The Spy Who Left Me: An Agent Ex Novel

by Gina Robinson

  He stroked her cheek. “Your cheek.” He nibbled her ear. She caught herself leaning into that nibble, almost hoping he’d thrust his tongue right in, too. As she arched her neck, it ached again, bringing her to her senses.

  Damn that man! How did he have such sensual power over her?

  She pulled away and pointed a finger at him in a stern movement that meant “Stop it!”

  He looked totally nonplussed.

  Back to business. She sniffed, waving her hands around wildly, hoping he caught her meaning—enough monkey business! And what do we do now?

  She strode out of the room with him following and pointed to the phone.

  “We can’t call the cops, Tref. You know that.”

  Yeah, I do.

  She gestured to the rooms next door, playing charades and trying to convey her concern for the others.

  “They’re safe enough. I’ll get someone on it and make sure. But I got a good enough glimpse of your attacker to be ninety-nine percent certain he belongs to the guys I’m after. I doubt he’ll hurt the others.”

  Her next question was tricky. She looked around for pen and paper. Not seeing any, she went to the bed and pulled the covers up, pointing at them.

  He was quick on the uptake. “You’re worried about my cover?”

  She nodded.

  “You think it’s blown?” He shook his head. “Could be, but I doubt it. I’ve been hanging around some shady dudes, the kind who like to know who they’re dealing with. They probably sent someone over to see if I was who I pretend to be. Suspicious bastards.” He laughed. “It won’t take me much to find out for sure what they were up to. In the meantime, my cover’s been staged pretty thoroughly. There’s nothing here to give me away.” He paused. “Except you.”

  She flinched, mouthed the words “What about me?” and pointed to herself. Fortunately, he knew her well and got her meaning.

  “What about you?” He shrugged. “Oh, that. They operate under the same principle as the Agency—leave no witnesses. I doubt he meant to kill you. Probably just wanted to choke you unconscious before you got a look at him.”

  Was that supposed to be reassuring? Somehow that “just” rankled her. That and the apparent fact that attempts on someone’s life were an everyday occurrence for him.

  He pointed to her neck again. “We either have to cover that up or explain it.” He tilted his head and watched her with obvious caution in his eyes. “I vote for explaining. It’s easier. But first I’m taking you to the emergency room to get checked out. We’ll think of a story on the way.”

  No! She shook her head. She wasn’t spending her one vacation this year in the emergency room. No way! She was fine. Unfortunately, she had no voice to tell him with.

  “Yes, Tref. No arguing.”

  As if she could.

  “Laryngeal fracture, hypoxia, edema to the neck, all potential complications from strangling. We can’t take a chance.”

  Nice to know he’s so well informed on strangling, she thought.

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her off his bed. “Now to get you out of here without anyone noticing. How do you feel about jumping off a balcony?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  One balcony drop, two hours, and three X-rays later, they arrived back at the plantation. The emergency room doctor had given Treflee her diagnosis—she’d live—and prescribed rest.

  Rest? No problem. Treflee was so exhausted Ty had to carry her from the car to the house like a groom on his honeymoon. Up the plantation steps, through the door, and to her room, where he gently deposited her on her bed and refused to leave. In true spylike fashion, he’d spirited them about as if they’d disappeared with the wave of a wand or maybe never even existed in the first place. Not a single soul had seen them either leave or enter. The man was good at his job. Too good.

  Seeing the way he operated, Treflee realized he could have sneaked a dozen women in under her nose in her own home and she’d never have known. Not that she was the jealous type, but thoughts like these did cross her mind. James Bond had not given the spying profession a reputation for loving fidelity. And since Bond was a male fantasy, why shouldn’t real spies, like her sexy husband, seize on the stereotype and grab that perk of the job?

  Ty fluffed her pillow for her and plunked down next to her.

  “Tref, no protests,” he said when she signaled for him to get out.

  She should have sensed something was up and staked out her territory before it was too late. He’d set her down squarely on the left side of the bed. Her side. When she had slept with him.

  For the last six months, she’d taken up residence in the middle. And why not? There was no need to be stingy with the space of their queen-sized bed back home. Or this one here. It was her vacation. Her cousin was paying for this. She wanted all the space Carrie had bought her.

  She glared at Ty, sorry she didn’t know sign language. She didn’t suppose mock sign language would do. Unfortunately, the only clear finger gesture she knew she was afraid he’d take as an invitation to avail himself of his marital rights.

  As she opened her mouth to squawk, he shook his head. “Save your voice. You know I can’t leave you alone until I know for sure what’s going on. Maybe not even then. You got a glimpse of the guy. He may not be happy with that.” He pulled off his shirt, revealing his very tanned, very buff abs and arms.

  She told herself she wasn’t attracted to very tanned men. No, not at all. They were skin cancer risks. Widow-makers.

  He pulled off his shoes and slid off his slacks, revealing the pair of skintight boxers she’d bought him for their last anniversary. They’d always enjoyed a good romp on their anniversary, a celebration of the wedding night.

  She did not look at the package those boxers wrapped. She refused to look, refused to check whether any interest had arisen in him.

  He smiled and slid between the sheets.

  She was still dressed in her cami and shorts. She’d been forced to wear them to the emergency room where Ty had made up some ridiculous story about her running into a clothesline. Out for a moonlit exercise walk along the lawn next to the beach, and busy admiring the view, she’d walked straight into the temporary clothesline Mrs. Ho at Sugar Love Plantation next door hung up at night to air the spare linen.

  Mrs. Ho was always forgetting to take it down when she brought the linens in. And since it was practically invisible in the dark, it posed a definite strangling hazard. Tita had complained more than once that sooner or later a guest was bound to stroll into it.

  Just why did Treflee have to be that guest?

  Of course Ty would make her look like the clumsy one. And she couldn’t even refute him.

  If there was any justice in the world, you’d have thought the emergency doc would have been the tiniest bit suspicious of that piece of malarkey. Maybe accused Ty of spousal abuse and given her a good laugh and a ha-ha moment.

  No, of course not. Because Ty was a world-class liar. Everyone believed him! Even in the face of the contradictory, blatant truth.

  No, he kept his cool and stayed in character, pretending to be the concerned tour guide who found her, collapsed and nearly unconscious from the force of hitting the line at power-walk speed, nearly hanging herself.

  He’d convinced the doc of the story, adding all kinds of delicious details. Even saying he’d speak to the neighbor about the dangers of low-hanging, unmarked clotheslines.

  “Morning?” Treflee managed to whisper, meaning how were they going to explain his presence in her room in the morning?

  He caught her drift without her having to elaborate. “No worries. I’ll be out of here before anyone notices. I am a master at sneaking around.”

  She rolled her eyes. But he was right. No one would catch him unless he wanted them to. She slid under the sheet, pounded her pillow, and turned her back to him.

  Apparently unfazed by her cold shoulder, he leaned over, brushed the hair away from her face, and kissed her cheek. “’Night, sweet
heart.”

  Oh, brother!

  “And, Tref?”

  She cocked her head to indicate “What now?”

  “Don’t go rifling through my room again. It’s futile. You’ll only find what I want you to. And you never know who you’ll run into.”

  “Point taken,” she mouthed. Who knew, maybe he could read lips. Just in case he could, she added, “Stay on your side!”

  He grinned and settled in beside her. She drifted off to sleep almost before her eyes closed. Later, she’d blame it on the sedatives the emergency room doc had given her.

  * * *

  Sometimes when you first wake up in the morning everything is dream-hazy perfect. Life is as it should be—soft sunlight filtering in, the rustle of palm trees against the window, a hint of orchid and plumeria perfuming the air, your husband’s arm nestled gently around you—

  Ty’s home, Treflee thought as she smiled, feeling that wonderful sense of comfort and security his warm body next to hers gave her.

  Then she remembered—

  This wasn’t then. And it certainly wasn’t home.

  Her eyes popped open. He woke up as she threw his arm off her.

  She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Seven! You’ve got to go!” Hallelujah! She had a voice again.

  Ty yawned and stretched, looking very much like the cuddly, sexy, she-could-just-run-her-hands-all-over-him-again-and-again husband she had once loved.

  “Wow, love the new vocal tone. Sexy! Very Lauren Bacall. You ought to keep it.” He pushed up on one elbow and ran a hand across her throat before she could react and stop him. “How do you feel this morning, my pet?”

  Yeah, until he spoke.

  “Out! And don’t let anyone see you.”

  He gave her a look and rolled to a sit. “Judging by your warm, fuzzy attitude, you’re feeling better, I can tell.” He gave her a totally patronizing chuck under her chin. “Remember the clothesline tale.”

  “Sure,” she whispered. “But I’m only spewing that bunch of baloney if someone asks.”

  “They will. Be prepared with details.” He grabbed his pants, shirt, and shoes and headed for the door without putting them on.

  She scowled at him.

  “Just saying.” He reached for the doorknob. “Today we hit the surf. Put on some board shorts, the shorter the better, and do you still have that black string bikini top?”

  “Out!” She spoke in the tone she’d use on a bad dog. And he was, after all, wasn’t he?

  He laughed and turned the knob.

  “Hey! Aren’t you going to put those on?” She pointed to his clothes like a mother scolding a child.

  “Hell, no! The ladies want a look.”

  He ducked out the door before the pillow she tossed reached him.

  She clenched her hands into fists. Curses, foiled again! Nothing got to that man.

  She sighed. Afraid you’re going to be killed is no way to live. She had to find out what Ty was up to, get her divorce, and get out of here. He could tell her not to have the divorce papers sent, but that didn’t mean she had to listen and obey. Hadn’t they nixed that obey bit from their wedding vows? And for good reason.

  She still had six full days in Hawaii. She was going call her lawyer and ask him to send the papers. She fell back onto her pillow. She couldn’t have the papers sent here to Big Auau. Plus she wanted everything unquestionably legal and done by the book. Her lawyer had contacts everywhere. Surely he had a lawyer pal in Lahaina he could send them to who’d make sure everything was in order. She’d simply have to find a way to pick them up.

  First, though, she had to find a phone she could use without being detected. Ty still had hers.

  She glanced at the door. Carrie had an unlimited-minutes plan. If she borrowed her phone to make a quick call, Carrie wouldn’t mind.

  * * *

  A quick shower, an unauthorized entry into Carrie’s room, and a hundred-and-fifty-dollar billable call to her lawyer later, Treflee came down to breakfast feeling slightly peevish about inadvertently obeying half of Ty’s absurd command. She was wearing ridiculously Daisy Duke–short pink and black floral board shorts. She wouldn’t have been wearing the shorts if she’d had anything less revealing and waterworthy on her. Or time to run to the local surf shop.

  At least she wasn’t wearing that black bikini top he liked. And yes, it was in her suitcase. Instead, she wore a skintight, short-sleeved, pink rash guard she’d bought for Hawaii back when she thought she’d need the sun protection. And that maybe attracting an appreciative male look or two might perk up her spirits while she waited for her divorce. Unfortunately, the rashie, being nearly as formfitting as a wet T-shirt, left less to the imagination than her string bikini top.

  She heard Carrie and company laughing and talking as she came down the staircase and crossed the koa wood floors toward the dining room. What a gorgeous view of lawn, beach, ocean, and the hills of Lanai in the distance. So tranquil. So peaceful. Who could imagine someone had tried to kill her here last night? In the sparkling morning light, the whole thing seemed like a bad dream.

  Surprisingly, her stomach growled. Fighting off death was hard exercise. Ah, a delicious breakfast of Belgian waffles soaked in coconut syrup was just the thing. No one ever had to call her twice where anything coconut was involved. But, wait a minute—was that hamburgers she smelled?

  “Hey, sleepyhead! About time you’re up,” Carrie called to her as she lifted a forkful of gravy-laden something to her mouth. Carrie, of course, lived on military time. She’d probably done more before breakfast than most people do in a day. “Come have your loco moco, the breakfast of surfers, dude!”

  She laughed at her own surfer imitation. “Seriously. This is awesome. Plenty of great protein to keep you on your feet and in the curl.” She went back to shoveling it in.

  Laci sat next to Carrie. “Whoa!” she said when Treflee got close enough for her to see her bruised neck. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been in combat.”

  Before she could answer, Ty came in behind her. “Treflee, good to see you up and about.” For the benefit of the table of women looking on, he appeared to give her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, but she felt the warning in the way he pinched her unnecessarily hard. Stick to the cover story.

  “Feeling any better?” He sounded completely concerned, the concern of an impartial and courteous stranger whose job it was to look after her. He gave her a quick shoulder rub and released her.

  How in the world did he do that, affect that casual tone?

  “Fine,” she managed to croak in her newly found deep voice.

  Carla put down her fork, put on her nurse’s demeanor, pushed back from the table, and came over to Treflee for a closer look. “My gosh! It looks like someone tried to strangle you! Is that a flower-shaped bruise right there?”

  Carla leaned in, breathing down Treflee’s neck.

  Ty leaned in, too. “That does look like a flower. Weird.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze. “She had a run-in with a clothesline last night,” Ty helpfully supplied for her. “Over on Sugar Love Plantation.”

  Tita ambled around the corner just then, carrying a plate of the suspicious-looking loco moco. “What! What am I hearing? Who was hurt?”

  Ty repeated what he’d just told the group.

  Tita upbraided him with a look. “And no one told me?”

  “Why should I disturb your beauty sleep, wahine? I had it under control.” Though Ty was behind her, Treflee could just picture him grinning and shrugging.

  Tita set the plate down at an empty place at the table and indicated Treflee should sit, pulling out the chair for her. Carla returned to her seat. Ty let Treflee go. Tita patted her shoulder as she sat and shook her head at Ty, obviously forgiving him like a patient mother amused at his antics.

  She made a grunt of disgust and put her hands on her hips, mumbling something in Hawaiian. “That Mrs. Ho and her clothesline! She does not embrace the spirit of aloha
—compassion, love, and care for all.”

  Mrs. Ho isn’t the only one with a lack of aloha spirit.

  Tita shook her head. “She only thinks of herself. Always trying to one-up and outshine everyone else. She is not ohana.”

  “Family,” Ty translated.

  Tita made an elegant, graceful gesture reminiscent of the way a hula dancer describes a wave. “She thinks the ocean breeze is best there at the edge of our properties. She hangs the clothesline for her own linens and those of her special guests. She does not care for the safety and enjoyment of anyone else. I think she forgets to take down the line when the clothes are dry on purpose. She wants to hurt my guests.”

  Ty laughed. “Don’t be a conspiracy theorist, boss.”

  Tita snorted. “She’s very private and secretive. She doesn’t believe in sharing.” Her tone clearly indicated this was an affront to her personal belief system.

  Tita inspected Treflee. “How are you feeling, ipo?”

  Carla cut in using her no-nonsense tone. “Treflee needs to see a doctor.”

  Ty shot her a lazy look and winked. “Took her last night. Spent two hours in emergency.”

  “What! Where were we? Why didn’t we know about your late-night run to the doctor?” Carrie’s expression said she expected nothing less than disaster from Treflee.

  Beside her, Laci looked decidedly unhappy with the bit of intel about Ty taking Treflee to the emergency room and spending so much time alone with her. You could almost see the wheels turning—how minor an injury could she withstand so Ty would have to play knight in shining armor to her damsel in distress?

  Treflee knew of a strangler who might be available to accommodate her.

  “It was late. I couldn’t sleep and went out for a walk. You all were in your rooms. Ty came to my rescue and insisted I get checked out. There was no reason to wake any of you. The doc says I’ll be fine.” Treflee picked up her fork and picked at the loco this-can’t-be-breakfast moco. Rice topped with a hamburger patty, covered with brown gravy, topped with a runny egg, sunny side up, and sprinkled with green onions, which floated unattractively on the yellow ooze.