The Spy Who Kissed Me

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Dripping hair and wet clothes were the perfect attire for a good wallow in self-pity. My friends could have at least come to visit, to assure me of their delight I hadn’t been blown up. And they should do it while I was still alive. I felt like a target had been hung around my neck. Like I had a “kick me” sign on my back that said “shoot me.” How could the “spy who lusted after me” not see that? How could he leave me here alone?

  Only I wasn’t alone. I felt a presence and looked up. A dark figure stood in the doorway to my bathroom. I let out a squeak that tried, and failed, to be a scream.

  “Are you, like, all right?” The threatening figure hurried over to me, dissolving into a cute little candy striper.

  “Yeah, sure.” It was good for my heart to leap into my throat and beat wildly. A good thing I wasn’t hooked up to the monitors anymore or an alarm would have gone off and the heartless nurses would have come back. With all the years I’d lost off my life this week, I should have died last year. I made sure my gown was tucked securely around my bare butt, then looked her over.

  Blonde hair, vacant blue-eyes and a stripe-crossed bust-line of near Akasma proportion. The air escaping from her brain ruffled my hospital and bomb hashed hair. My pity wallow had been disturbed by a walking, talking cliché.

  And Kel thought this wasn’t a dangerous place.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “There’s like, well, this other door in your bathroom and they aren’t guarding it, so I just, like, came in.”

  “Really.” A candy striper, slash bimbo, had beaten the CIA’s security system. How comforting. “Why?”

  “Some of your friends,” she blushed deeply, an indication which friends, “asked me to tell you they came to visit, but the police, like, won’t let anyone in.”

  That explained my isolation. Not content with leaving me at the mercy of killers, Kel had made sure I wouldn’t have my young men to comfort me while he was off saving the world from terrorism. I had to suspect his motives for banning their visit.

  “I would’ve liked to see them.”

  “They’re like, downstairs in the lounge.” She smiled vacantly. “They thought maybe you could, like, come down?”

  I smiled evilly. “Like, I think I will.”

  We stuffed a bunch of pillows under my blanket, dimmed the lights, and slipped quietly out through the bathroom. My guard was reading a magazine and didn’t notice me. He did pause to leer at the candy striper.

  I found the dreary lounge brightened by a banner that read, “Get Weel, Stanley!”

  Good thing I wasn’t interested in their brains.

  They were huddled over a table with their backs toward the door, giving me a rejuvenating view of the way their jeans stretched across their slim hips. And I could only applaud their decision to wear white tee shirts with the sleeves rolled up their pecs.

  The intro to “Wild Thing” began to pulse out of the Karaoke machine they’d brought. Tommy turned, a microphone in his hand and flashed me with his smile.

  It was just what the doctor hadn’t ordered.

  When they started singing and shaking their young booty, more than my heart was singing. Let me tell you, bumping and grinding with three buff young things is a great way to get rid of a headache. I’ll be the first to admit it probably wasn’t smart of me to start dancing so soon after being nearly blown up. But when would an over-the-hill woman like me ever again have the chance to dance with three young men at the same time? I had to do it, for all the women of the world who’d ever been wallflowers. It didn’t matter that I was dressed in a puke colored hospital gown and ratty robe or that the patients and guests scattered around the room were pointing and staring. It didn’t matter that my mother would be pissed or that someone was trying to kill me. I let the music and the guys’ hungry looks wash over me, shimmying and swaying, lapping up soul food like an Israelite going after that first manna.

  Jerome twirled me around, then pulled me against his virile chest and whispered in my ear, “So, Stanley, we gonna tie it?”

  Our hips moved together as neatly as Swayze and Gray. Maybe it was my near death experience that made everything, so real, so intense I could have drawn the texture of his skin and each movement of his mouth with my eyes closed.

  “Tie what?” I slid my hands down his arms and arched back, Jerome supported my weight and spun us around, then brought me back up again.

  “The knot. You know, the big M. Marriage. You’d be, like, great for me, you know.”

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be, so I smiled and dropped, my legs sliding between his. “How can I marry you when you look better in shorts than I do?”

  He laughed, pulled me up and back into his arms and put his cheek against mine. It was smooth, like a baby’s butt.

  “If I promise never to wear shorts, will you say yes?”

  He was beautiful and he looked like he really meant it. This was a different kind of temptation from what I’d felt with Kel. That was desire. Lust. Passion. Maybe the promise of love. Or a one night stand.

  Jerome’s admiration tempted my ego, whispered a promise of getting my past back, only better this time. He could wipe away the slings and arrows of adolescence with a single smile. He’d keep me young longer—though I’d probably age faster when I did—and be the perfect thing to take to my high school reunion.

  It was probably a good thing the SWAT team burst through the door like a horde of commandos on speed and trained multiple weapons on us.

  Who knows what I might have said in my weakened condition?

  * * * *

  Less than a week ago, I thought the worst thing in my life was making a spit rainbow with Freddie Frinker. Since then I’d been shot at, chased, nearly blown up, woke up with a spy in my bed, been covered with bras and panties in front of said spy, tripped over a body and had my first proposal interrupted by the SWAT team and my mother.

  It was time for me to reclassify “worst.”

  “Did you have to frisk that old man?” I asked Willis, the only person besides the SWAT team who wasn’t looking daggers at me. “It’s pretty obvious he’s unarmed and has been for some time.”

  Willis ignored me, so I looked at the guys. They were spread-eagle against the wall being carefully, and unnecessarily, frisked under the stormy gaze of Detective Dillon. Like they could be hiding a gun in those tight jeans.

  “Isabel!”

  I flinched, jerking my gaze off their butts and on to my mother. It wasn’t near as much fun.

  “Stop that!”

  “I was almost blown up. Couldn’t you cut me a little slack?” Of course she couldn’t. Behind her I saw Jerome and Drum each turn to face an irate father. My mother’s standard, “What is wrong with you?” diatribe rained down on my again aching head. She finished with, “Look at poor Steve!”

  I looked. He did have a peculiar look on his face. Maybe he’d found out his son wanted to marry me and his double standard was bothering him.

  “I think you’ve lost your mind.” She abandoned me for Steve, who had sunk into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

  I’d like to think he was hiding his shame, but he probably didn’t have any.

  All around me the storms of discord raged. I realized that somehow I’d landed in the peaceful eye. Though multiple levels of ire was directed at me, attention was pointed elsewhere. A shift in SWAT movement left me a clear path to the door. Of course I took it. It was safer than staying. The people who wanted me dead right now were all in that room.

  At least, that’s what I thought until I got back to my room. While I was dirty dancing with the boys, someone had killed my pillows.

  * * * *

  I was sitting in a chair staring at the feathery carnage when Kel burst in with his gun out. He stopped when he saw me sitting in the chair by the bed.

  I gave him an accusing look. “I told you I wasn’t safe in here.”

  “You’re damn well not safe anywhere!” His face was white, lin
es cut deep on either side of his mouth. Not a dimple in sight. Nor expected any time soon.

  “You’re angry with me?”

  “I got here fifteen minutes ago. The guard was missing. And I found—” He gestured toward the bed.

  “Pillows.”

  He gritted his teeth, ground out between clenched lips. “I didn’t know that at first.”

  “Okay. But now, shouldn’t you be, well, relieved?”

  “I’ve just spent the last half hour trying to find you. Why can’t you stay put instead of wandering off with your…” He ground his even, white teeth together.

  I crossed my arms. “If I’d stayed put I’d be dead instead of those pillows. Are you angry I didn’t get killed?”

  “Of course not.” He didn’t say it with near enough conviction. “I just wish I could understand what you…” He shoved his hands through his hair. “What the hell were you doing?”

  “Dancing. Most cultures don’t consider that a hostile act and call in a SWAT team.”

  “I’m supposed to be protecting you, damn it! This isn’t the dating game!” He paced away from me, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  Even pissed off he looked good.

  “Would you be this angry if you’d caught me dancing with some guys my own age?”

  “Dancing is not the issue! Your safety is!”

  “I was safer with them than I was here. A candy striper breached your precious security.” I jumped up and met him on his return pace. His nostrils flared, but I didn’t back down.

  “I don’t know what you see in them anyway!”

  I gave an incredulous half laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  His face went white as he fought for control. It did rather nice things to his chest and arms, which pissed me off.

  “Do you think it’s ethical to encourage them like that?”

  “They don’t need much encouragement.” I turned away. “And they’re very nice young men.”

  “Nice? What are they doing chasing after a woman old enough—”

  I spun around. “If you say I’m old enough to be their mother, I’ll pop you. I’ll have you know their attentions are strictly honorable. Jerome wants to marry me.”

  I didn’t want to see his surprise, so I sat on the edge of the bed and shoved a finger through one of the bullet holes in my blanket. A whiff of gun powder smell drifted up past my nostrils, briefly replacing Kel’s after shave scent. The silence went on so long, I finally caved.

  Kel had a weird look in his eyes. “You’re not seriously considering that boy’s proposal?”

  I picked up a pillow and pulled some feathers out, letting them drift to the floor. “Why not? Statistically women live longer than men which means we’d be together longer.” His gaze narrowed dangerously. I narrowed mine back. “Besides, I like the irony of it. My mother’s been after me since puberty to get married. She’s thrown every man she could beg, bribe, or blackmail into my lap. I’ve suffered through blind dates with geeks, goons, and globs of humanity who all had one thing in common. Their overwhelming belief they were god’s gift to women and I was lucky to have a brief moment of their time.”

  I threw the pillow aside and stood up.

  “And now I have this wonderful opportunity, this chance of a lifetime. A guy who thinks he’s lucky to be with me. And he’s the one guy in the world my mother wouldn’t want me to marry. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t say when and where to that boy?”

  I wanted him to give me a reason so bad it hurt.

  He pushed his hands through his hair. Turned away, then back. “You’re out of your mind.”

  But not that reason. “Now you sound like my mother.”

  I think he knew I didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  We glared at each other across the drift of feathers.

  “Really.”

  Something in the way he said that single word sent a cold chill down my spine. Before the thought fully formed, he was in front of me, radiating danger. His gaze had a Rhett Butler overtone when he got a lock on mine. My brain was saying, “Run, you fool!” My body just stood there and let him grip my hips and jerk me against his chest. I ordered it not to, but my head ignored me and fell back.

  My mouth said, “Let me go.”

  “When I’m sure you know the difference between a man and a boy, I will.”

  I thought he was going to strangle me, but he kissed me. It wasn’t a gift. No gentle wooing of lips and heart. No slow invitation to dance in passion’s storm with a lover. The sound and fury of a man with a point to make pounded my defenseless lips like a wild storm against a vulnerable shore. The worst part was, I responded. Even when his mouth taunted me with might-have-beens, took without giving back.

  He let me go so suddenly I stumbled back onto the bed. My mouth throbbed. And still wanted more. Stupid mouth. I rubbed it with a hand that trembled.

  “And you would be the…what?” I looked at him, accusation stabbing from my eyes. It got him in the ego. His own idealism did the rest of it for me.

  “Damn it, Bel, I’m sor—”

  The door opened. Kel reached for his gun, stopping the movement when he saw my mother.

  “Isabel?” Her brows rose when she saw Kel. “Who are you?”

  With clipped voice, Kel introduced himself as one of the men working on the case. He looked at me, hesitated, then said, “I have to go.”

  At the door he turned. “They’ll be moving you to another room.” He nodded toward the night stand. “I brought your sketch pad. One of my men found it in the limo.”

  “Thank you.” I couldn’t look at him. Not with my mother watching. Not now when I was reeling from the feelings he’d aroused. This man had something I’d vowed no man would ever have: the power to hurt me. That scared me more than the person that wanted to kill me.

  I looked down at my hands until the swish of door marked his leaving. I was alone with my mother. I heard her walk my way. She sat down beside me and put her arm around me.

  “You all right?”

  I leaned against her and quit trying to hold back the tears. “I wish I was dead.”

  I felt her stroke my hair. “It’ll be better tomorrow.”

  I didn’t believe her, but it was nice to hear.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I had no intention of feeling better in the morning, but I’m lousy at pathos. I tried watching television, but even the war and the scud studs couldn’t hold my attention and the mystery Rosemary had brought me to read was far less amazing than the real one I was involved in. There was only one thing I could do when my brain was running like a mouse in the maze. I grabbed my sketch pad, intent on venting my spleen by sketching everyone who came in. And I didn’t intend to be flattering.

  Unless it was someone with a needle.

  I flipped through the pages, looking for a clean start, and came across the sketch I’d promised to the good cop, Willis. I’d made a good job of it on both of them. Dillon’s bad cop glared out me from under the fur hat. His crossed arms contrasted nicely with his dancing feet. Willis fish-eyed surprise wasn’t kind, but it was funny. I loved it when a good sketch came together—

  My thoughts splintered when I saw the tiny sketch in the corner.

  The round-headed man?

  When had I added him to the mix? Had to be right after I drew the two cops. The page had been clean when I started. I gave a tiny shudder. There was nothing to like in the caricature of a dead man.

  “You need to watch the doodling without thinking, girl,” I muttered. It had gotten me in trouble in school and had almost gotten me killed. If I hadn’t drawn it, the round-headed man wouldn’t have come after me—

  My thoughts came to a screeching halt. How had he known about the sketch?

  I didn’t even know about the sketch. Not consciously. I frowned, my thoughts returning to my subterranean encounter with round head. No, I didn’t imagine it. He said something about me drawing him when he demanded my purse. I thought he was
talking about the police sketch, but that didn’t make sense. Why would he need the sketch anyway? The police sketch was already out on the wires when—

  Unless it was to protect someone?

  That didn’t make sense either. No one had known about it. It had been in the hands of the CIA since the day I drew it—

  The blood does drain out of your face when you receive a severe shock. Someone besides me had seen the sketch.

  Willis.

  He’d wanted the sketch. Asked for it repeatedly.

  He called the round headed man Bobby that night.

  Good cop. Bad cop.

  He and Dillon had been seriously miscast in their roles.

  I reached for the telephone by my bed, but the door opened.

  “Hello, Miss Stanley,” Detective Willis said from the doorway. He walked in like he had a perfect right, letting the door swing shut behind him. He saw the sketch book in my hand and stopped. His eyes narrowed.

  “So it didn’t get blown up in your car. Pity.” He came to me, snagged my chin and lifted it. His examination was cold and clinical. “You’ve put it together, I see.”

  “The round-headed man said something to me about it at the convention center.” My voice sounded distant, but calm. My brain knew that Willis must have planted the bomb and shot up my pillows, but it hadn’t yet made that final link with the place where panic lived.

  “Yeah, he told me about that.” The smile Willis produced was friendly, regretful, if I didn’t look at his dead, cold eyes. “Too bad I have to kill you. I like you. You’ve got a lot of spunk.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, not at all like someone delivering a death sentence.

  “You’ll have to get dressed. You do what I say, don’t give me trouble, I’ll make it easy for you.”

  What a prince. I glared at him. “I won’t dress in front of you.”

  He rolled his eyes, checked the bathroom—a private one this time, never let it be said the CIA didn’t learn from its mistakes—then gestured for me to go inside. “Hurry up.”

  Sure. I was gonna hurry to my own death. I got a grip on the back of my hospital gown and slid out of bed. The bathroom door was one direction, the door to my guard the other.