not the one dating the dark side, but once the words are out, I hear the subconscious double meaning. The message stands between us like a concrete wall. I’m not the one who keeps getting distracted and endangering the rest of my team. The fear crystallizes in the back of my brain, a tiny part of my mind still absolutely terrified he’ll fail again, this time with irreversible consequences.

  “C’mon.” He slaps on his you-know-I’m-right-and-by-the-way-have-you-noticed-how-hot-I-am? smile. “I won’t let you down.”

  I want to believe him. Of course I do. But I have to ask. “How’s Shanna?”

  His grin falls away like I smacked it off. He rubs a knuckle over his bottom lip. “Three days overdue. Anxious.”

  She’s not the only one. That same anxiety mixes with the adrenaline in my veins, pulling the muscles in my back tight. But I just pat his arm. “The first one’s always late.”

  “As long as she holds out until after tonight, I’ll be happy.”

  I wait until he meets my gaze again. “You’ll make it,” I reassure him.

  “You will, too.” Elliott lifts a fist as if to chuck me on the chin, but stops mid-chuck and wraps his arms around me instead. He’s hugged me like four times ever, but I think I know what he’s trying to say: thank you for trusting me, thank you for understanding, thank you for the second chance.

  And good luck.

  Maybe Will was wrong about being better off alone.

  I grab the bronze clutch purse Linda has stocked and loaned to me — I’d use mine, but Linda insisted my brown bag was horrible — and drop in the USB drive with James’s manufactured “sensitive secrets.” Now all I have to do is show these to Fyodor in less than an hour without looking suspicious.

  Right.

  Will drives me and Elliott into Sandy Hill, south of Lowertown, where we went shopping a few hours ago. I’d try to charge my phone in his car, but Will’s charging his, and he’s coordinating our team and CSIS’s, so he has priority over my personal phone. Robby will provide support as well, but I’m on my own in the ring.

  We’ve done all the prep, and now anything we say would be redundant, distracting, so suffocating silence fills the car thick with stress.

  Elliott is the first on his SDR through the U of O campus. I’ve tried to make mine as short as allowable with these heels, even if they’re not terrible. Once Elliott’s underway and I’ve traded my real cell phone for my operational one, Will hooks his arm over the front seat. “Don’t sell the secrets too hard.”

  “I know.”

  “Seriously. It’s a nice idea and I like where your head’s at, but they could make this whole thing too easy to blow. Angle for the invitation. It’s the bigger fish.”

  He’s right. I have to make this natural, and the secrets might not be. But an invitation is. With a quick salute to Will, I head out on my SDR. I hit a minimart, sightsee in a Hare Krishna temple, peruse a bookstore and glance around the Laurier House before I’m completely sure I’m not being followed. Right on schedule.

  I tell my team. “Moving in.”

  “Break a leg,” Elliott says. “His. But only if you have to. Don’t get mesmerized by The Beard.”

  “Shouldn’t I tell you that?”

  I can hear his smirk. “See you.”

  “Or not.”

  I take a quick detour through Strathcona Park, across the street from the restaurant. I’ve been to the park once for a church softball game before Danny and I started dating, though we spent half the time flirting.

  But now, I’m focusing on Fyodor and Signatures, a big, yellow Victorian Franken-castle (I mean house) with bright blue trim. A little weird looking. I don’t think Linda and Marie-Christine ever got that operational effectiveness was more important than being fashionably late, but I walk through the door at 6:30 on the dot. The a
roma of roasting meat makes my stomach grumble. Shouldn’t have skipped lunch. I guess even oatmeal doesn’t stick with you this long.

  I scan the dining room for Fyodor. Beyond the vestibule, the creamy yellow walls are topped by wide white molding sculpted with grapevine garlands. Heavy drapes in gold and dusty blue frame the tall windows, and white-clothed tables with simple wood-backed chairs fill the rooms.

  But Fyodor is nowhere to be seen. I approach the host stand and the man in a black dress shirt.

  “Hit the charm,” Elliott reminds me. Yeah, thanks for the tip.

  “Hello.” I add a little extra warmth to my tone, but that’s all the charisma cash I can spare for now. “Do you have reservations for Timofeyev?”

  “Yes.” He runs a finger down the page in the appointment book. “Seven o’clock.”

  Elliott groans in my ear.

  “Oh really?” I lean over the desk like I’m checking the reservation to give Elliott a good view of the book. If we can get Fyodor one minute early, canceling someone else’s reservation might make the difference between a date with Danny and nothing. I sigh. “Guess I’m early.”

  The host directs me to their waiting area.

  “Is that the best you can do?” comes Elliott’s ever-welcome vote of confidence.

  I bite back the retort and take a minute to visit the restroom. I almost deadbolt the main door before I see the black orthopedic pumps in the first stall. I’ll have to wait. I linger by the sink and pull up RussCa on my operational phone. My KoketniChat inbox has a message waiting again. Unsurprisingly, it’s from Fyodor. Tasha, Sorry, just got your message. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  I check the timestamp on the message. Ten minutes ago. If he’s staying downtown, he should arrive soon.

  “He’ll be here any minute,” I murmur as if I’m talking to myself and not Elliott.

  I put my phone away and rinse my clammy hands. An elderly woman comes to the next sink. Once she’s dried her hands, she pats my shoulder. “Of course he’ll come. Who wouldn’t want to spend the evening with a beautiful young girl like you?”