The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Pauline Baird Jones

  If he hadn’t been so close, I wouldn’t have felt the start, or seen the edge of his mouth twitch. He cleared his throat, but his voice still had a husky edge when he said, “I need the purse.”

  This was so not what I’d expected him to say. I bit my lip. “I know about Mrs. Carter.”

  I’ll bet he didn’t expect me to say that.

  After a short, tense silence, he said, “I didn’t kill her.”

  He didn’t flinch or look away. Instead he pushed a strand of hair back from my cheek. The shiver I felt at his touch caught me by surprise.

  “There was something she wanted me to have, something she was trying to give me when she was killed.”

  I felt a kick of horror. “You were with her when she was killed?”

  He nodded, his face grim. “I’ve known Elspeth Carter for a long time. She was my math teacher at one time, and she was a friend of my mother’s. When I was in town, I’d help her out. She was a nice old bird.” He hesitated. “When I left her house, when I sun roof dived into your car, I had her purse.”

  The urgency underpinning his voice was a chilling reminder of how we’d come to meet. I opened my mouth to explain I didn’t have his purse—and realized I did. Or Rosemary did. “There was a purse in the car…”

  “That’s it.” He leaned forward, his lean face tense. “Where is it?”

  “It’s still under the seat.”

  He stood up, bringing me with him. “Let’s go.”

  He had his arm around my waist, steering me toward the exit.

  “I have to get the keys from Rosemary—”

  Without missing a beat he shifted toward the escalator.

  He had to let go when we got on, which helped clear my thinking some. I studied Kel through a lashes screen. Was he an undercover cop? Or a private detective? If he was either of those things, he was going to be disappointed.

  “You know, I looked through that purse last night. There wasn’t anything special in it.”

  He helped me off the escalator, saying with a touch of condescension, “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”

  Okay, if that’s the way he wanted to play it. Let him try to make a clue out of an adult diaper coupon. I opened my eyes really wide and said, “Oh?” His gaze narrowed in on me. I held it for two long beats, then smiled. “I’ll just get those keys for you.”

  I could feel him watch me walk away, but this time I didn’t feel self-conscious. I felt good. I felt sassy.

  I felt dangerous.

  * * * *

  “Where did she say she parked?” Kel surveyed the parking lot like he could will Rosemary’s Mercedes to step out of the pack. If cars had hearts, it would have worked.

  “She said it was next to a purple van on this side of Macy’s.”

  He looked at me. “A purple van?”

  I shrugged. “It works for her.”

  “Bel—”

  “Why do you call me that?” I looked down the row of cars instead of at him.

  “Because Stan doesn’t suit you and Isabel seems too formal—after last night.”

  Color burned into my cheeks. “Nothing happened last night.” That was my story and I was sticking to it.

  He chuckled and I had to look. The wind had whipped his hair into sexy disarray and put a glow in his face—just in case he wasn’t potent enough to make a girl want to sing, “Baby, I’m yours.”

  “Not enough happened last night,” he said.

  My throat went dry in a heartbeat. Heat from my cheeks spread like wildfire into other parts of my body. I needed a fire extinguisher. Or a tub of ice. “Does your wife know you flirt like this?”

  His gaze narrowed. “I’m not married and you know it.”

  I arched my brows. “How would I know that? I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Yes, you do. Or you wouldn’t have helped me. Isn’t that right?”

  I wasn’t ready to admit anything yet—despite knees turning to rubber under the combined effects of his husky drawl and blue gaze. It’s not easy to let go of thirty-something years of caution—especially when one lapse almost got you killed.

  “Bel—”

  I couldn’t stop the slow climb of my lashes, but before our gazes could connect and the violins start up, I spotted Rosemary’s car. “There it is. There’s her car.”

  “Bel.”

  He wasn’t going to let me get away with it. The cute bum.

  “All right. You’re probably not married. Are you satisfied?”

  His chuckle was rich and devastating. “Not even close.”

  But it seemed he could live with not satisfied. He let me go and headed for Rosemary’s car. Men. Who could understand them? He expended all that effort in reducing me to rubble, and then left without picking up even one piece. I collected my wits, patched my defenses, and joined him.

  “The gun should be under the driver’s seat,” if Rosemary hadn’t braked too hard at some point, “and I shoved the purse under the other side—”

  “Here they are.” He emerged with purse and gun. “My holster?”

  I went blank for a minute. “Oh, Mike must still have it. He took off stuff so he could bandage you. I can get it from him tonight if you want.”

  “Tonight? Don’t worry about it.”

  Was that pique I heard in his voice? I hoped so. He shouldn’t have it all his way.

  “I have others.”

  That was a bit disturbing to think about.

  He shoved the gun in the back of his waistband, then looked at the purse like he’d like to shove it out of sight, too. My face must not have been as blank as it felt because he gave me a sheepish grin. “Don’t want to be seen walking around with this evidence.”

  “Evidence. Yeah. You might get asked out by a Congressman.” How many times in my life had I used a quip to hide my heart from a man I wouldn’t have minded sharing it with? I thought courage would come with maturity. Course, I thought maturity would come with age.

  He chuckled. It was an infectious sound and it lit his face with charm. I had to look away, so I wouldn’t jump on his chest. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “I hope you find out what Mrs. Carter wanted you to know and everything.”

  “Yeah.” He slammed the door and handed me the keys.

  Jeez, we were as awkward as two teenagers. I sneaked a peek and amended that. I was as awkward as a teenager. He looked calm and in control. I told myself I wanted to slug him, but I didn’t believe myself.

  “You have my card?”

  I nodded.

  “You can get a hold of me if you think of anything or need anything—just leave a message with the service.”

  “Sure—oh, I have a card, too.” I rummaged through my purse, found the case with a Junior Mint stuck to it, took out a card, rubbed the cookie crumbs off on my jeans and handed it to him. “Marion made me put the little roach on it.”

  He took it, his lips twitching. “Very nice. A fax number, too? Very high tech.”

  “Yeah, well, I have this weakness for good fax—”

  He closed in and I stopped breathing.

  “You’ll have to…fax me sometime.”

  The blush started between my hip bones and headed up. I didn’t know how to stop it, so I started babbling to distract him.

  “I don’t just fax anyone, you know. I mean, we’re practically strangers—” I peeked at him through my lashes and gulped. His eyes glowed electric blue, just the way they had just before he started giving me good copy last night—only minus the blurring from the passion—painkiller.

  “Strangers? I don’t think so.”

  He trailed his hands lightly up my arms and settled them around the base of my neck.

  Even as he eased me closer as I protested, “Nothing happened last night.”

  Maybe if I kept repeating it, it would be true.

  “Nothing?”

  “Well…not much—”

  His mouth closed over mine and it was better than las
t night. His lips were firm and cool, but they warmed up fast, possibly because of my completely involuntary response. It reminded me of riding a Tilt-a-Whirl and I didn’t know I’d wrapped my arms around his neck until he started peeling me off.

  Was it regret I saw as he stepped back?

  “Good-bye, Bel.”

  “Bye.”

  He disappeared among the cars with the swift grace of a big cat in dangerous territory. If it had been a movie moment, the camera would have moved back, then higher until we were tiny separate specs in a sea of cars, mall and sky. The music, rising in crescendo, would be sad. It might even bring a tear to the eyes of anyone who’d ever watched a lover walk away in a swirl of memories and might-have-beens.

  Only Kel wasn’t my lover. There weren’t a lot of memories to build anything on. I’d done the right thing, but it was cold comfort on a winter day when you’re thirty-four and write children’s books about a roach.

  The wind cut through my coat and mental whine. I saw my hat and gloves in the back seat. I opened the car door and grabbed them. That’s when I noticed a scrap of blue paper on the floor.

  The typewriter repair claim ticket from the purse.

  I must have dropped it last night. I frowned. It was hard to see what a broken typewriter could have to do with a suburban shoot out, particularly a typewriter in the tender care of the saintly Flynn Kenyon’s company. But it was Kel’s now. I’d have to get it to him. I realized I was smiling and gave myself a shake. I needed to get a life, meet some men, and maybe even kiss them.

  Wasn’t it lucky I happened to have a date tonight? I stuffed the slip in my coat pocket and went to find Rosemary. I was going to need that body shaper. I just hoped Mike would appreciate it because come hell or high water, he was going to get kissed until my lips forgot Kelvin Kapone’s.

  EIGHT

  It was seven-fifteen when I finally turned my Honda into the driveway. I wanted nothing more in my life than to crawl between cool sheets and become unconscious, but I had a date. Three hundred and sixty-four days in a year I would have been happy to have a date with someone like Mike—even someone worse than Mike. But no, I had to have a date the one day I’d rather be premenstrual than go out.

  This is one of the reasons why I have never married. Men have abysmal timing.

  I passed through the kitchen to let my mother know I wouldn’t be eating supper with them, but got side-tracked when I heard a chocolate chip cookie calling my name.

  “How do you expect me to teach the children to eat properly when you set such a bad example?” my mother asked. She snuck up better than Kel.

  I thought for a minute. “I’m a good example of the results of poor eating habits. Surely that helps a little?” I got an unamused stare.

  “Dinner is ready. You couldn’t make it into the dining room?”

  “I have a dinner date.” Let the inquisition begin.

  “Really? With Reverend Hilliard?”

  “No. With Mike Lang.”

  “Who?”

  “Addison’s veterinarian.”

  “A dog doctor. Couldn’t he get into a real medical school?”

  “He’s an over achiever. He wanted something harder than a real medical school.” I made a show of looking at my watch and exclaimed in horror. “He’s picking me up at eight and I don’t want to be late.”

  She let me pass, but followed me down the hall.

  “Have you known him long?”

  “Just since I got Addison.”

  Now she was following me up the stairs.

  “Does he live alone?”

  “As far as I know.”

  We were heading down the hall. I could see my door.

  “Maybe he’d like a home-cooked meal? I’ll bet he eats out a lot. You and your young man could eat with us?”

  My young man. If only she knew how true that was. Mike had to be at least five years younger than me. I opened my door and turned to face her.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You could ask him, Isabel.”

  “We’ve already got reservations at his favorite restaurant.”

  “Oh?” She didn’t say it, but the question was there, hanging in the air between us. I tried to fight it, but I’ve been giving in to the woman for thirty-four years.

  “It’s this quaint little place called,” my mind raced, but instead of quaint it produced, “The Tandoor Club.”

  I groaned inside as the name from the matchbook slipped out. Maybe Mike liked Moroccan food. And if he didn’t, perhaps the exotic dancers would distract him.

  * * * *

  On the outside the Tandoor Club looked plain and uninteresting. Inside it was a bona fide Arabian Nights. A silk-draped opening held back with gold tassels gave the illusion of entering a tent. A huge mock brazier gave the impression of a fire while music filtered out of a snake charmer’s flute at the center of the room. Persian rugs were spread beneath low tables surrounded by heaped pillows and lounging bodies that struck a wrong note with their Western clothing. Dancing girls weren’t dropping grapes into mouths, but turbaned waiters glided around the room holding large trays of exotic looking food.

  I was used to strange scents. I’d lived in New Orleans. But this was like nothing I’d ever smelled. The tangle of incense, tobacco smoke and rich spices carried hints of magic and mystery, stirring my latent sleuth instincts like a mischievous finger. What if the matchbook was The Clue? It certainly made more sense than the adult diaper coupon.

  As Mike and I settled on our pillows, I scanned the murky interior for suspects. Next to me Mike shifted cushions, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No. But the view helps.” Due to the ruthless combination of the body shaper, little black dress and cushions, there was a generous expanse of my legs for him to leer good-naturedly at. I tugged at the hem. It slipped higher.

  “Don’t be stingy,” he advised. “You have great legs.”

  “Really?” I surveyed them doubtfully.

  “It’s one of the first things I noticed after you pulled your dog off me that day.”

  Well, what’s a girl to do after a nice compliment like that? Particularly in light of my new determination to get kissed? I smiled and let my hem wander where it wanted. Never let it be said that I was stingy with my legs.

  Mike settled into the cushions and surveyed our surroundings with something like awe. “So, this is your favorite restaurant?”

  “Actually, this is your favorite restaurant.” He looked surprised, so I added, “My mother.”

  He’d met my mother when he picked me up and didn’t need further explanation. He grinned. “I have interesting taste.”

  Since he sat here with me, because of me, I had to agree. We did the polite chit-chat see-saw through ordering, but then the floor show started, ending chit, chat, and Mike’s focus on me.

  I have this theory that there was only so much available bosom to be divided among the women of the world. Since I didn’t get my share, I’ve often wondered who did. The floor show answered that question.

  Akasma, the climbing flower of Casablanca got mine, plus that of a few dozen other girls.

  These were not mere boobs attached to her chest. She had breasts. Gazooms. Hooters. Jugs—and every other nickname that man has given the female bosom. Akasma had the Tetons of Tetons, twin peaks of magnificence, that bobbed and undulated as she performed the ancient dance of her forebears with a sinuous grace and even more amazing flexibility.

  She could have beat herself to death with her own flesh, but the only casualty this night was my ego. What were a pair of great legs compared to white hills cut by plunging valley a guy could dive down in to his ankles? Mike didn’t just stare with a round “O” of amazement at the center of his black beard. He drooled.

  Him and every other man in the room.

  It had seemed cool, almost cold when we arrived. Not anymore. By the time Akasma was halfway through her show, you could have fried
bread in the air around me.

  If that weren’t bad enough, my “flexible and comfortable” body shaper decided it was time to contract to its original ten by three inch, pre-donning configuration. My lungs felt like they were being squeezed up out my nose. Everything else felt like it was getting squeezed out the bottom. I needed air. If I passed out right now, no one would notice.

  “Got to powder my nose, Mike,” I croaked. With my elegant three inch heels, it wasn’t easy to get my feet under me. Through the red haze forming in front of my eyes, my thighs were turning into pencils and my knees into mini-blimps as my shaper continued its drive toward my spine. I figured I’d reach critical mass in about five. At which point, my head and my feet would pop off. The fact that I’d be left with a body a model would envy was small comfort.

  “You couldn’t fake that, could you?” Mike asked in awe, oblivious to my inelegant rise from the pillows. Why should he look at me when he had one of the great wonders of the world undulating in his face?

  “I’ve never been able to,” I squeezed out before tottering in the direction of the Ladies. My tongue hung out, no room in my mouth anymore. I barely made it in the door, started clawing at inflexible elastic before the door swung shut. With the distant wail of Akasma’s music filtering in, I shimmied out of the shaper and threw it across the room, then leaned on the sink and drew in great, gulping breaths of bathroom scented air and was grateful for it.

  I wanted to go home. My battle with the shaper had drained what little enthusiasm I had left. Mike wouldn’t notice me as long as Akasma was shaking her booty. I wasn’t even bitter about it. I could breathe.

  I left the bathroom, brooding on irony and fate. About halfway along the hallway, as I was passing a narrow side passage, a strong arm hooked around my waist, a hand covered my mouth, and without ceremony I was half dragged, half lifted backwards into the recess.

  “Bel?” A familiar voice spoke in my ear.

  Kelvin Kapone. Why wasn’t I surprised? For the second time that night I sagged in relief.

  “You have got to stop doing that,” I said, turning in his arms to face him. “You’ve already taken twenty years off my life expectancy. At this rate, I’m gonna die last week.”

  “Sorry.” He flashed his grin.