Spying With Sir

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Spying With Sir Page 11

by Judy Jarvie


  I’m warming to him. Like a cat’s butt warms on a south-facing window ledge, through double glazing, with the radiator on. He’s spearing my affections too ably.

  He has this grin and eye-roll thing going on I connect with on a deeply spiritual level. I get the feeling that Warbuckle has sway over Dan, despite Dan’s Deputy status. He has Dan’s back, or maybe Dan has Warbie’s? Or is there more going on than I realize? Does it involve Spartan Soldier print thongs and joint sauna sessions?

  Now there’s a thought…

  “Do you and Dan have a thing going?” I ask, grabbing my hunch by the short and curlies. Why shilly-shally on such eureka moments?

  “Don’t be crazy, girl. Listen, I have orders about you. Strict orders,” he brags.

  “As in what?”

  “Orders to make sure Dan unhands you. Orders to keep you and Dan strictly apart for the duration of your stay. Straight from Redman—to be undertaken upon pain of death.”

  “You’re kidding me?” I nearly drop a tea plate, but I juggle it into submission like Cirque Du Soleil at a tea party. We both sigh when I safely return the plate.

  “Far from it. I’ve explicit instructions to mentor Ms. Katie and take you under my wing. I need to bathe and delouse you, and settle you into Her Majesty’s Nuthouse, Santorini. Find you a locker—get you some clothes. Teach you base protocols, like how to use a knife and fork properly. Maybe wash your hair?”

  I punch him for that one, but sense he’s joking.

  “Oh yes, big itinerary ahead. Aren’t you the lucky one?” It’s like Pretty Woman. But with chutzpah, and a fat gay fairy spy-mother.

  “Are you always like this?” I ask him quietly. “So domineering? Or am I just your fag hag?”

  “Definitely. It would drive anyone crazy to be stuck here with this mob, so I have mitigating circs. Finally, I have a friend who rocks my world.” He draws out a chair noisily and sits on it back to front. “Listen, toots, Dan’s hot for you. Totes obvious. Rocco’s hot on his heels. Statement of the abso-obvious. Havana’s like a rabid cougar spoiling for a kill, because she’s blind with lust for a Dan, who’ll never want her back. Meantime Rocco has the jellybubs and a hard-on for Hav. You keeping up?”

  I shake my head. “You lost me when you moved the chair.”

  “We haven’t had this much drama action in eons. Consider yourself my new BFF. Given that I’ve a remit to get you readied in clothes for your big dad meet—I have free rein to dress you like the vintage fifties starlet of my dreams! I’m not bailing you out on that little treat-ette. I actually have a secret plan for pushing you and Dan together, and Redman will never know. It’ll be our divine secret. By the time the mission’s achieved, nobody will care that the big boss warned against it.”

  I slap my head with my hand. “I knew I had a bad feeling about you. I thought Dan was supposed to be called Sir? Aren’t you supposed to do what he says? Or are you just a law unto yourself? You just said you’d been ordered to keep us apart? So, why are we having this convo?”

  “I’m the guy who feeds Dan and washes his underwear. On my watch and in private he’s Danny Boy and he’s mine. Darlin’, I want him to get what he needs most. A woman who can keep up. One who deserves him. So what the big boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But there can be no moves made until the perps are arrested and in custody. That’s the vital part—Dan letting his cock loose at crisis point could fuck us up. Same applies to you.”

  “Me? I don’t even have one. A cock that is.”

  Now he’s getting patience-pissy. “Getting starry eyed with Dan’s brand of crazy kink might just turn both your heads.”

  “What? Dan likes it kinky?”

  “That’s for you to find out and for him to tell you, not me.”

  My head hurts with this. But I think I’m right in saying I’m not having sex. So I do.

  “I’m not having sex with anyone.”

  “Gonna happen. Make sure it’s after mission’s end. Call it instinct. I’m great on instinct—and food. I even write a food blog. One day I wanna write a book. But that’s another story.”

  “I really can’t keep up now, Warbs!” I protest. Rolling my eyes in my head as I unload the dishwasher. “Haven’t you considered you could just trust us to keep on the right side of safe and stay alive?”

  “Seriously honey, you really think I can’t read the stuff on the wall? He wants you bad.”

  Said on a purely estrogen-led Jane sees Tarzan and wants it bad level, I’m punching air. But I’m nothing if not oppositional. Even with myself.

  “Please listen, you and Dan can do kissy kissy—nothing more. But Big Bad Sir can’t know. That’s the size of it.” Warbuckle shoos me with his fingers, so I give up and perch on the counter top.

  “Hate to spoil your plan but…cameras?”

  “Mere cameras won’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  “Well, Warbie—I’m planning no sex with your superior, and that is the end of it.” I say, with a newfound certainty this man will be the future Chewie to my Han Solo. “But on a conversation-changing plus note thanks for my bed linens. Right now I’m not a great fan of your man Dan anyway. So it’s strictly business all the way.” The way I’m feeling, Liability Joseph will be scheduled for a strait-jacket before she’ll give clearance to their carefully laid entrapment plan.

  “You don’t want to see your dad. I get that you feel set up. You’ve clearly suffered—as a child, then growing up with a secret you couldn’t share. Plus, you thought he was dead—and now events are churning all those wounds up again. That’s hard stuff to handle. But you’ve grown into this great, sexy woman with an amazing reporting job—I’ve seen footage. You’re hot in all ways.”

  I turn away from Warbie, ware I’m starting to cry and not wanting to show the soft, weak underbelly of my tough Kate act. Shit, I hate when this happens. Where’s Izzy and Sambuca when I need her?

  Warbie pulls me to him for a hug. His cologne is a mightily overpowering oriental but it beats eau de questionable hygiene any day. Speaking of which, I’ve had no deodorant in way too long. The hug feels damn good.

  “Dan’s a good guy. Cut him a break—there’s sparks between you. Big, big supernova activity in the skies when you two are together.”

  “How do you know? No windows. No telescopes?”

  “Stop ace reporter-ing and answer.”

  I shake my head. Then spit out the truth like a wuss. “He’s hot. Of course he’s bloody hot. But you should never ask a lady such things.”

  He whispers, “He doesn’t know about your tattoo—but I do.”

  I’m shocked to the core. Shocked. Totally. It’s something I’ve kept hidden since it happened.

  “How?”

  “Sleep cam. Last night you got restless. That vest is short and revealing, too. Okay—I zoomed. Talk about a game changer.” Warbie blows a whoo. “Just don’t screw with his head or hurt him. Keep him sweet. Your life depends on it. Just so you know—he likes kink too.”

  If I thought Warbie was good before, he’s now blown me apart with his hugs and his big heart. Could he be right about me and Sir Draven?

  Could we really be perky kink pals on the side?

  Nobody has seen my risqué tattoo. Not even my closest girlfriends.

  “I’m tasking you to bring out a new slate and try to get along.” There’s a real shit’s gone down look in Warbie’s expression. So, I nod my comprehension. But he reaches for my hand. “You’re a good kid. You’re doin’ a great thing—plus making an old gay guy happier than he’s been in eons. You’re my Barbie, Dan’s special ops Ken and this is like Couture Christmas. We’ve so much to get you zipped into—prepare to dazzle and shine.”

  Chapter Nine

  Kate

  Together, we peruse Warbie’s clothes suggestions for my Greek assignment. They’d be great—were I planning on a night in Amsterdam’s drag discos, or assuming the guise of a fifties starlet by day. We’re talking a veritable fashionista trousseau.
Sequins, velvet and leather abound. Some of the dresses feature laser-cut keyholes fit for a high tech prison wing.

  I’m thinking we’re light years apart in the style stakes. But I opt for tact, shelving the ‘Get Outta Town’ putdowns in the name of diplomacy.

  “Wherever did you find them?”

  “Here and there—I have sources. I am stores super after all.”

  I finger pussy-bow blouses in a rainbow array of shades. Armani this isn’t, but wherever he got them, it took his Interpol expenses allowance to the bank.

  “You have a unique eye.” The man’s a style enigma. In more bad ways than good.

  “Knew you’d agree,” says Warbie by my ear. “Always wanted to be a fashion stylist—my true calling.” Now I’m seeing the cracks in his crazy grouting. Having a civilian woman to cosplay dress here has unscrewed the linchpin of his sanity joists.

  He stares at me like Bashful in a Seven Dwarves police line-up. “Listen. If it’s not your thing I have boring options too. Normal work clothes and casuals.”

  I almost hug him in relief. “I usually wear trousers or jeans. I don’t do fussy.” No way am I wearing a blouse with a bow under my chin like a cat being pamper tortured in a Japanese YouTube clip.

  Warbie’s face takes on an earnest cast. “But you will need a dress for your Mission Dad Reunion Meet. Surely we can work on that?”

  The comment about the ‘reunion’ draws me up short. My stomach flips over. Unfortunately that gooey toast weighs me down like a goose prepped for fois gras. My nemesis meeting now even has a code name. I’ve never felt more like a number in my life. Or more inclined to run and wuss out.

  “Shit. I really don’t want to be here doing this.”

  Warbie strokes my arm with a comforting touch. Right now it’s more soothing than he probably knows and I sigh so deeply that I realize I have the shakes. I’m a millimeter away from tears and that’s so not me it’s not true. Call it raw panic.

  “Grey Donaldson is a lowlife bastard. I’ve spent half my life trying to forget him. Only to come here and have it rammed under my nose to relive yet again.”

  “It’s shock.”

  “More than a shock, Warbs. He’s my nemesis.”

  “I can see why you’d be resistant.”

  “I’m terrified. It’s the thing I dread beyond all others. He’s my biggest nightmare. He used to beat my mother. He was a bad cop on the take, who dragged our reputation through the mud.”

  Warbie’s gaze holds me, steadying my focus and my flipped-out mind. “You’re doing a worthy thing here. You’re saving lives. You’re making him pay. I figure you’re the one who kinda deserves that honor.”

  “I’d gladly hand that over and have someone else do it while I stay at home and forget all about it.”

  And lo, but doesn’t that just bring on the need to weep harder than a pepper spray attack. I’m sobbing in a noisy, sniffle-causing and snot-producing way, and I can’t see there are that many tears, but Warbie rubs my back, and it feels so good to be hugged and supported and held in big strong arms.

  Like the father figure I should have, but never, had.

  I calm somewhat and begin to talk coherently. “You’ve got a deal. Dress me up like anybody you want—the less I look like the real me the better. As long as the rest of the time I can be normal. I need you to hold my hand and not tell any of the others what a bloody mess I’m in about this plan.”

  As much as I hate to think how I’ll end up it makes no odds. I want to pretend and just get through it. No-one will see me. I’m in a Greek Interpol hideout and this is a throwaway episode of my life that I’ll later bury out at sea. Plus, Warbie’s a great guy and I have to throw him something re the dress.

  “I’ll make you so good you might even surprise yourself.”

  “It’s kind you’ve done so much prep. If I ever venture into sparkle and cut out Lycra you’ll know I’m finally over the edge and need therapy. Well. More than I do already with the Dad past from hell.”

  A knock on the door makes as both glance up, dazed.

  “Yes,” Warbie says but he’s still rubbing my back like a vet would do to a dog that’s just had a near miss in an eight car pileup. Come to think of it, I feel like I have and the mangled wreckage lies inside me.

  Dan the Interpol man stands in the doorway. His black ops clothing makes my pulse hitch. The way I see his pecs and his gun holsters mold to his body make parts of me shimmy for sensual attention.

  His jaw sets my ovaries to maraca rattle mode while his gaze sweeps over me. That makes me feel worse, knowing how important and vital and hot he is, while I’m a shabby, sobbing wreck of a no-hoper. Who hates him and fancies him at the same ruddy time.

  His face is a mask of concern slash embarrassed horror. “Hey. You okay?”

  “Dandy. Best holiday I’ve ever had, thanks for asking, when’s the cabana boy coming by?” I have to be snarky, when I’m this much of a sniveling wretch. Fuck and sticky shit. Why the hell does it bother me so much that he’s seeing me look this crap and acting this wussy and rubbish?

  Why am I caring what he thinks? But I do.

  Warbie scolds him with his gaze. “Sir. The woman’s in shock. She needs time to process what’s being asked of her. I have serious concerns about the way this has been handled. Sorry, Sir, but this is bad news.”

  “We’ll talk. Point taken.” Dan softens his voice and directs his comment to me. “I apologize. Are you okay with Warbie supporting you? Would you rather I assign someone else? Havana? A woman’s touch?”

  Robo-femme? No thanks. No bloody effing way. I’d blowtorch my own Brazilian before I’d ever agree to that match. I’m a tad upset, but a psychopath, hate my guts mentor is the last remedy I need.

  “Warbie’s the last salvage of sense in a place gone awful.”

  “Good. We’ll debrief shortly. Forty minutes.” Sir disappears to go and do more daring-do.

  “So. Guess I’ll go fetch the jeans then,” says Warbie, softly. “Run you a nice soothing lavender oil bath. You can soak and chill, then get yourself together with a cup of chamomile tea and start afresh.”

  I wish I had his confidence.

  But straighten my spine. I’m no quitter. “No chiffon,” I say softly. “I get rashy with scratchy fabric.” Mission Mannequin is so not happening. “You know, Warbs, it would help if I had my own stuff. Don’t suppose I could get my cases? We left them when we ditched the car.”

  He touches his nose and nods. “Leave it with me, sweetie. I’ll get your bags. Katie…trust in Sir on this one. He’s taking charge—debriefs and full training lined up. He won’t let you fall on this, and he’s the best in his game. He’s taking your dad down and, most of all, he likes you. He’s moved his room to the one next to yours.” Then he stage whispers, “There’s an adjoining door. Easy access. Minimal disruption.”

  Shit. Not sure how to take this revelation. “Oh, he loves me all right. Civilian liability with a potty mouth and a crime-boss father. Just his type.” But I don’t want to go there, especially when I’m this vulnerable, my past exposed for people to pity and prod.

  A picture of my dad’s photograph on newspapers slams into my brain—I’d found the old cuttings when I’d sorted Mum’s stuff after she passed on. Rocked me hard, as I couldn’t believe she’d keep them, because we ran. Had to. The cop on the take who’d fallen from grace and paid for his sins in prison. Our disgrace. No Dad figure in my life worth remembering. It’s a memory parade I duck from.

  “There’s chemistry. I see it. I’ve never known him this way before either.” Pardon me if I don’t want to be a woman with a penchant for policemen.

  “Good that I’ve always had a thing for overbearing, mission-obsessed, strike-a-pose gun-toting- control freaks then.” I’m aiming for arid sarcasm. I’m feeling churned-up and in a mess.

  “If I have my way I’m going to make you both realize it’s okay to have the feels. Santorini Singles. Could be a new project?”

  Fro
m stylist to dating pro. The man needs hobbies. Can’t somebody show him how to French Knit? Or how to shut the eff up?

  “You’ve been underground too long.”

  “Could say the same about you resisting the lure of a man.”

  Warbie scoots me to the bathroom. He could just be more right than I can take.

  * * * *

  I may have had a divine, chilling bath, but when Dan walks through the door that joins our rooms as I’m standing, pulling up my jeans zip, I learn I have a great aim. He has a super-quick duck response time.

  Must be all that dodging bullets.

  “Pillows won’t hurt me,” he says. “I’m wearing a pillow-proof vest.”

  “It’s a bolster. Who says you can walk into my room anytime you like?”

  “You’re late.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “We don’t do late. We’re waiting on your arrival. What did you want me to do? Let hell freeze over?” Dan stares at me deadpan. “My butt on the line. Figured if the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed…”

  “Fell asleep in the bath. Didn’t sleep well last night. It caught up.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Dan remarks. “Figured I should say sorry, and we could spend time explaining things and ease you into what’s ahead. Since we’ve no choice but to get on with this.”

  It’s only now I notice he has one hand behind his back. He presents me with a pack that contains an MP3 player and some fitness leggings and a vest.

  “What’s this?”

  “Might take your mind off things if you can do your mad dance fitness routines.”

  I’m kinda stunned at the thoughtfulness. The bad imp in my head is saying ‘fuck exercise—let’s just have sex’.

  I blame Warbie’s ear worm about Dan’s kinky side. I can’t get it out of my head now. I hold in my urge to question him. Even though it wants to pop out like an ill-timed fart at a vicar’s tea party.

  Instead I say, “You’ve not exactly proved yourself too reliable in the trust-me stakes. But thanks for trying to be nice.”

 

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