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

  Samir’s gaze tumbles to the table again. “Yes. You are right.”

  I lean a little closer, and I swear I can feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. This is the tricky part. To be followed by all the other tricky parts. “Listen, if you really want to help your cousin and protect all those people, I know someone who might be able to help. Something you could do to make a difference.”

  He studies the table’s faux wood grain for far too long. Every breath I draw grows shorter, faster, louder, until Samir has to notice in this eerie silence.

  “I would like to make a difference,” he finally murmurs. “I think.”

  I don’t like that addition. I can only hope he comes to our next meeting armed with a little more conviction. We set up that next meeting for tomorrow night, and turn back to our language study. Samir gains speed with each right answer.

  The big right answer had better be taking root.

  I wasn’t planning on going to Danny’s house tonight, but even making such headway with Samir isn’t enough to totally dispel the things Brand said to me this afternoon.

  I hate, hate, hate that he can still crawl under my skin and set up a sick amusement park.

  “Did you go dress shopping tonight?” Danny’s attempt to distract me from my distractions instantly kicks up my frustration. Another front I’ve got to keep up with the last person I want to lie to.

  “Uh, no. The next opening that worked for all of us was Saturday.” I break a chocolate chip cookie with a satisfying snap.

  A frown tugs at Danny’s lips. He takes half of my cookie without a comment. “But you know what you’re looking for?”

  Absolutely not. “Absolutely.” I snag my cookie back.

  “Awesome.” Instead of delivering my favorite eye-crinkling smile, Danny contemplates the cookie halves between my fingers.

  Not. Good. I started this little charade to convince him everything’s fine. I don’t know how it could backfire so fast — unless I’m sabotaging myself?

  I’ve got to try harder. “So, I’m thinking of one of those fit-and-flare style gowns, and Brussels lace.” (Never thought I’d be grateful my ex-sister-in-law forced me to watch seven straight hours of Say Yes to the Dress every time we got together.)

  He meets my eyes, but the worry is still there. “Lace, huh?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that just . . . classic ‘bride’?”

  I’m about to enjoy my cookie when Danny takes both halves and eats them, nodding slowly. I try not to scowl as I take another from the package.

  “Did you talk to your mom?” he asks.

  This time, I do shoot him a glare. Every conversation Mom and I have attempted in three years has fallen victim to my insane schedule and my mom’s inability to talk about anything except herself. By the time I was twelve, my mom’s narcissism had brought her to her third divorce in four years. The last thing I need is Mom ruining yet another marriage. (Doing a great job of that myself.)

  “You have to at least tell her we’re getting married in Detroit. Unless we’re uninviting her.” Danny’s joking, and he knows this is hard for me — it’s not easy for him, either, since he almost married a certifiable psycho a couple years ago — but tonight I do not want to be pushed.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that I came here to get my mind off work.”

  “So our wedding counts as work?”

  I don’t like that note of concern in his voice. I’m not sure how to take back what I said. “Counts as stress, right?”

  “I guess so.” He steals another cookie from me. As if the package isn’t right here. “I just want to be sure you’re okay with Detroit. I don’t want to make it harder on anyone. Even your mom.”

  With our families so spread out, there’s no good place to meet. At least we don’t have to find a venue — as Mormons, we’re getting married in a temple. Advantage? It’s cheap. (Read: free.) Disadvantage? We could get married anywhere from Montréal to Manila.

  I pluck the stolen cookie from his fingers. “My mom wants everything her way. I mean, Dad never asked us to consider Florida, but Mom’s refusing to do a reception because we didn’t choose Chicago.”

  “We can do Chicago. No big deal.” He pulls up a stool next to me at his counter and takes the cookie again.

  I hold out my now-empty hand to say see what I mean? Apparently he doesn’t. “I don’t do codependency, Danny.” Heat builds in my chest and I draw a breath to cool it. I learned a long time ago how to handle my mom; no need to get upset about something she hasn’t done yet. “She’ll have to hit up the narcissistic supply store before she gets into town.”

  He watches me a long minute. “Okay then.”

  “So.” I turn my tone to teasing and lean in as if to kiss him. “Detroit, Chicago — are we honeymooning near the Great Lakes?” Without taking my gaze from his, I yank the cookie away.

  Or not. Danny doesn’t let go, but tilts his head closer to mine, toying right back. “You’ll never guess.”

  I inch toward him in slow motion, ready to distract him from my cookie for real. “I’ll take that bet.”

  I wait for Danny to give in, close those last few millimeters and give me the prime cookie-snatching opportunity I’ve been waiting for. Because somewhere inside, I have to show him I can keep up, I can hold out, I’m strong enough to withstand even this temptation.

  Danny’s not budging either. All the flirtation in his eyes melts away, leaving behind the same steel I’ve been trying to cover with cuteness.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  His quiet question cuts our connection faster than a pair of wire nippers. A drop of solid ice sinks into my gut. I don’t realize at first that I’ve turned away. “Why? You’re not —”

  “No, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Don’t you be ridiculous.” I press my palms on the cool granite of the counter, then pick them up to twist my ring around my finger. “How could you think that?”

  Danny sets the cookie aside — I only realize now that I surrendered it — to take one of my hands. “I don’t mean anything, I just want to be sure. To know you’re sure.” He finally interlaces our fingers and pulls me closer to wrap his arms around my waist. I hate feeling like my arms are restrained behind my back, even if it’s Danny, but I fight down the plans to panic and hold his gaze. “Don’t go freaking out on me again,” he says. “Or flaking out.”

  “Are you kidding?” I force out an incredulous laugh. It isn’t funny at all. I won’t let that happen again. I can’t. I can’t lose him, not again.

  Though I’ve promised myself I’d never, never, never spy on Danny, I can’t help tuning into the CIA’s set of people-reading skills to reassure him. Focus on his eyes. Slide my hands out of his and into a loose hug. Keep my voice measured and steady and normal. “The past is over.”

  There was more, a whole speech, but the next words come shuddering to a halt in my brain. The past is over with Brand, too, no matter how much he hurt me. We should be able to work together like adults. Like he said. I’ll have to find a way to trust him, like I trusted Will.

  Danny picks up his half-full glass of milk. “To the future,” he toasts.

  I grab my glass to clink against his and we both take a sip.

  I need to tap into my spy intuition with Brand, too. I need to be objective. If he’s right, if I’m letting my personal feelings cloud my judgment, any decisions I make about Samir or any other agents could be compromised. Brand’s a CIA officer, my boss, an experienced spy.

  So why can’t I make myself trust him?

  Every agent recruitment is different, though it’s not unusual to impress the prospective agent with your money, your influence, your clout. A penthouse reception — private, uninterrupted, and complete with room service and celebratory champagne — is fairly common.

  But Samir isn’t in this for the money. He wants to help his family, and even more so, the innocent people they’re going to endanger. Plus, with the Mormon Word of Wisdom and Muslim
halal health codes prohibiting alcohol, champagne’s only a good way to fritter away fifty bucks.

  We’re still renting a room, though much lower key, in an anonymous motel chain, with coffee for him and hot chocolate for me, our scaled-waaay-down drinks of choice. Getting here was a trip: a clandestine meeting, winding routes through the city, watching for surveillance.

  We’re black, agency-ese for clear, but I still have a long way to go. “So.” I set my mug on the table and lean forward in my chair. “Heard anything from your cousin lately?”

  “Oh, he loves to talk to me about his big plans.”

  That could mean anything from he’s told me everything, just ask me the right questions to he’s always been this crazy. “Oh.” I shoot for sympathetic. “So is he local?”

  “No.”

  Check off the first box. “Is he looking for your help?”

  Samir compresses his lips, draining their color away. “He wants my support, at least.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  He studies his mug, his knuckles growing whiter. I can’t imagine the internal war he’s fighting right now: betray his radical cousin, trust his new friend, protect innocent strangers.

  I’ll have to do what I can to tilt the battle. I move closer. “You said you don’t agree with him, that he could hurt innocent people. What’s he doing that’s got you so anxious?”

  He abruptly sets the mug down. “Can I pray?”

  “Um, sure.” The CIA’s Urdu course touched on cultural aspects of the language group’s major religions, though I can’t say I’m super familiar with the call to prayer.

  Samir ducks into the bathroom and emerges with a dingy white towel. He lays it on the floor, aligned with whatever he’s supposed to use, the window, Mecca. Is it rude to watch while he proceeds through the standing, bowing, kneeling and prostrate positions, murmuring softly?

  I’m not used to such rigidly prescribed prayer rituals, and I can’t help my own anxieties. Where I come from religiously, asking to stop a conversation like this to pray would mean something was really, really wrong.

  Is it?

  Hardly a fair comparison, a religion that encourages silent prayer when necessary versus one that doesn’t. (Maybe?) I think I’ll be hitting up Wikipedia when I get home. For now, Samir’s not the only one praying.

  He finishes and puts the towel away, then takes a seat on the bed again.

  “You all right?”

  He draws a deep breath and nods. “Just worried.”

  You and me both, buddy. “About your cousin?”

  “Yes. Do you really think there is something you can do to help?”

  “More like something you can do. I just have the right connections to help you protect all those innocent people.” I hope. I take his mug from the table and offer him his coffee.

  Samir interlaces his fingers around the mug, pulls them apart, realigns them. “Who are the right people?”

  “The ones who can stop your cousin, who can help you protect the innocents you’re worried about.”

  He focuses on his fingernails, a determined study. “Will they hurt him?”

  “Not their preferred methodology.” I don’t dare make any guarantees — who knows what his cousin might do if cornered? And we don’t exactly have a perfect track record. “We both want to keep people safe. Right?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “And I can help you make that happen.”

  He rubs the chair arms hard enough that I can hear the sound. When he finally speaks, his voice is a strained whisper. “How?”

  “All you have to do is tell me what he tells you. I can get that information into the right hands in time to protect those innocent people.” Yes, I’m harping on the innocents. As far as I know, that’s Samir’s major motivation in betraying his own flesh and blood. It’s going to be a recurring theme in our relationship.

  “How?” he asks again. “How can you do that? The people he threatens are hundreds of miles from here. What will you do, write to your embassy?” He shakes his head, but the way his eyes slide to the side doesn’t read as disbelief. More like fatalism. Accepting that he’s powerless.

  “I have a very good connection with the US government.” I wait until he turns back to me before I scoot closer and add the last word with extra emphasis: “Direct.”

  The understanding kindles in his gaze. He sits in silence, surveying me. Studying me. Scrutinizing me.

  Panic time. I try to keep my face as still as possible, though my brain revs into high gear. This is my most vulnerable moment. I’ve spent weeks learning his schedule, finding a way to approach him, initiating the subtle little contacts that form the groundwork of recruitment. Then more weeks building our acquaintance, our trust, our friendship. Yes, I would’ve waited a little longer, and yes, it’s crossed my mind that Brand’s ever-so-helpful blind assessment might’ve influenced me. But until this second, I haven’t risked anything quite yet. Now Samir knows what I mean. He knows what I’m asking. He knows who I am.

  I can’t undo what I’ve done. I can’t take back what I’ve said. I. Can’t. Breathe.

  “You are asking me to be a spy.” Samir’s pitch doesn’t turn up in a question at the end of his statement.

  “In a sense, yes.” If by “a sense,” you mean pretty much every single sense there is.

  “On my own cousin?”

  I tap into compassion, hoping my face conveys that I understand his pain and his dilemma. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this, Samir, except we both want to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone. And you said yourself you don’t agree with him. Right?”

  “Yes.” He draws out the word.

  “If there’s ever anything we can do to help you, we will.” You don’t want to know what the CIA would do for this guy, starting with the cash in the CIA’s coffers, and ending somewhere past the edge of my imagination. “Just help us keep those innocent people safe.”

  Samir ponders his wringing hands. I contemplate my escape options if this ends badly. He doesn’t know my real name or where I live. Could he have picked up enough personal details to, say, track down Danny?

  You’d think Samir has to have a lot of trust in us to protect him and act on his intel, and he does. But we — no, I, personally, have to trust him to protect me, even in a country that isn’t hostile territory (though they don’t exactly endorse us recruiting agents on their soil).

  He finally raises his gaze to mine. One little glimmer of hope shines in his dark eyes. “May I think about it?”

  “Of course. It’s a big commitment, and you need to be sure before we move forward.” Rejection stings, I admit, though anything’s better than a no. Or a violent no.

  I try to steer the conversation into small talk for a bit, so we can end on a more positive note, but after a few minutes, it’s clear Samir is done. I set our next appointment, drop him off in a neutral area and start on my surveillance detection run.

  Now we’ve both got a lot to worry about.

  The whole next morning, I wait for the other I-told-you-so shoe to fall. But Brand’s door stays shut. I’m almost ready for that sigh of relief by the time I’m packing up to go to lunch with Danny. And then Brand’s office door swings open. I focus on my desk.

  Doesn’t work. “Talia?”

  I paint on a benign smile. “Yes, ‘Vince’?”

  Ridiculous, I know, but just like we’ve both pretended I didn’t lose his tail Tuesday, I’m going to keep up this entire pretense as long as possible. Everyone else in the office is using an operational name, and I want to pretend I don’t know Brand from Adam or Aldrich Ames.

  Brand nods for me to join him in his office. My back muscles tighten. He uses that nod all the time, I know. My stupid brain plays a montage of him nodding to invite me to a lunch table, to his apartment, to his loveseat.

  All my personal clip show needs is a Taylor Swift breakup song. (Gag. Me.)

  Brand closes the door behind me, but doesn’t move for his desk chair. I
n fact, he doesn’t move at all, standing just inside my personal space, leaning forward.

  If he’s trying to intimidate me, it won’t work. I square my shoulders and stand my ground, though I can’t have more than a step or two for retreat.

  “I saw your report,” he begins.

  “My report? Where I was totally honest about Samir’s doubts and nervous behavior, and said I don’t know what he’ll decide? Not exactly President’s Daily Brief material.”

  Brand ignores my sarcasm. “So your next meeting is Friday?”

  Don’t like where this is going. “Yes?”

  “I’m coming.”

  “No. No way. He hasn’t decided if he can do this yet. How can I show up with a stranger before he’s committed that far?”

  “You’re going to have to pass him off sooner or later.” His tone makes it sound like a threat. No, that’s just a fact. Agents can get too attached to their officers, trying to please them, so we turn them over to other officers.

  But not Brand. Anyone but Brand.

  And then I see the little light in his eyes, the gleam of excitement. And hunger.

  I’ve seen that face before. I never wanted to see it again. The invisible grip on my stomach tempers into steel. “You can wait.”

  “I’ve got nobody here, no sources, no agents, no contacts.”

  “We all start from the bottom up.”

  “And we all inherit contacts. Will’s still using his.” Brand tilts his head to the side half an inch, that cajoling cast returning to his expression. “Come on, like you aren’t busy enough.”

  “We’re all busy.”

  “Except me.” Pleading flashes through his face, but then he warms into his trademark slow, sly smile. The smile of a con man.

  “Don’t you have the rest of your job to do?” I want it to come out as cutting. Instead, it’s almost a whine.

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.” Brand pauses long enough to let that subject die. He places a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve told you this yet: you look good.”